/r/libraryofshadows

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Welcome to the Library of Shadows. From ghosts to the apocalypse, from zombie-rom-coms to grotesque police files, from monsters to mobsters, we prefer horror but we'll gladly run anything that makes you bite nails and keep turning the page. We display material from authors both new and experienced to help them build their readership and promote their projects and portfolios.

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Welcome to the Library of Shadows, the suspense fiction subreddit. Enter the library with caution, it is filled with things that go bump in the night, ladies with legs that go on forever, black shadows reaching out to drag you into the void and chilling tales that will leave you on edge.

The Library is meant for the patronage of adults, as the themes in suspense and horror fiction can be upsetting and unsuited for minors. Take this under advisement, and proceed with caution.


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Submission Guidelines and Rules

This subreddit was created in the spirit of pulpy submission-driven magazines and comics, like Weird Tales,Tales from the Crypt, Fangoria and others. Your submission is expected to fall within the suspense and horror genre, as well as be driven by good language and literary quality.

This subreddit doesn't come with a form requirement for how you tell your story; first person or third person omniscient, horror poetry, unbelievable or believable. Moderation discretion will be used for removals in regards to quality. Keep in mind that stories that may fit well on NoSleep or other forums, may not be suitable here.


Rules

For full ruleset and explanation of our rules - please read the Posting Guidelines before submitting your story.

  • 500 words minimum, 40,000 character maximum.

  • Genre-appropriate literature, with a focus on storytelling. Posts that are self-referential (that is, posts that break the fourth wall) are better suited for r/nosleep.

Stories that reference the audience implicitly or explicitly will be removed under this rule. Rhetorical questions such as “You know?” may be removed at the mods’ discretion.

  • Tag your stories with the appropriate genre flair after they are posted. Un-flaired posts will be removed until a flair has been placed.

  • Story posts must only contain the story itself (and social media links when applicable). Comments, questions for feedback or explanations are posted as a comment.

  • Format stories - hit enter twice for a new paragraph and avoid indents. Posts that do not display with proper formatting will be removed.

  • Do not put X-post or NSFW in titles, use NSFW flair instead. For series, please put [Chapter 1] or [Part 1].

  • Titles must be literary titles; capital first letter on nouns and meaning-bearing words. Stories with titles in all caps or all lowercase WILL be removed. No clickbait titles. If your title sounds like a book, you're on the right track; The Girl on the Train and Call of Cthulhu are good examples. Titles that employ the use of personal pronouns and sound more like run-on sentences are likely to be removed at moderator discretion.

  • You may post once every 24 hours.

  • No link posts


  • Commenting Guidelines

    Feedback, critique, and interaction is the backbone to becoming a better writer and to be part of a great community. Keep comments respectful and constructive. Comments that are perceived as derogatory, disrespectful or includes hate speech will be removed at moderator discretion.


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    1

    Krew [Part 4]

    I - II - III - IV


    Hollywood North.

    That’s what Vancouver has always been known as. The city that never plays itself.

    I’ll never forget in my first semester at film school, when someone showed me the YouTube video of every American film shot in Vancouver. There were all the obvious ones: Mission Impossible, X-Men, Star Trek, but there were also countless horrors.

    Cabin in the Woods, It, Lake Placid, Slither, Child’s Play, Final Destination (like all five), Hellraiser, The Fog, hell, they even shot Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan here.

    And I always understood why. It's overcast. It's gloomy. It can constantly feel like something bad is about to happen. It's as if all those films, TV shows, and stories have over time created an energy.

    And you gotta be careful, because if you wander in the wrong direction, especially by yourself, you’re gonna get caught up in that energy.

    For me it was in those woods. Those deep northern woods, just an hour away from downtown, where I saw something I could never unsee.

    I mean, I’ve been working hard to unsee it. I’ve been trying very diligently to brush it away.

    But it may be too burnt in.

    Still, I gotta pretend it's not there. There’s no way I can feel this scared for the rest of my life, right? Time heals wounds and all that.

    For now, all I can do is keep pretending like I always have.

    Pretending is what I’m good at.

    Pretending is all I’ve got.

    The large, brightly painted sign of “Bridge Studios” greeted me outside my delivery truck. They must give the sign a fresh coat of paint at least once a year because I've never seen it faded. Never even seen so much as a stray leaf on it.

    Of course, today of all days, a crow landed on the sign and promptly defecated. I leaned out to watch it caw for a bit. It’s like it was laughing at its own vandalism.

    The security guard lifted the front gate to allow me inside. Delivering parcels to Bridge Studios is about as close as I get to working in the film industry these days. And that's fine with me.

    Every time I visit, the same conversation briefly flutters through my head. This was once you, but now it's not you, and that's okay.

    I park outside the cargo bay door, and rummage through the back of my truck. All I see are large boxes, but with a simple lift and a wiggle, I can discern between tripods, sliders, and lights.

    I like removing them, it's always fun. A distracting little game of reverse Tetris.

    Inevitably, there is always one person who recognizes me at the lot. I did work at Bridge Studios for over two years across multiple shows. They always say the same thing.

    ”So good to see you!”

    “How have you been?”

    “When are you coming back?”

    My answer is always:

    “You too.”

    “I’m fine.”

    “Not coming back anytime soon.”

    It's always too complicated to explain further. It's a scab I have no interest in tearing off. So I just keep it short and say the hours weren’t for me, I wanted to try something else.

    I mean, sure I’ve tried to return to the big shows (I was less than 200 hours away from joining the union after all) but even still, I couldn't continue.

    Unfortunately, almost anything to do with the film industry: cameras, clapboards, and walkies illuminate that black spot in the back of my head. That black spot I’ve been working hard to bury, and pretend it doesn’t exist.

    So I just stopped setting foot on a set again. No more movies for me.

    Am I going to elaborate? Nope.

    Am I preventing myself from seeking closure? Probably.

    At least that's what my short-lived therapist said, but honestly, I've chosen this path, and it has served me fine. There are some things you are allowed to close off and move on from. And I have.

    I lifted all the weighty packages off my truck and onto a pallet outside. After ringing the buzzer, someone I didn't recognize came out and gave me the thumbs up.

    My job here was done.

    Delivering in an industrial neighborhood is always nice because there's a lot less traffic, and plenty of parking. It's the small things that can make a day pleasant.

    For instance, I've been listening to music podcasts lately. Specifically ones that are reviewing the best albums of recent years.

    I mean I've always been a music aficionado, an audiophile that maybe should have gone to a music academy instead of film school—but I'm saving up to correct that now.

    With a single AirPod, I've been able to catch up on the last half decade I've missed, uncovering a plethora of subgenres I wish I had known about earlier.

    Pitchfork introduced me to Heaux Tales by Jazmine Sullivan which I’ve become obsessed with, and I’ve finally had time to properly admire SOS by SZA (which I’ve listened to every morning for the last month).

    I take pleasure in honing my taste and listening to everything that's big every year. I want to be totally caught up, or at least as much as I can be.

    Even now as I deliver tiny parcels to a slew of companies around a business plaza, I'm grooving to some 30 by Adele (an album I overlooked in 2021).

    And with each handful of flyers, I'm keeping my eye out for events. You'd be surprised how much music you can discover via pamphlets. A lot of festivals make surprise announcements in print these days.

    In my truck I opened a bright new “Arts & Culture” batch and saw promotions for local plays, a church charity event, and the upcoming film festival.

    I start stuffing them in my many carrier pockets, Adele is belting it into my eardrums, asking the world to take it ‘Easy On Me.’ And over this soulful vocal I become drawn to a yellow brochure.

    There was something familiar about it. Some assemblage of color was drawing my eye. I held the thing close to my face and became captivated. Rivets went through my feet.

    There it is. That tree.

    The oak, with its twisting, claw-like branches that I would recognize anywhere, is centered in the middle of a tiny picture at the bottom of a tri-fold brochure.

    Next to the image I could see the title.

    “Krew”

    Dir: Oleksander Gołański

    POLAND, 2023, 82 MIN.

    In a stylized retelling of Polish folklore, we follow young Polina as she confronts the unfortunate deal she has made with the Devil. Gołański’s film is an unrelenting depiction of medieval Poland, drawing clever parallels to—

    I knocked over the whole stack.

    “No. No way.”

    I turned my AirPods off. Very carefully, I brought the stack back upright, and pulled out a single brochure.

    It was for the Vancouver International Film Festival (VIFF), which celebrated new films from around the world. The little pamphlet teased a few big name directors from the US, as well as the expected art house fare from France and others.

    At the very back was a snippet of crowd-drawing genre films. Including a sci-fi film from China, a voodoo drama from Nigeria, and at the very bottom … the horror film I worked on three years ago.

    I considered throwing the pamphlet out. I considered throwing them all out. I could easily find a dumpster.

    But then I realized I would probably be delivering these for the next two weeks. I would be seeing these every day.

    Whatever this is. It holds no power over me. It’s just a photo. Ink on paper.

    I brought the tiny tree right up to my face. Up close I could see a tiny figure in the gray dress standing beneath the tree. The thumbnail shot was so small you could barely make it out, but she was there.

    An icy trickle went down my back. I put the thing down.

    The picture is meaningless. It has nothing to do with me.

    It was no different than the Save-on-Foods flyer I would hand out above it, or the mayoral campaign ad I would sandwich beneath it.

    And that’s just what I did.

    I created mini-stacks with the VIFF brochure hidden in the middle. I delivered the flyers face down, keeping them far away from me, most of the businesses didn’t even bother looking at them. They basically treated the whole thing like spam. Which in a sense it was.

    As always, the last place I delivered to was a bakery*. La Fleur d’Oranger* in this case, a French pastry place. After receiving mail, the owner offered me some of their delicious—yet-unsold—lemon tarts for the evening. I took a small box.

    When I arrived home, Becca was waiting excitedly. She loved it when I brought baked goodies. Dinner might’ve been ready, but we quickly enjoyed a pre-dessert treat instead.

    I might have only moved in last fall, but it feels like Becca and I have lived together our whole lives (we started dating two years ago). She was instrumental in helping me navigate out of the rut I was in. Although we met on a film set, and she still actively works as a DP, she's been the one to recommend that I get back into music, and helped me chart a better course for my life.

    I love her very much for it.

    Each night we shared our favorite '90s TV shows to each other (we both like going to bed on a light note), and tonight was her turn. She shared one of her favorite episodes of the X-Files, or as she called it “Akte X” (Rebecca grew up in Germany).

    It was an episode about spectres haunting a church, which was nothing special in and of itself, but it was full of good jump scares.

    Funnily enough it was X Files that drew Becca to Vancouver in the first place (yes, they also shot that show here). She was always in love with how many mountains, lakes and nature the show depicted. Her dream was to maybe work on something similar one day. That’s why she transferred to Van for her last two years at uni.

    We snuggled and laughed at some of the cheesy CGI. There’s some cross-fade effects that make the episode’s ghost look more like a shitty VHS recording.

    It was all very light, and all very fun until I turned the light off in my bed.

    The episode is what must have seeded my nightmare.

    I was opening the back of my delivery truck, throwing up the sliding metal door, when a floating version of Polina stared back at me. Before I could react, dark iron chains flew out and locked themselves around my neck, wrists and ankles.

    I tried to wrench free, but the chains only tugged harder. I got pulled into the back of my truck, and tossed to the floor. The metal door came crashing down, and as I looked up through the darkness, I could see Olek's smiling pale face.

    He brought a single finger to his lips. Shhhhhh.

    My own sudden scream woke me up. Thankfully it didn’t disturb Becca. I got myself a glass of water and sat on the couch.

    You’re fine, it's just a dream. You’re fine, it's just a dream.

    I keep telling myself that I've stopped thinking about that day in the woods. That I’ve removed it from my brain.

    But of course, it is still there, no matter how hard I try.

    There was a seemingly endless period where all I did was think about Olek's film set. I wanted to report him. Call the police. The government. IATSE. Anyone.

    I spent weeks trying to formulate the right words. Tried to assemble the event in a way that would make sense for anyone on the outside. But I couldn't do it.

    Konrad Bartosz was gone forever, sure. There had been a murder, but did I have any proof?

    The crew had confiscated my phone before they took me back to my car. I drove home crying that night, in a daze, and I spent the next couple weeks at home recovering, trying to piece together my sanity.

    Without Konrad, without any history of my trip, I had no clue how to find that same road splintering off the BC-99. Even if by some miracle I did find where we had parked, I would have no clue where to walk. And even if I did find that same abandoned cabin or gnarled oak, what could I say?

    That Olek convinced a ghost to possess people? That Kon’s body had been stolen by a wraith? That the people doing this were some cult of witches wielding unknowable powers?

    I would be questioned to no end. I would be making myself a chief suspect for ludicrous crimes.

    The couch had gotten wet. My hand was shaking so much that I spilled some of the water I was drinking. My heartbeat was increasing. This is stupid. I shouldn't be riling myself up like this.

    I drank what was left in the glass, and tried to clear my head. I got my AirPods and listened to the top ambient albums of 2022. I made a playlist of five of them. Eventually I slumped down, curled up, and fell asleep on the couch.

    Over the next couple days I saw more of the same advert was supposed to deliver in the mail. By piecemeal I learned that Krew meant blood in Polish. And the film was supposedly a co-production between Canada and Poland. And it was having its Vancouver premiere in ten days.

    I didn't tell Becca about it of course. I never told her any specifics about the set that traumatized my life. Instead I focused on my work, delivering mail to all the same routine places.

    Although it crossed my mind whenever I caught a glimpse of that yellow brochure, I still refused to buy a ticket.

    Never, I said to myself.

    Two weeks quickly came to pass, and I had missed all screenings in Vancouver.

    Then the obsession began.

    It started when Becca asked me if there were any horror movies I wanted to see around Halloween. Immediately my thoughts traveled to Krew, but instead I said: “The Grudge”, and that's what we watched.

    But I couldn't help but wonder how Krew was doing.

    I followed the film’s festival run. It played at South by Southwest, Sundance, TIFF and I checked every press release or article following each screening. I searched for any controversy, weirdness or any other victims coming forward.

    What other victims you ask? Well let me explain.

    The week I had survived Olek’s set, I had waited to see if someone would contact me about Konrad's death. No one did. Then I scoured the database for all film productions happening in Vancouver, and there was nothing about an indy Polish horror. It’s like the entire event had been swallowed by a black hole.

    But when I google-translated some Polish sites, I found some alarming stories. Stories about a videography team that was accused of abducting teenagers.

    There had been an incident near Łódź where a death metal video was being filmed in the woods. They got a lot of young volunteers, and many of them went missing during the process of the shoot.

    The main suspect was the producer for the video, a fellow named Łukasz Dębrowski. He had disappeared after the event, and as far as I could tell, he was still missing.

    And that’s when I got thinking: could Łukasz be Olek?

    He would have been arrested if he was ever caught filming in Poland again. Which is maybe why he had traveled to Vancouver.

    And now with Krew screenings still happening around the world, I thought that maybe someone else would notice. Maybe another victim would attend and expose something revelatory for all the press to hear.

    At first, There weren't any reports of protests or accusers coming forward. In fact, I discovered the opposite. There was nothing but praise for this risky artistic film.

    Krew even won a critics prize at TIFF.

    Then it played at Palm Springs and raised some controversy. Apparently there was a branch of PETA that denounced several films for abusing animals. Krew was among the list.

    It struck me as odd, and not quite the condemnation I was looking for, but it felt like a step in the right direction.

    So my obsession strengthened, to the point where I was checking every morning and evening for any news, video interviews, anything that might show me more of Olek’s face.

    I learned the names of the seven missing teenagers who disappeared in Łódź, hoping for their mention somewhere in media. Adrian Kowalski, Paweł Nowak, Martyna Wiśniewska, Michał Wróbel, Rafał Piotrowski, Gabriela Tomczyk and Weronika Nowicka.

    I was hoping for any kind of sign.

    And then, as if sensing my desire for closure—the universe responded in kind.

    Becca’s great grandpa was turning one hundred.

    The family was inviting all friends and relatives to Germany for the occasion, and Becca felt obligated to go. In not so subtle ways, she told me this would be the best possible occasion to visit her family and introduce me to them.

    “It's happening in Berlin, the same week as the Berlinale Film Festival! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

    My face froze for a long time when she asked me, (I told her I was just thinking about my work schedule). And then I smiled and said. “Yes it would be fun. Yes I should come.”

    According to the Berlinale website, Krew would be playing on February 22nd. Which would align with our dates perfectly.

    I could see it.

    I could be in the audience.

    Krew would be playing at the highest profile European venue, at the closest distance it would ever get to Poland. If there was going to be any controversy, any victims showing up, any calls for Olek’s arrest … it would be at this screening.

    I had manifested my opportunity.

    Becca was thrilled that I had agreed, and talked up all the things we could see. I was supposed to be thinking about the Berlin Wall, the Tiergarten, the Reichstag Building, and all the fabulous restaurants we would get to experience. But that was all background noise. A series of pit stops before the main event. All I could picture was the day of the film screening.

    I had to go.

    0 Comments
    2024/03/26
    01:27 UTC

    7

    The Farm

    The fields grew nothing but rot.

    Blood and dirt stained the cloth I used to wipe myself, but I let the tears run down my face. My only companion was now laid to rest outside in the dead grass, buried by my shaking hands. On her final day, she was too weak to even move her lips. I touched the side of my face where her hand had grazed just this very morning. We both decided that our final resting place would be outside on the hilltop overlooking our cabin, as close to the sky as possible, hoping that whatever was up above would carry us away from here. Only dirt and decay remained on the hill when I pulled her body there. The sun shone on my skin but I felt no warmth. There were no flowers to send her off, only salt and silent prayers. In a way, I was relieved that now it was only I who would have to suffer.

    As I sat inside the cabin, my gaze went out toward the tiny window. The sun would be setting soon.

    I used the last of our salt to form the circle around her burial. The wind had blown away most of what I had laid around for the cabin, with the shape now barely visible. I shuddered at the thought of what might crawl in with even the slightest break of this barrier. I almost began to pray that this does not happen tonight, but instead chuckle at the futility of my prayers.

    The revolver in my hand felt cold. I replaced the last used bullet, the one that helped me send my dear Mariam away. I pounded my fist on the table until the wood underneath splintered and cracked, until my knuckles turned bloody. The wooden walls seemed too close to me now, making the small space even smaller. Like a coffin. I fought the urge to run outside and lay down next to my wife, using the same revolver to release me, but I promised her I would wait for our daughter first, wait for her to return, no matter how long. This promise was all I had left.

    I lit a candle and placed it on the table in front of me, giving me a clear view of the door leading outside. The small, rectangular window was beside it, but my attention would stay focused on the door. My hands were still shaking, not knowing if it was from hunger or fear. My vision was blurry from fatigue, and the last thought I had before sleep overtook me was the face of my beloved wife.

    ____

    I was roused from my sleep. The doorknob quietly rattled.

    “Mariam?” I called out, the habit still lingering.

    No response, but the rattling stopped. I grabbed my revolver and pointed it at the door, trying my best to steady my shaking hand.

    The candle had long flickered out and only moonlight shone through the window, its light so still that the shadows it cast were frozen in place.

    Honey, open the door.

    My heart ached and my body instinctively started walking towards her voice, reaching a few feet away before I came back to my senses. The dirt from yesterday was still on my hands. Every single fibre in my body was screaming at me to run even when my mind knew there was nowhere to go. I stood still. The only sound I could hear was my thumping heart.

    I almost jumped back when the knob rattled once, quick and hard.

    Let me in, it’s cold.”

    Each beat of my heart elevated my terror as I tried to hide myself from existence, but all the creaking when I walked to the door would have already revealed my presence.

    Something from the window made the shadows inside flicker. I stifled a scream when I looked out.

    A pale, bare arm was waving to me from outside the window, like someone waving hello. Only the arm was visible while the rest was hidden behind the door. The way it moved was wrong, and deeply disturbing, like it was a marionette hung from invisible strings.

    It’s me, honey, open the door.”

    The doorknob started rattling again.

    Open the door.”

    The rattling intensified, no longer matching the sweet, soft voice coming from the other side. It sounded almost desperate.

    I stood frozen, only because my body would not move. Any emotion I attached to that voice was replaced with absolute terror as I realized that there was something else underneath that voice that I could not comprehend. Something so primal and visceral that my entire being knew to be utterly terrified of it.

    A burst of adrenaline drove me to lift the revolver to my temple. I did not dare to even glimpse what was behind that door. I closed my eyes as my wife’s borrowed voice continued to urge me.

    Her face came into my mind, not of her yesterday but back when it had joy and colour to it, and then of our daughter’s face, so bright and innocent. I could hear their laughter slowly getting louder, almost like it was swirling around me. The sun was warm on my skin. There was grass beneath my feet, moist from the summer dew. Out in the distance, our neighbour was tending to his cornfields. Smoke was floating out of his chimney. I could see my wife walking towards me with a carefree smile on her face, and I smiled back while looking at her blonde hair getting blown around with the wind. Her face got closer to mine as I gazed into her light-blue eyes, so clear and bright, and I tried to reach out and touch her before the blood splattered onto her gaunt face and her eyes turned lifeless and pale…

    I barely felt the gun pressed against my temple while I squeezed down on the trigger, but it did not go off. I kept trying but it was stuck. All the bullets fell out and rolled away from me as I opened it up, hands shaking uncontrollably. I desperately looked around for something, anything, to let me escape this reality. I cried out when I realized the revolver was all I had. My legs buckled when I tried to move, still shaking as I tumbled onto the cold, wooden floor. I crawled towards the table where the rest of my bullets were, my mind racing towards a single goal. I tried to climb up the table but my legs were too weak. My arms slipped off the table, body drenched in sweat. I laid down and started to pray.

    I prayed to anything and everything.

    I soon ran out of prayers. All I heard now was my breath. I opened my eyes.

    The door was not rattling, and there was no voice. Specks of wood covered the floor. Behind the window was a starless sky and pale light, seeping through. I let go of the revolver after I struggled to loosen my grip. My mind felt numb as my thoughts slowly came back to me.

    It was silent.

    The only sound I could hear was my shaky breathing.

    Except there was something else.

    Barely noticeable at first. It was coming from behind the door.

    Whispering.

    I thought I heard my name. I inched closer. The whispering seemed to be coming as a stream of thought, no breaks in between phrases. I barely made out what she was saying but it sounded like she wanted to tell me a secret, a secret only I should hear. I could tell she was repeating the same phrase over and over again, even though I couldn’t make out the individual words. I pushed my ear up against the wooden door and I felt like her lips were right up next to me, whispering directly into my ear. I barely discerned some words… so I strained harder…

    When my mind began to comprehend the phrase—I screamed.

    I jolted backwards. I crawled to the corner, hiding away from the window, and collapsed in fright. I saw the revolver next to the table but fear had separated my body from my mind. I saw the pale light seeping through the window but there was a strange shape casting a horrid shadow. I heard her whispering the same phrase like a chant. She whispered my name and each time she did I felt like she grasped closer to my soul. She did not stop. She did not stop until the sun began to shine its bleak light.

    ___

    Hours after the whispering had stopped, my body could finally move again. Sweat seeped through the fabric on my body. Fatigue was helping to settle down my fear. I slowly made my way to the window and looked to the other side of the door. All I saw was dead grass and grey sky. I opened the door and felt no wind. There was no more salt around the cabin. I went over to the hill where I had buried her. Everything was just as I left it. I almost collapsed with relief, legs about to give out. Not a single stone was out of place. The circle of salt lay there undisturbed. I looked out to the surroundings. Beyond our cabin laid dead trees, dried riverbeds, and the burnt remains of our neighbour. Beyond that was the town, barely visible but covered in perpetual shadow. Not a soul in sight.

    I carefully stepped into the circle. I put down a bag of bullets and checked my revolver again. I kept a bullet in my pocket for myself. Then I made sure there were no breaks in the salt.

    0 Comments
    2024/03/25
    01:14 UTC

    3

    Krew [Part 3]

    I - II - III - IV


    I jumped away and ran to the opposite wall. I couldn’t control my screams.

    It was like my lungs and vocal chords were on autopilot. Fear paralyzed me against the cabin. I couldn’t move anything beside my eyes, which I shut. I didn’t dare look back at what I just saw.

    Two minutes of hyperventilating brought no relief however. So I stumbled my way into the corner of the cabin filled with countertops—an area that must have been used as a sort of kitchen, and sank to the floor where I hid behind a cabinet door.

    I brought my phone light and peeked out at the body. It was him. Oh my god. It was Konrad, laying in a tangled mess. Not moving. Not breathing. Completely lifeless.

    I sat there listening to the silence, trying to gather my thoughts and make sense of this. What on earth is happening?

    As if in response, the walkie on Konrad’s hip blared with static. It caused me to jump and hit my head on a cabinet’s edge above.

    The noise of the wind outside exploded out the tiny speaker. It was surging wildly. And in the background of the fuzzy storm I could hear voices chanting something. Several of them.

    It was the film crew outside, they were reciting something on repeat. Their voices were low, measured, and although I couldn’t make out any of the Polish phrases, there was one word I did recognize. My name.

    They were chanting ‘Anna’ over and over again. “Anna. Annna. Annnnnnn—”

    Hell no.

    Whatever this was. It had to stop. Although I was in the midst of a panic attack, and shuddering erratically, I forced myself to hobble forward, past an upturned cooler, and past a broken chair, until I reached Kon’s body. I cannot tolerate a cult chanting my name through a fucking radio.

    I clawed at his waist, looking for the walkie. I quickly found it, seized the dial, and turned that shit right off. The sound cut out.

    Thank god.

    All I could hear was the faint wailing of wind outside the cabin. And some miniscule, tinny sound coming from the headphones on Konrad’s head. Wait what?

    I looked at the Zoom recorder lying by his side. I didn’t notice before, but I could see the device was still on, and it was still connected to the boom lying on his chest.

    Each second by the body brought me closer to fainting, and the last thing I needed was to pass out. So I closed my eyes, and tried to make out the tinny noise. Unbelievably, I could actually hear Konrad, I could hear his own voice playing into the headphones on his head. Did he record something for me?

    Desperate for answers, I pulled the Sennheisers off his head without looking. Then I fumble-yanked the Zoom and boom from his hands and scurried back to my spot in the kitchen corner There was no way I could linger around that corpse.

    I gathered myself and wiped what I thought might be blood off the headphones. The foamed ear pads adjusted snugly to my head. I listened close.

    <I’m sorry … I’m so sorry … > It was the woeful whisper of Kon’s own voice. He sounded distant and airy.

    Holy hell Kon, When did you record this? I looked at the Zoom’s tiny screen to determine what file was playing. What was the timestamp? Did he tape it while I was changing a few minutes ago? Then I noticed the red light was on the device. Not blinking. Not pulsing. A solid red light.

    That meant it was actively recording.

    I froze. The boom mic was resting on my lap, pointing lop-sidedly at Kon’s remains. Using minimal movements, I lifted the mic, extended it slightly, and aimed it directly at Kon’s body.

    <Never should have agreed … It’s all my fault … > His voice was louder now. Still airy, but much more clear.

    I extended the boom further, bit my tongue, and aimed the tip of the mic right at his lying, deceased head. < … Could have stopped it. Could have interfered. And now … Anna? … >

    I stopped and stared. It felt like the audio had finished. All I could hear now was faint, gentle hum of the cabin’s room tone

    It wasn’t so much that I was saying a word in response. It was more like I was just releasing a sound that got caught in the back of my throat.

    “ ... Kon?”

    <Anna Is that you? Holding the boom?>

    I stayed standing for a while, not saying anything, just testing my own sense of reality.

    Goosebumps had rippled across my entire back and traveled down my arms and legs. If I hadn’t just been wind-hurled inside of a dark cabin by a group of filmmaker-cultists currently chanting outside, I might have been a little more skeptical of the situation. Instead I took a big breath and forced myself to ask the obvious.

    “Kon … are you … dead?”

    His body wasn’t moving. In the weak light of my phone, I could see the fresh, ruby-colored blood glinting off his neck.

    <I’m not sure.>

    It sounded like him, like he was in the space with me. Except even though I was pointing the mic right at his dead mouth, I sensed I was only picking up an echo, as if Kon was somewhere else.

    <I mean, seeing as I’m standing over my own body. Yeah. I think I’m gone.>

    Instinctually, I twisted the boom and pointed the mic up, aiming where I thought Kon’s head might be if he was standing upright.

    <I think I’m dead.>

    The voice was pristine and clear. As if he was standing five feet above his own body. Except it was completely empty space.

    “Holy shit.”

    <What? Can you see me?>

    “No. Not at all. How is this possible? How are you talking?”

    I could hear him shift in the air and take a breath. I could literally hear him breathing, but I was still pointing up at nothing. Just stale cabin air.

    <I think it’s Olek.>

    “What?”

    <Olek is a czarownik>

    A dark weight descended onto my back. A spike of hopelessness. It’s like I’ve just been faced with something impossible.

    “A czar—?”

    <—Like a Polish warlock>

    “What do you mean?”

    <I know. I’m sorry.>

    I brought myself to sit down on one of the coolers and readjusted my grip on the boom pole. I could hear Kon’s voice drifting slightly. His breath was moving.

    The breathing soon turned to sniveling, It sounded like he was fighting back tears. I stayed silent and did my best to track the invisible voice.

    <I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have invited you here. I’m a terrible person.>

    “What is Olek trying to do?”

    I followed his anguish to a small bench lined up against the wall. I got the sense he was trying to sit down.

    <And now we’re both done. I’m done. It’s over. Because, I couldn’t do it.>

    “Do what?”

    Crying. The fleshy, wet sounds of wiping up a nose and eyes. I didn’t know whether this was truly the same Kon I knew before, or if his new form was more emotional.

    <I was supposed to bring you here. It was my job. And I did .. .But I was second guessing myself the whole time. I couldn’t commit. And Olek could tell. I’m sorry. I’m like, really sorry … I’m a fucking awful human being. But I’m not even good at being awful, because I couldn’t commit. I kept telling him to let you go. That’s why he tossed me in here. That’s why he killed me … >

    I took a big swallow, and glanced down at his limp body. His arms were still curled in an awkward jumble.

    “What’s ‘in here’ mean? What is supposed to happen?”

    <They are trying to get her to possess you.>

    Another dark weight. My gut didn’t want to know anything more, but of course I had to know more.

    “What are you talking about? Get who to possess me?”

    <Północnica.>

    It was now officially becoming too much. Although I was freezing in this thin, ragged dress, I forced myself to stay still. “The … folklore lady?”

    <I know. Yes. She is real. They tried to get her to latch onto you at the tree. And now they are trying again.>

    “The tree?” My throat became tight. I momentarily choked. “You mean they were actually trying to … ”

    <Yes.>

    My whole chest tensed up*.* So they were trying to exploit me. I wasn’t being paranoid. My worries were all valid the moment I got here. I had been lied to by Kon the entire time.

    <You can hate me. You're allowed to think I'm the worst person in the world. That's fine.>

    My grip on the boom tightened, I lowered it a little to accommodate for my shaking. Despite the torrent of fear still coursing out all ends of me, anger was now flaring too.

    <I should have left with you after lunch. I was on the verge of telling you when we were by the monitor. I’m sorry.>

    I glanced again at Konrad's body. At his curled hands, at the limp uselessness of them.

    This was a person who was now truly, irrevocably gone from the world.

    Did someone dead deserve anger?

    My mic picked up Kon’s exhale, he let out a laugh. <Remember when I said, ‘we’ll fix it in post?’> He laughed again, clapping ghostly hands together somewhere. <Well here I am. Fixing it. Post mortem. Fuck.>

    It became clear to me that whatever Konrad had become—it was something far more untethered. His voice started drifting further away.

    <What did I expect to happen? Of course they would kill me. Of course they’d kill the screw-up.>

    I tracked the voice again, from more of a distance this time. I felt like I could lose Konrad—for a second time—I could lose him to some kind of unknown madness. Like every moment away from life was making him more erratic.

    The laughter transitioned back to sobbing. <I’m so young. Jesus. I was twenty-six. I can’t believe he slit my throat.>

    It felt imperative to ask him more questions. To distract him. To ground him. As much for his sake as my own. “Why? Why did they kill you?”

    <Because I fucked up that take at lunch. Because they could tell I was weak. Because I cared too much about … well … you.>

    His voice hovered back over his corpse. Even though it looked like there was no one in this cabin but me. I could feel his presence there. I could feel his eyes on me.

    <Not that it matters now … what have I got to lose anyway? I like you. I’ve always liked you. But I could tell you didn’t like me. And that made me upset. I remember trying to get close in fourth year by helping on your movie, and for a few years after that, but you would always keep your distance. Which is fine. But I think it made me resent you. And so when I asked for your help on this, it was to get back at you. I know. Stupid. It was my own insecurity. But then you actually came. And you actually wanted to do a good job. And … >

    The sobbing returned, stronger now than at any other point. I lowered my mic, following where I thought his spectral ‘head’ must be. He was only a foot above his corpse, which meant he was now stewing over his own dead body. I tried not to look at it.

    <I’m sorry, Anna. I’m human waste. I am a rotting pile of human waste, like literally that is what I am right now. You can hate me. You can piss on my grave. I don’t care. But I will get you out of this. I promise. I will fix this. I need to.>

    Good. Okay. Something actionable. “So how do I get out of this?” I pointed at the entrance where we were both tossed in from. “Do I just need to push past the wind blocking that door?”

    <There is no wind.>

    “What do you mean?”

    <It’s basically a spell.>

    “A spell?”

    <You’re not going to be able to leave this cabin. Nothing will open.>

    I stood up shakily and gestured at the ladder in the corner. “What if I climbed up to the second floor? Broke through one of the windows or—?”

    <—You will not be able to.>

    My breathing grew shallower.

    <You will not be released until Północnica takes over you. This was Olek’s whole setup. I’m sorry.>

    I stared defeatedly at the spot where Kon was talking from. Then I stared beyond him at the far wall, where I could still faintly hear the wind blowing against the boarded up windows. And then I imagined the crew beyond that, chanting some godless invocations designed to end my life…

    “So how exactly is this wraith supposed to reach me?”

    There was a nasally exhale right above the corpse’s waist. <Olek is reinforcing a circle with his followers. Each moment drags Północnica closer and closer.>

    My feet froze. I aimed my light in every corner of the room, looking for the wraith. “And how close is she?”

    <I don't know. I haven’t seen any signs. She is resisting; she would definitely rather be free. Olek is forcing her hand.>

    I ran over and tried pulling at the boarded windows, but it was true, they were immovable. There was something unnatural holding them in place.

    Then I tried my hand at breaking through a tiny circular window above the small bed. Impenetrable. “Why does this even have to happen? Why can't they let me go?!”

    <Because he needs Północnica to be corporeal. She needs to have a new body.>

    “But … Why?”

    <Because Olek needs her for … more takes.>

    “ ... More takes?”

    <Yes.>

    I couldn't believe what I was hearing. That couldn’t have been right. “That's what this is all about? Finishing this dumb movie?”

    <Well, it's not entirely just that, but … to put it simply … yeah.>

    It was so stupid it was outrageous.

    “What the fuck? Is this a joke? Does Olek think killing people is going to make him the next Spielberg?”

    Kon said nothing.

    “I refuse to be a part of this, he doesn’t have my permission! I never signed any contract!”

    <Contract … > Kon laughed again < ... I wish it was that easy. But now that you mention it. There might be something we can do … >

    “What?”

    His voice drifted, circling around his remains. <Well It's not quite a contract, but technically Północnica is bound to that dress.>

    Without even seeing him, I knew he was gesturing at me. At my dress. I touched the linen on the neck seam

    <To avoid her possessing you. You should take it off.>

    I held onto the neckline, unmoving. “Take it off?”

    <Yes. It’s how they’ll guide her to find you. I mean it’s not a guarantee she still won’t find you, but it could buy time.>

    Not a guarantee? I played with removing my arm through one of the sleeves. Was Konrad actually serious about this? Or was he just …

    <—I’m not trying to watch you strip. I don’t care. I’m literally dead. I’m trying to save your life.>

    The wind outside rattled the house. The wood on the door groaned. Was that her getting closer?

    “Okay, okay, fine.” I grabbed the bottom of the skirt and lifted it over my head. The chill was fierce. I crossed my arms tight.

    <You should steal my jacket.>

    I threw the dress into a corner of the cabin, and distanced myself. “What?”

    <Take the jacket off me. You’re cold. I don’t need it.>

    Kon’s former body wore an insulated work jacket with fleece hood. It looked warm, but there was no way I was going to lean over and disrobe his corpse.

    <I don’t know how Północnica works. But if you stand there with teeth clattering like that. She’ll probably find you faster.>

    I felt like smacking him with the boom. “So what then? After I put your jacket on—I’m supposed to squeeze myself into a cooler? Play hide and seek?”

    <I’m open to suggestions. But yes I think that’s currently your best bet. Hiding somewhere without shivering.>

    I hugged myself tighter, wrapping my arms around the boom. Why wasn’t there some old tablecloth or blanket in this stupid cabin? Did all the cloth decompose?

    “Sorry Kon, I don’t want to touch your dead body. No offense”

    <Try and hide somewhere warm then.>

    So I did. I tried hiding in a couple of the coolers strewn about, but they were all too tight to squeeze into. I tried going into the attic upstairs, but the second I put my foot on the ladder, it collapsed. The wood was completely black with mold.

    Eventually the best spot (or only viable one) was inside one of the cabinets in the northern corner. I could fit inside. But it was cold. So cold.

    <You’re shivering too much.>

    Each passing minute, it felt like the air grew more icy. Kon said it was likely to do with the wraith approaching. Even if I did hide successfully, at this rate, I was risking hypothermia.

    <Just take my jacket Anna. Picture my old body being asleep. You don’t have to look at it.>

    As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. An undershirt and jeans were not enough for this temperature.

    I set the phone light and boom on a nearby cooler and slinked over to the body, carefully keeping the gore out of sight.

    I grabbed beneath the body’s armpits, and heaved it into a sitting position. From there I unzipped the jacket and pulled at both of the sleeves.

    The coppery smell was very strong, so I did my best to hold my breath. A couple times I caught a glimpse of dangling flesh around the neck.

    He’s just asleep. It's only makeup. He’s just asleep.

    After an annoying tug-of-war, I finally managed to slip the whole jacket off, which plopped the head right into my line of vision.

    I stared right through the neck hole, at an exposed brown tube that must’ve been a shredded esophagus or trachea.

    Nausea struck. My vision blurred.

    CLUNK CLUNK CLUNK.

    I woke up in a daze. My phone light was still up, illuminating a gust of leaves swirling around the darkness.

    There was a chair in the corner of the cabin, rocking on its own. Banging against a wall.

    A loose rock went sailing through the air. I rolled before it could dent my head. There were several twigs, papers and other objects flying through the air in a haphazard fashion, being drawn to the chair.

    I grabbed my boom off the floor and searched for Konrad. Aiming my microphone at his body. When had it been turned face down?

    I couldn’t hear anything.

    I adjusted my headphones and aimed the boom at the bench where Kon had sat earlier.

    Nothing.

    Then I aimed it at the rattling chair in the corner of the room.

    <I’M HOLDING HER! SHE’S IN THE CABIN! SHE’S HERE! SHE’S—>

    The headphones practically flew off my head, I fell over, and backed away,

    The chair was squeaking across the floor, and I could now see how It looked like Kon was trying to pin another entity to it. They were two invisible forces, grappling each other.

    I stumbled across the dress I threw to the floor. I scrunched it up, and prepared to toss it somewhere. But did it even matter? The wraith could obviously sense me now, right?

    Decision paralysis.

    What could I do? These were the last couple moments of my life. Any second Kon would lose, and then I would be overtaken by a ghost woman and be ousted from my own body.

    I would die from it, wouldn’t I? Or would I be a prisoner in my own body? A subject for whatever wickedness Olek had in store? He would force me to wear the dress again. Force me to wander the woods. Force me to keep acting in this godforsaken film.

    I threw the dress on Kon’s body, instinctually trying to cover it. And then I realized something.

    The wraith’s here looking for a body, isn’t she?

    I bolted over to the corpse, thwarting all my inhibitions. Forcibly, I stretched the dress over the body’s head, pulling the fabric of the skirt over its scalp, all the way down to the waist. Thankfully it was lying face down.

    I fed the arms through the sleeves and made sure its head popped through the neckline. The corpse was wearing it backwards, but surely that couldn’t matter.

    The linen ripped here and there, and the bloody throat must’ve terribly stained the dress on the other side (I didn’t dare look). But it was on. The dress was on a body.

    Then I flung myself away and hid behind the cabin’s single bed.

    I placed the headphones back on, made sure everything was still connected. I pointed the mic at the chair.

    <Uwolnij mnie! Uwolnij mnie od tej niegodziwości!>

    It was the wraith. There was shuffling. I could hear Kon screaming but I couldn't see anything. The chair was still rocking back and forth.

    “ … Kon!?”

    The chair collapsed to the ground, shattering to pieces. I braced myself. My teeth clenched. I was still freezing.

    Kon’s old body spasmed across the floor, rolling and scraping. One second its hips lifted, then its arms. There was an awful squelching. A sucking sound erupted from the throat.

    I turned away, gripped the cot and stared at the cabin wall. She chose the body, not you! She chose the body, not you! You’re going to be okay!

    My mic was still aimed at the clamor, I was hoping to hear something from Kon. But I was no longer picking up any voice. Not Kon’s, not hers, not anyone's. Just the thumping of a re-animating cadaver.

    It sounded like bones were breaking. Like flesh was twisting.

    Eventually the violence died down, turning into slow, soft movements. With immense hesitation, I lifted my gaze away from the wall and looked back.

    The figure was standing. Observing me. Ragged hair obscured her entire face.

    She had taken control of Kon’s body—which no longer looked like Kon’s body at all. The hips had narrowed. The ribs had tightened. The skin was pale and pristine, no sign of blood anywhere.

    She had somehow compressed and reconstructed herself, even the dress looked repaired.

    I stood up, held out both my hands. I wanted her to know that I meant no harm. I only wanted to leave.

    The silence was horrible. We were standing in a vacuum of sound. All the wind outside had stopped.

    Using thin, white fingers, she began to brush her tangle of hair. Not very precisely, and not very purposefully. It was just something she settled on doing.

    My heartbeat was in my head. I slid off my headphones and laid down the equipment. I waited to see what she would do. But she only brushed her hair. Lady Midnight’s eyes were shrunken and sad. She didn’t seem to care that I was here.

    “Are you … okay?”

    I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know what I expected her to say. She simply looked at me with sorrow. Something was troubling her beyond conventional understanding.

    Then the door opened, blinding both of us. I peered at the light through my fingers.

    There came a cacophony of Polish voices. At first, they sounded concerned, inquisitive, but as they drew closer, I could sense relief. Celebration.

    The AD was the first person I recognized. He beelined straight behind the woman*—*who now, lit by daylight, for all intents and purposes, looked exactly like Polina.

    “Mamy ją! Mamy ją!” he said.

    Coming in after him was the DP, (wearing a necklace of bones?) he brought out a flashlight and scanned the room, finding me immediately. “Jak to możliwe?”

    Some more crew filed in, then quickly filed out. Polina was led out without resistance, keeping her eyes on the ground.

    Eventually it was just me standing by the old bed. I still hadn't moved. It's like I had been hollowed out by the experience.

    I was in shock.

    Was it safe to leave?

    It was all happening so fast.

    After they all left, time stood still. I stood still. Unmoving

    I listened to the voices outside, praying for them to fade. The coast had to be absolutely clear before I would consider leaving because even if I tried to, they would just grab me. Wouldn't they?

    I didn't dare risk it.

    The cold was relentless. I was now past the point of shivering, and I knew that meant I was in serious trouble, but I didn't care. I didn't want to be caught again.

    I would rather stand here alone in this cabin, by this bed, looking at that open door and waiting until all the voices went away.

    I would wait for as long as I had to. I would wait until I was absolutely sure.

    Then a figure ducked beneath the door's frame.

    They were wearing a black trench coat.

    It’s Olek.

    I grabbed firm hold of the bed I was leaning against and held my breath.

    He inspected the cabin with a fake, bemused sort of interest, smiling the whole time.

    His hands grazed Kon’s old bloodstain the floor, bringing up a tiny amount and rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. He knew I was in the room, but it was like he was looking everywhere except at me. Glancing instead at the broken chair, and upturned coolers …

    He must know I'm here, right? Is he messing with me?

    And of course he was, because the next moment his glowing gray eyes turned right to mine, and he took a few steps forward.

    “Well, aren’t you clever, amazing Anna. Amazing and clever huh?”

    I didn't react. I didn't know how to react. I didn't know what he could do.

    His toes bumped against my boom pole on the floor. He bent down and brushed the dirt off my sound gear, then picked it all up.

    “I'm glad you made better use of Konrad than we could. He was shit at his job.”

    The sound equipment was handed to me in a bundle. I held it like a statue. What was I supposed to do?

    He circled back to the bloodstain on the floor and picked up Konrad's jacket. He gave it a shake and brushed it off.

    “Outside, we now have opportunity for best shot. Greatest shot of all time, actually.”

    He approached me again with the calmest air in the world. As if nothing was remotely amiss, as if we had just spent the last couple hours shooting a fun reality show, or kids movie.

    The jacket was draped around my shoulders.

    “You are wrapped, just like my AD said. You will be taken back to your car.”

    His palm pushed against the middle of my back. I slowly marched forward.

    “But before you go, you should stay and watch this shot. It is something beautiful. Something bestial. It has never been caught on film.”

    Whether I wanted to or not, my legs were now moving on their own. I approached the doorway of the cabin.

    “It would be a great honor to have another member for this moment. Another witness. And it would be a great favor, for me, to have a recording operator as well.”

    He stopped me right before I left the cabin, snagged the headphones from my hands and plonked them onto my head.

    “What do you think amazing Anna? Would you like to do sound—one last time?”

    I marched outside into the overcast dusk. There was a small fire to my right, burning strong.

    Around the fire was the whole crew, sitting in a very wide circle. They were sitting on their knees in strange postures. Praying.

    I found Polina standing by the fire, looking at me with those same sad eyes as before. She knew something I didn't, and she wished she could explain it.

    There was something happening here that I didn’t want to know about. Something worse than murder, worse than any crime possible by mortal hands.

    Something unholy was about to be thrust upon this small slice of forest. And Olek wanted it recorded.

    I started shivering again but I managed to turn on the Zoom recorder. As if I had any other choice.

    I turned back to Olek, and meekly lifted my boom.

    “Great. You really are amazing, you know that?” He pointed right beside one of the crewmembers. “Let's get you over there.”

    His grin was massive. It's the first time I had ever seen him so happy. The biggest smile of the entire day.

    “I’ll get the camera. You will see. This is going to be incredible.”

    0 Comments
    2024/03/24
    22:42 UTC

    5

    Krew [Part 2]

    I - II - III - IV


    Thank god I didn’t break any bones.

    The shrubby softness of the ravine’s slopes had cushioned enough of my fall. I leaned onto one of the slopes and let the earthy coolness soothe my sore back. Although there would be tenderness on my tailbone and left leg, everything still felt intact.

    Olek had radioed in that he’d found me. I’d given him my headphones and Zoom recorder, which he was now using to review the quality of the last takes.

    “Clean sound,” he nodded with a calm seriousness.

    Was it clean though?

    I could faintly hear the squealing whines through the cups of my headphones, but Olek gave no reaction as he pressed the cushions closer to his ears.

    I wondered if he was intentionally trying to come off as unphased. Was he actually trying to be encouraging of my work? Did the pig squealing actually not bother him?

    His entire demeanor felt alien. At times he would meet my eyes, trying to maybe show a glimmer of gratitude, or perhaps sympathy, but it's like he couldn’t get his face to activate the right muscles.

    “I’m glad it’s clean.” I croaked out. Or that at least you think so.

    After a few minutes of listening, Olek took off the headphones, and offered a massive palm for me to grab. I really didn’t want to leave with him, but I didn’t know what else to do.

    I wouldn’t know where to go on my own without getting further lost in the woods. And the last thing I wanted was to get stuck in a worse ravine, dying of thirst, awaiting bears and cougars to eat me. So I grabbed his arm.

    “Your work is strong,” he said. Then he handed back my gear.

    “Uh … thank you.”

    The ease with which Olek knew how to operate my equipment was a little astonishing. I figured he was probably used to playing multiple roles on set (the curse of many indie films), but after he hooked my boom into my mixer without a moment’s hesitation, another thought crossed my mind. Maybe he had been expecting me to use the handheld recorder.

    Maybe he had been expecting me to climb up alone in that tree this whole time. Did he somehow know I would be menaced by this ghostly pig?

    I stared at his swirling trench coat as he led the way to an exiting slope. Was something supposed to happen to me in that tree?

    He briefly turned around and said, “Don't forget to back up the data on that card. We can't lose it.”

    Then I realized I was dealing with a guy who only cared about his film. That’s why he sent me up that oak. That’s why he didn’t care about my bruises. He truly only cared about his audio. His video. Just a regular self-absorbed dude.

    Stupid as it sounds—that felt relieving. I didn’t want to focus on paranormal, conspiratorial thinking. I just wanted to get out of here.

    With no real option, I followed Olek, limping slightly, just two steps behind. It felt very weird to come back like an obedient sheep, like a patient returned to her psych ward, but what was I supposed to do? Keep shambling through the woods? Pray that I somehow stumbled back to my car?

    Within minutes we were back at the meadow, showing just how little I had actually run.

    As soon as we broke through the forest, Konrad sprinted over, clasping both his palms on my shoulders. "Oh my god Anna! What happened?"

    I appreciated that he had run up. The rest of the crew were still across the meadow, observing distantly, fiddling with tripods and bounce boards.

    I cleared my throat and rubbed my aching left knee. “I fell into a ditch Kon. Olek got me out.”

    Perhaps sensing I needed time alone with the only proper English speaker—Olek dismissed Konrad and continued to the others.

    Konrad said something in Polish, but then immediately turned to me. “Are you injured? Are you like… okay?”

    My limbs were sore but that wasn’t the main problem. “I’m okay, but … no, not really, I'm not okay. I don't feel comfortable right now about any of this.” I gestured at the crew, the woods, the gray clouds and turned to whispering. “I can’t be here. Something fucked is going on.”

    “What do you mean?”

    I didn’t really know where to start. I sort of tossed my arms, grasping for the easiest explanation, and so I pointed to the tree. “I heard some demonic sounds in my headphones when I was up there.”

    Konrad glanced back at the oak in the meadow's center.

    “And then when I looked down, Polina was gone. Only her shredded clothes were left.”

    Konrad took a pause. "Well … that’s because Polina's wrapped. We finished her scene, so she left."

    “Yes but … ” I emphasized the strangeness. “She left so abruptly, I didn’t even see her leave.”

    “Well … you were up in the tree Anna, I don’t think you would be able to see her leave.”

    I definitely thought I would have, but I let it go. “Well the demonic thing I heard, it sounded like an animal. It attacked Polina.”

    “Attacked her?”

    “Attacked, and then, well … it ate her.”

    “Ate her?”

    I held on to the sides of my head. My mixer was still dangling from my neck on a lanyard. “Yes, ate her! There was a slurping and crunching of some fucking animal that I recorded on my mixer. It sounded like Polina was being mauled.”

    I placed my headphones on Konrad’s head and played the last sound file I recorded.

    With the volume turned high, I could make out the shrieks quite vividly.

    Kon seemed put off but kept listening to it. “What? You recorded this? Is the file corrupted or—?”

    “—No. Even the director signed off on this! He listened and gave approval!” As I said the words, I realized how fucked that was. Olek had literally listened to this file in the ravine and said: ‘clean sound.’

    Konrad looked skeptical. “Are you sure you didn't misunderstand him? I know Olek's English—”

    “No! I understood him perfectly fine. That's the recording he wanted. It was some kind of boar, and it was attacking Polina.”

    Kon held onto the headphones intently and nodded. “Are you sure it's not just some weird artifacting? Is the SD card malfunctioning or—”

    “—The SD card is totally unused.”

    “Right.” He handed the headphones back. “I mean, that doesn’t mean it can’t glitch.”

    I crossed my arms. I’ve never heard of a new card glitching.

    “Also, I was with the crew,” Kon pointed over his shoulder. “We were watching Polina and the tree the whole time. I didn’t see any animal, boar, or anything.”

    I pointed at the pile of rags still resting by the tree "then what about all the blood on her clothes? How did they get shredded?”

    "Well, I mean we're shooting a horror, Anna. That was all makeup and—."

    "—I didn't see any makeup team come over!"

    "That's cause you were up in the—”

    “—DON’T SAY I WAS UP IN THE TREE!”

    I yelled and could feel myself lose a bit of control. Olek and some of the crew glanced back from across the field. I ignored them.

    “Kon, listen. Something rammed that tree and knocked me down. That’s what made me run.”

    He looked at me but said nothing.

    “There was this terrible pig shrieking in my headphones the whole time, and I swear I saw a big black boar run toward me for a second. That’s why I ran.”

    Hands raised, Kon made eye contact with me and nodded with as much politeness as I had ever seen him muster. “Listen Anna, I’m not discounting whatever it is that you saw. Or heard. I totally respect that. Clearly something scared you. I feel you.”

    “No. Kon you’re not listening to me. Something fucked is going on. I don’t know what it is, but I want nothing to do with it.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “I mean I'm not working on this set any more. There’s something wrong. I’m going home."

    I started marching forward, but Konrad moved in front of me. "Woah woah, Anna, hold up. I get it. I would feel the same way. But come on, you can't go home. We still have a couple more shots to get.”

    I handed him the microphone. "Then you can record the rest yourself. Go ahead, you mix and boom.”

    “If you leave, how am I supposed to get home? They don't have room in their car."

    "Then ride across their laps."

    "Anna please." Konrad’s voice got quiet. "I don't want to be embarrassed in front of these guys. They make amazing horror movies, like Polish A24 level shit. My previous boom op fell through. I just need you to at least stick it through the rest of the day."

    I glanced over at the mobilizing crew; they had packed everything back into carrying cases. They almost looked like a normal film team, like any typical heads of department I’d seen on set of District PD or Untold Stories of the ER, but they were wearing so much black, so much leather and had so many piercings. Their entire vibe felt off.

    "I agree that there is a … creepiness,” Konrad lowered his voice further. “Olek is able to cultivate an amazing atmosphere, and I think it's why his films are always so strong. He brings a realness. A sort of raw element that’s hard to explain. And obviously that can result in some eerie coincidences on set, for sure. But remember: it is just a movie*.* This is just a regular forest ... we’re just here to do a job.”

    It feels like something is legit haunted, I wanted to say, but I held my tongue.

    "Just stay a few more hours. You can stick by me for the rest of the shoot. If something requires weird booming, I’ll do it. If there's another tree situation, I'll volunteer. Whatever it takes to make you comfortable. Please. For me.”

    The emotion was genuine, and despite the urgency in his voice, Konrad had let go of my arm, to show that he wasn’t trying to impede me or something. But I was still annoyed. Furious in fact, that he had tricked me into working on this janky set with a flippant director.

    I considered just leaving, just trying to head back towards the parking lot. But the thing was, I didn’t know how to navigate back. I actually needed Konrad to help return to the car.

    I sighed, groaned, and rubbed my left knee. “Goddamnit Kon. Why’d you mix me up in this? I told you I only work big shows now.”

    “I know, but …” He put his hands in his pockets, looked at the ground. “This could become a big deal for me. I told Olek I would get a sound assistant. I didn't think this would be such an ordeal. Please … ”

    The rest of the crew had now gathered all their stuff and were walking along the perimeter of the meadow, probably moving to the next location. There was the faint outline of the sun behind the overcast sky. It had risen ever so slightly, brightening the world just a little bit.

    "Oh my god. Fuck. Fine. Fuck you.” I pointed directly at Kon’s skittish face. “But you listen to me: If anything else weird happens, and I mean anything off in the slightest, promise that you won't question me, and that you'll take me straight back to the car. I don’t want any second-guessing or hesitation, okay?"

    "Yes. Of course.” Konrad held out his arm. “I swear on my mother’s grave.”

    I stared at his pupils. He looked earnest, and eager to maintain eye contact. Then I looked at his open palm. The fingers were slowly stretching towards me, seeking confirmation.

    I handed him the boom pole. “The next shot is yours. I’m not booming.”

    “Sure. That’s no problem.”

    “And I want to know exactly how many shots are left.”

    “We can ask the AD.”

    “And I want you to admit right now: that this is weird. That it's not cool you’ve roped me into this. And that you’re a fucking idiot.”

    “Yes. Yes, you’re right. I’m wrong. I’m a fucking idiot.”

    I hated this. I did not feel comfortable. But I needed a guide out. I needed Kon to be agreeable. Like with so many other annoying things about the film industry (the hours, the nepotism, the sexism, to name a few), there comes a time when you just have to grin and bear it. Pretend it doesn’t bother you and get through it.

    I rubbed my knee one last time, and then ignored the soreness as I continued to walk. Pretending is what I do best.

    We set up for lunch by some logs near the meadow’s edge, using gear cases as tables. Konrad had advocated that we could use a reset (which I appreciated), and thankfully no one was opposed to an early snack. Most of the crew members had skipped their breakfast.

    Over sandwiches, I focused on relaxing. I wanted this to be just a normal set. I didn’t want to be in panic mode the whole time.

    So, I bit the bullet and apologized to the crew. I didn’t want them judging me for the rest of the day. I stood up in the middle of their eating circle and said I was sorry. In response, The AD came and patted my back, telling me not to worry, and that apologies were unnecessary.

    Everyone came to understand that I had had a panic attack, but now I was okay. They were respecting that. Everyone acknowledged that the woods were dark, and it is of course very easy to see things that aren’t there. It is reasonable to get afraid.

    “In the forest,” the makeup artist said, “it is natural to be scared.”

    *“*Yes, it is very natural,” I said. Then I sat back into my own corner.

    My sandwich was packed with lentils just like Konrad had said. In fact, they had made two huge sandwiches just for me, which I was grateful for because my body was craving energy.

    Even though I wanted to inhale the food, I paced myself. I ate as normally as I would on any other occasion, because the more I acted like everything was fine, the more mentally everything felt fine.

    I made small talk.

    I stretched my legs.

    I asked Kon what this movie was even about.

    “Oh, it's a Polish folklore film.” He spoke in-between bites. "It's about scary things in the forest."

    “Like scary things … attacking Polina?”

    “Sort of. Polina plays Północnica. ‘Lady Midnight’”

    “Lady Midnight?”

    “Yes. She is a ghost in Polish folklore. A wraith who will try and possess your body.”

    I chewed and wondered how Polina’s cowering and wailing was supposed to make her a possessive wraith. “She seems more like a victim to me.”

    “That’s because she is.” Kon wiped his mouth. “This film is her origin story. Before she became Północnica, she was just a regular woman. A regular villager who made a bad deal with the devil, who then cursed her to wander the earth as a wraith.”

    I nodded as if this was common knowledge. “You’ve read the script?”

    “No. I know it from childhood. My mom used to warn me not to wander into the backcountry by myself, or else I risk meeting Lady Midnight. Who would then kidnap me, usurp my body, etcetera etcetera.”

    “Right.” I grabbed another napkin and looked at the rest of the crew. They were all eating two huge sandwiches, if not more. I could smell the tangy waft of horseradish, mustard, and spicy sausage. Olek looked like he was annoyed that we were on break.

    “And so … why did this crew fly all the way here?” I whispered. “Why shoot some Polish folk tale—in Vancouver?”

    "Oh, I think the producer is half-Canadian. And he was able to secure some funding here. Something like that."

    What funding? I wanted to say. I've seen high school films with higher budgets. But I chewed my lentils and stayed quiet.

    We tossed all our crumpled wax paper and empty water bottles into a portable trash. At least they got that much right.

    After enjoying a fruit bar as a dessert, I could actually feel myself winding down. My heart was no longer beating in my throat, the butterflies in my stomach were gone.

    Relishing the feeling, I unwrapped a stick of gum—and then came the rustling.

    Everyone paused and looked towards a set of bushes.

    It was hard to articulate why, but even through the leaves, I could tell it was something walking on hooves. There was something padded about the movement. And maybe it was just me, but I could swear I heard a soft, ineffable oinking in the distance.

    The crew sprang into action, locking the camera to its tripod within seconds. Konrad jumped up and grabbed my boom with a look that said: I’ll take this one.

    Everyone aimed in the direction of the foliage, trying to capture whatever lurked. Olek glued himself to the viewfinder, zooming and adjusting the camera all himself. Konrad fully extended the boom and swung it around, trying to capture the sounds of whatever approached.

    At the base of the bushes, I could see Polina’s gray rags lying splayed on the ground—was that intentional? Were the rags supposed to lure something?

    For a moment, everyone went still. It felt like the entire wilderness had gone silent. A quiet wind lightly teased some branches. Olek turned both of his palms upward, as if he was holding something, or receiving something. Summoning something?

    There came a growl, and everyone lowered their heads, looking for the source. Konrad got a little too animated and swung his boom pole right at Olek's temple.

    Olek lashed out with one of his massive arms, which clipped the camera beside him, sending it straight to the ground. The bushes shuffled one more time, and then the pig, (or moose, or whatever it was) could be heard trailing away, breaking into a trot.

    Olek brought the camera right up to his face, and aggressively clicked around the viewfinder’s touch screen. “Nie! Nie!” He slapped the device, as if he could rewind it to the moment before the opportunity was lost.

    He waved his arms, trying to attract whatever energy had just dissipated, then stepped past the camera to face the bushes. “No kurwa mać!”

    Like an angry child, Olek poked his head into the leaves and began batting at them, “Konrad ty pierdol! Ale to spieprzyłeś!”

    Konrad’s eyes turned wide and quivering, he tried to withdraw into some reality where the take had not been ruined. Olek approached him with a slung back hand, ready to release some retributive slap. But after a tense moment, the only release was a torrent of spit on Kon’s face as Olek yelled and yelled and yelled.

    Still sitting, I inched away on the log, afraid of what the director might do next. Even the rest of the crew took a few steps back.

    As quickly as the tantrum started, Olek exhaled and dismissed Konrad, clearly unable to bear another glance.

    Konrad snuck away, pretending to fiddle with the knobs on his mixer. Everyone looked at each other, but mostly at the ground. Some ravens cawed in the distance.

    I was very glad it wasn't me who messed up.

    With the afternoon came a powerful silence. You could hear squirrels scampering up trees, and woodpeckers drilling somewhere far, far away. The previously conversational crew, who would swap comments and observations for lively stretches of time, were now replaced by a band of servants who quickly nodded at whatever the director said.

    I asked Konrad what exactly Olek had been trying to shoot earlier, and “how did everyone know to record the bushes?” Kon sighed and said that they were just looking for wilderness B roll. Olek had been trying to capture a deer on camera all week.

    Without wasting time, the AD filled the silence. Our next shots were a series of POVs meant to simulate Polina running through the woods. The director would be handling the camera.

    Trying to compensate for his screw up, Kon made sure we were ready first. We fastened a set of wireless mics directly to the camera, which was then mounted inside a rig that resembled a detached steering wheel. A makeshift Steadicam.

    Rolling back the sleeves of his trench coat, Olek lifted the steering wheel and strode through the woods by himself, recording a shaky blur of trees, branches, and gloom. The rest of us huddled behind a monitor, watching the resulting footage, whispering only when necessary.

    The cautious silence was definitely a change in tone, but it didn’t bother me. Previously I had felt like the odd one out. The Canadian fish that had slipped into some foreign Euro-Slavic pond. But now it felt like we were all in this together, we were all waiting for this manic director to blow off steam by galloping through the trees.

    The footage didn’t look great (in my opinion). It was a glorified go-pro shot with a bad frame rate. The sound wasn’t much better. Kon and I both exchanged wide eyes listening to Olek’s grunts and groans as he trampled over the forest floor.

    “Polish A24 huh?” I whispered in between takes.

    “Maybe not this part,” Konrad shrugged, trying to play it off ... “we’ll fix it in post.”

    It took about an hour of Olek trying to get some fern branches to ‘brush the lens in just the right way’ but eventually the plants seemed to oblige. He returned triumphant, lifting the camera above his head (as if it weighed nothing). Then he cleared the blonde strands clinging to the sweaty sides of his face, revealing a wicked smile.

    “Okej. Running shot done. Now our final location.”

    Olek gave the AD a high five and the spirits of the crew lifted slightly. Even I was starting to feel a sliver of cheer. Final location? Already? Does that mean we’re almost done?

    “No more mistakes,” Olek pointed at Konrad, handing the camera away to some crew.

    Kon said nothing.

    Of course, getting to our final spot wasn’t so easy. The last shot required us to march much deeper into the forest, which reignited all the paranoia I was trying to rid myself of.

    The pine trees grew taller and darker. The bird calls became deeper and raspier.

    To ease my mind, I sidled right next to the AD at the front, to watch how he was navigating our misfit convoy. He smiled and showed me a pocket-sized GPS. It had a bright screen depicting a flag icon which we were nearing labelled ‘wieża.’

    I asked him what it meant, and he just pointed ahead and said: ”Very soon.”

    Despite the manifold branches and shadowy canopy, I could see a thin strip of metal gleam in the trees. In a few minutes we were approaching some long-abandoned radio tower that sat deep in the wilderness. This was the wieża.

    Why was it built so far from civilization? As we climbed up the bramble-filled incline, I could make out a dwelling at its base and realized this must have been some outpost. A weather monitoring station?

    The trees opened up and I could see we were in the midst of a relic. A two floored cabin that had faced the ravages of time and lost.

    On its left side, the walls were built into the legs of the iron tower, which were now completely covered in vines and guarding a nest of abandoned firewood. The rest of the cabin was log-built, which gave it a pioneer feel, except the whole thing was caked in a bed of moss. Like it had sprouted out of the ground. I tried to look in, but the windows were completely boarded up (and also covered in more moss).

    It had to be the most overgrown thing I’d ever seen.

    “We think it used to be some kind of forest ranger outpost,” Konrad said. “But it has long been abandoned. Pretty sweet location huh?”

    When we reached its vicinity, I pressed a finger into the cabin's exterior and felt the moss travel past my knuckles. It was remarkable that something so sturdy was abandoned like this. I would guess up to four people could have stayed here, living off camp supplies. How long was it used for?

    “We must get coverage.” Olek announced, gesturing vaguely at the scenery. “Camera and sound. I want to capture it all.”

    The crew got to work, opening all the carrying cases. I whispered to Kon. “So are we like shooting a scene or … ?”

    “No. Not really,” Konrad turned on his mixer, and started playing with the levels. “Environmental shots, we’re just recording the feel of this place.”

    Recording the feel? It sounded a bit vague, but I shrugged. I wasn’t about to question the experimental process of our genius director.

    Unlike the running POVs which were shot rather quickly, Olek allowed ample time for the cabin’s cinematography. The DP alternated lenses and tripod heights until he found the perfect frames that evoked the ominous allure of this place.

    It felt more like we were making art.

    Konrad and I circumnavigated the house, calling for silence when we needed it. Our mics picked up the buzzing of local bugs, the faint squeaking of chipmunks and even a couple of owls which must’ve prematurely woken up.

    I didn’t know if I wanted to admit it, but it was actually kind of fun.

    On ninety nine percent of sets you record the same dialogue for hours. You’re competing with plane sounds and traffic sirens. You’ve got bitchy actors, entitled crew, indecisive directors, and rushed schedules that sap all the magic out of filmmaking. But here, in the middle of the woods, Me and Konrad just spent five minutes recording the rich, textural creak of an ancient cabin door. Olek was giving Kon the dead eye, but our recordings were still fully approved.

    After an hour of capturing the surroundings, the AD called for a break.

    The team turned to discussing how to shoot the interior, which was a technical conversation (all in Polish), so I focused on readying our gear.

    As far as I knew, no one had brought any mobile lighting kits, so I wasn’t sure how they actually planned to shoot inside. We would have to spend an hour scouring mulch off glass for any natural light. And I wasn’t signing up for that job.

    As if reading my mind, the AD approached me with an encouraging smile. He was clearly going to ask me to do something stupid. I took my time opening the package of fresh batteries, lined up the negative and positive charges in my mic, twice to be sure.

    “Hello Anna, thank you so much for coming out today.”

    “No problem. Give me a second.”

    I did the same thing with my other microphone, double checking everything. If he was going to waste my time, I would waste his.

    “How would you like to be in this film?”

    I paused. “Be in this film? What do you mean?”

    “Do you want to be actress?”

    Without even intending to, my jaw dropped a little. I was not expecting this.

    “No. Sorry. I don’t want to be an actress.”

    The AD didn’t push it any further. He went back to the circle of crew and spoke with Olek. The director said some things, pulled Konrad aside, and then Konrad walked over to me.

    Before he could open his mouth, I raised my hand. “Um, I’m not acting in this movie.”

    “Who said anything about acting?” Konrad smiled, laughed a small laugh. “No no, nobody wants you to act. There’s just one particular shot they want to get. You see, technically speaking, this cabin is meant to be the birthplace of Północnica.”

    “Pół—You mean Polina’s character?”

    “Yeah. We’re getting shots of her home here as a flashback element. But Olek thinks it would be good to also get the back of the character’s head and profile, as she looks through her old house.”

    Is that what we’ve been shooting? Some experimental flashback? “So, why was Polina wrapped earlier then?”

    “It was an oversight. Now Olek thinks adding a Polina stand-in would be clutch.”

    “Well, I’m sorry. I don’t want to be a stand in.” I looked at the mossy cabin, at the gaping black hole of the half open door. “Can’t Olek like … shoot Polina on a green screen?”

    “No, no, come on, Anna, Olek doesn’t do that. He’s all practical. You have the same length of black hair. You’re about the same height. It’s just for one shot.”

    “No Kon. I don’t want to do it.”

    “You can think of it as an apology for getting you wrapped up in this. Olek will give you a day rate for acting.”

    “What?”

    “And I’ll give you half my day’s wage on top of that. Compensation for leaving you in that tree.”

    “What the hell. Why?”

    Konrad lowered his voice and brought his hands into a small prayer. “Please. I want this film to be a success. I want to be hired by these guys again. I’ve kept my word haven’t I?”

    “What word?”

    “That I’d act as a shield. Prevent you from doing anything uncomfortable.”

    “Kon. This is making me feel uncomfortable.”

    “But it’s the last thing! After this we’re done! We’ll go straight back to the car.”

    I looked over the rest of the crew. The DP was waving his arms, explaining something to Olek who was nodding with minimal effort. Then Olek turned and looked directly at me. His gray eyes shimmered with focus that prevented mine from leaving. A hawk spying a mouse.

    I did a full one eighty and faced the cabin. Konrad came over, hands still pleading, voice still a whisper. “I’ll even pay for your gas! For here and back—”

    “—Listen Kon. Whatever pickup shot this is. It's the last thing I’m doing. Then we’re leaving.”

    “So … is that a yes?”

    “Get the AD to announce I am leaving right after this. You’re taking me straight back to my car.”

    “Sure. Yeah I can do that.”

    “And tell Olek I’m only doing one take.”

    Konrad scratched the back of his neck; he looked over at the director. “Only one? But what if we need—”

    “—I’m only doing one. That’s it. One and I’m out. If we need another that's your problem, you deal with Olek.”

    “Okay. Okay, sure that’s fine. I’ll figure it out. Thank you Anna. Thank you so much.”

    He gave me a hug. I stayed facing the cabin.

    The makeup artist combed and sprayed my hair to match the wavy raggedness of Polina’s. She wasn’t very talkative but did mention I had pretty hair—naturally silky, and that it was easy to manipulate. Very easy to manipulate.

    The AD had announced that this was going to be my last shot, just as Kon promised, and that I would be escorted as soon as we were done. It also meant my makeup artist had to triple check her work with a dozen brushes and wedges.

    According to her, I looked “fabularna” (which must’ve meant “fable-like”). I responded with probably the meekest smile in my life.

    Although shredded at the skirt, the upper half of Polina’s dress was still fully intact, and so I was allowed to change into it behind the cabin. No one came to supervise.

    As I left, I could hear the echoes of the crew arguing. Olek was criticizing Konrad again over something. I ignored it.

    For the first time since picking up Kon this morning, I was completely by myself. I took a moment to assess the whole situation.

    This was it. Just me, by myself. In the middle of the woods with a bunch of strangers and a single friend from film school who gaffed my fourth year short. He was an alright gaffer, I guess.

    Like honestly, I trust Konrad and think he’s a decent guy. He helped me land some of my first gigs out of film school. But those gigs were always weird.

    He’d always be doing sound on music videos between half a dozen heavy metal bands I’d never heard of. All of them paid in cash. There was always a DP who would smoke weed in-between takes, or band members who always arrived late. I’ll never forget the day we wasted a whole afternoon on an insert of live snake as it slithered across sound speakers, our film gear, and then all the way into a kitchen cupboard. It was not a planned shot.

    But despite the bullshit, I always did get paid. At a crucial point in my life too. I always felt like I owed Kon for that. It was a legitimate steppingstone for me.

    Breathe. You’ve got this.

    I stripped down to basically my underwear—relinquishing the cover and warmth of my trusty jeans, and oversized hoodie.

    Christ it is cold. This dress is damp as hell.

    I put my jeans back on. They’re only shooting from the waist up anyway. Considering the sudden windchill, it was something like two degrees outside.

    Just five minutes of standing in the cold. You’ve had worse. Pretend you’re fine.

    Pretending is what I’m good at.

    I walked back over, holding a bundle of my previous clothes. The camera was set up, pointing into the open maw of the cabin.

    The AD stood by the door, acting as a proxy for where I would be standing. “You’re still wearing your pants,” he said.

    “Is that a problem?” I pointed to my waist and raised my finger until it reached my disinterested face. “I thought this was a medium.”

    There was some muttering behind the camera. Olek seemed upset, but Konrad’s voice won out. “That’s fine, we can make that work right? It’s only one shot.”

    Olek stepped out from behind the crew, looking unimpressed with the world at large. He waved his hand dismissively at the AD. He clearly didn’t care about my pants. Good.

    “Alright, so you want me to open this door and stare into the cabin, right?” I stood in front of the cabin and gripped the handle. The handle was slimy with moss, and very cold from the sudden windiness around us. The hinges on the door itself were remarkably intact, so despite some creaky resistance, I managed to push it shut without much hassle. Then, flexing my arm a little, I pulled and opened the door again, pretending to look inside and recognize my beloved old home.

    My beloved—completely pitch black—old home.

    “Like this? Does that work?” I will give them this one take, and I will do it well—so everything is firmly over and done with.

    The wind was causing my hair to whip back and forth, I calmly adjusted it back in place. “Any changes or can we just slate this already?”

    The camera raised slightly, and Konrad found a new spot for his boom over my head.

    “Another rehearsal,” Olek said. “Go again.”

    I carefully returned the door to its closed position, and then went back to my starting mark on the ground. I should have told Konrad: max two rehearsals. For all I knew, Olek was going to get me to rehearse this over and over, and secretly record a dozen takes. It was the oldest trick in the book.

    Whatever, give him the rehearsals.

    Again, I flexed my right arm, lifted the handle, and pulled with that slight trepidation I’ve seen all actors do as they enter any place of plot significance.

    Oooh what could be inside? Oh my gosh, it looks like the actor is realizing something! I stiffened my shoulder and then craned my neck inside.

    And then I did in fact realize something. Why is the wind so strong?

    It felt like a geyser of air was slowly blowing harder and harder.

    I turned around to adjust, to brace myself against the door, when suddenly a blast of air thrust me forward.

    My hands barely broke my fall.

    Before I could make a sound—before I could even look up—SLAM!

    The door had sealed me inside.

    All light had vanished.

    I quickly got up, ignoring the pain in my arms and yelled toward the door. “Hey! Hello! HELLO!”

    The wind howled against the cabin.

    I moved forward and found the door by the handle. I tried to push, but it felt like there was a wall on the other side. I couldn’t even budge it a little.

    “Hello! Can you open up? Hello?!”

    I pushed with my arm, my foot, and my back. Then I banged my fists right above the handle.

    Goddamnit. Can they not hear me? Why is the door jammed?

    I took deep breaths, my paranoia spilled out. Butterflies tickled my stomach and flew into my head. My heart bounced between my lungs. I pivoted on the ancient wooden floor, feeling dirt twist beneath my sneakers.

    Don’t panic. There’s just a gale outside. They must all be disoriented. Although it had no bars, my phone still made a decent flashlight.

    I lit up a floor covered with twigs and dirt. There was a cot on the far side, next to some broken shelves and a cluttered table. A couple plastic coolers lay all over the floor.

    I looked around for another door on the opposite side of the cabin. Please tell me I overlooked one. There’s gotta be one there!

    Of course there was none.

    Then I discovered a ladder which led up to the tiny attic floor. If I was really desperate, I could maybe break through one of the upper windows, and cry for help or something.

    But before I could plan my route, the door swung open again. It clipped my already sore leg.

    Down on the floor, I reached out to the sudden blast of outdoor light. A large shape was tossed onto me, pinning me to the ground. Judging by the smell of the deodorant: it was Kon.

    “Hey! Hold the door!” I shouted.

    But the sliver of light vanished faster than I could get up.

    “What the hell!” I tossed Konrad off of me, confused and angry at what was going on. I grabbed my phone light off the floor. “Kon, is that you!?”

    It was, but he didn’t look to be moving. He was still wearing his large Sennheiser headphones, and he was awkwardly cradling a boom between his arms. I rolled him over onto his back, and that’s when I saw it.

    A tear at his throat. A large bloody rip of missing flesh. It was soaked in red.

    Fuck. What the fuck. What in god's name is happening.

    0 Comments
    2024/03/23
    22:24 UTC

    5

    Passio Serpentis

    Dear mother,

    As you may know, I have died at the Battle of the White Mountain. A Bohemian round hit me square in the face. Shattering it. Piercing straight through my eye. But don't worry, mother, I didn't suffer. I barely felt it at all.

    I remember falling onto the ground, and everything around me quickly faded. There wasn't time to fear or hurt. It all went by so quickly. Fortunately for me, I could see the heavens opening up above me. An angel descended. It was so beautiful, so pure. I still remember the warmth I felt when it wrapped its snow-white wings around me. I was ready to meet our Lord, God.

    I thought the bliss would last for an eternity.

    Then the pain came, a horrible, burning pain in every organ. I thought I was in hell.

    A mistake.

    I had been a man of God my entire life. I've died fighting the heretics!

    I heard the tortured screaming of the damned all around me.

    The agonized wailing was everywhere.

    It grew closer.

    Louder.

    Until it finally woke me up from my eternal slumber.

    I woke up screaming.

    I was burning, Mother; I was freezing all at once.

    Surrounded by Easterners.

    Somehow, I was alive again. Somehow, these foreigners brought me back.

    Delirious, my body trembled. None of it made sense, none of it was possible. I knew I was dead. I could feel the cold winter breeze caressing my empty eye socket. Attempting to rise to my feet, I fell. My body was still too weak. Collapsing to the floor, I saw him. He was standing over me, with tears in his eyes.

    Father.

    Falling to his knees, as I stared at him dumbfounded, he embraced me. His touch was so welcoming and warm, his tears searing my skin, almost. Father brought me back. For a moment, I thought all was well again.

    It didn't take long for me to realize that nothing was well. Whatever father had done, it was a crime against nature and against God. I can no longer stand the sight of the Cross, Mother! It pierces my remaining eye, as if it were a heated blade, forcing me to avert my gaze.

    Perhaps I am a demon now.

    I certainly look like one, mother. My skin is as ashen as that of the moribund. My scarred face - the devil's likeness!

    I am no longer one for this world, mother! I feel nothing, no joy, nor sorrow, nor heat, nor cold. The rays of the sun seem to shy away from me. The sun, it's light, they turn away from me. I am nothing but a pariah. An exile condemned to wander the earth until death takes him once more. Touch is no longer pleasant. It is nothing. I am a prisoner inside a carcass. Tormented by aches of burning hunger that won't go away unless...

    I am sorry mother. I am writing to you to confess and apologize for what

    I've done.

    Your son is a rabid animal at the service of the devil.

    I have killed my own father.

    I killed him and I drank his blood like I did to so many other poor souls. All to stop the unrelenting clawing of lust.

    I took my father's life and feasted on his flesh like a wild dog, to avoid going mad with the hunger.

    I am so sorry

    I am so sorry

    I am so sorry

    I am

    Forgive the stains, I am weeping the same blood I must drink to maintain any semblance of self. Weeping without any real sorrow, my body bleeds instinctually, overcome with the vision of my father pulling me in closer as I sank my teeth into his neck.

    I am so sorry mother…

    I wish I could sincerely tell you I love you, but these days it seems like the only thing I am capable of being affectionate towards is the deathly dread I inspire in the eyes of man.

    I feel like the terror arising in the face of the end is the only thing that makes me feel somewhat alive.

    I hope, and I pray with the moon as my witness, that we may never meet again. For your own sake, dear mother. In the case we do meet again, please make sure I am beheaded and the headless my headless remains are either nailed to the soil or burned so I may never rise again. Even then, I'm not sure I will remain put.

    Any attempt at injuring me seems to be futile. This demon-possessed vessel simply repaired any wounds inflicted upon me by my victims. I do not know how or when I am going to finally expire, but I will try my best to vanish from human eyes, for as long as I may control the wretched hunger.

    I wish you a long life and a good health. I know you will take good care of Sophie, Paul, Georg and Lisabeth.

    I am going to attach our family crest to the seal of this letter, just in case.

    Farewell

    Your son, Herman von Teutenborg.

    0 Comments
    2024/03/22
    23:38 UTC

    3

    Krew [Part 1]

    I - II - III - IV


    My watch said it was 10:00 am, but it felt like dusk. The pine trees were so numerous and thick that I could barely see the sky.

    I looked around the dirt road and surrounding forest. There were no pylons, no signs, no washrooms, or anything. The only reason we knew how to get here was because Konrad’s phone had the GPS coordinates. I thought there would at least be a gear tent, or a food truck awaiting us. Instead it was just a shallow ditch containing a truck, a van, and my crappily parked ‘95 Civic.

    “Kon, are you kidding me? Isn’t this supposed to be union?"

    "Polska Federacja Filmowa,” he held out a crumpled call-sheet. “PFF. It's a Polish film union. It’s a legit co-production."

    I almost wanted to laugh. How ridiculous. A foreign indie film starving for crew. Konrad was clearly desperate to try and find a boom op with a vehicle and had run out of options.

    "You motherfucker." I said. There was no way this would qualify in my logbook.

    He just shrugged. It's not like I was going to drive the two hours back into Vancouver and not get paid. He was here. I was here. Sound needed recording.

    I grabbed my backpack and boom pole, following Konrad to meet my new co-workers for the day. The crew was milling about under the shadowy trees, unbothered by the gray darkness of the forest.

    Some folks raised their hands, acknowledging Kon’s arrival, he waved back. "Sorry we're late."

    The tallest of the crew, a six-and-a-half-foot giant with blonde hair, gave a subtle nod and patted Konrad’s shoulder. "Nie ma problemu."

    The giant then turned to me and asked, "Jak się masz?"

    He looked like an unused character from The Matrix trying to blend in with the forest. Black trench coat, camo pants, slicked back hair, the works. I assumed he was maybe the lead actor based on the getup, or maybe a villain.

    "Oh she doesn't speak Polish," Kon said. "But don't worry, she's amazing. This is Anna Lee. She's a dear friend of mine. We went to the same film school. Anna, this is Olek, the director."

    This dude is the director?

    I raised my hand. "Hi."

    Maybe he had cast himself in the movie (which might explain the strange outfit), but regardless he extended an open palm. "Hello amazing Anna, welcome to our crew."

    Olek’s face maintained a blank expression. It felt as if he were observing my reaction to his presence. I shook his hand with mock confidence, a little shocked by how chilly his fingers felt.

    For a second, I thought I should joke about the cold, or comment on the long drive here, or literally say anything to break the ice, but the moment passed, and Olek dismissed me with a nod.

    I nodded back and waved at the rest of the crew behind him. Although not quite as decked out as Olek, everyone was also wearing some degree of black, or borderline gothic attire. They waved back, mirroring my non-committal energy and resumed chatting amongst themselves.

    A crewmember with a baseball cap started handing out walkie talkies and speaking loudly in Polish. Konrad told me this was the assistant director, and he was saying we should all stay on channel one for on-set communication, channel two for side-conversations, and if any one of us got lost in the woods, channel one was for emergencies also.

    “Lost in the woods?” I said. “We’re a crew of like eight total—aren’t we just sticking together?”

    “Oh absolutely.” Konrad said. “There’s no reason for anyone to separate. It’s just a precaution.”

    Perhaps overhearing us, the AD switched over to English for his last couple mandates. “And please don’t forget to respect the forest. We do not want to upset the nature or have any park ranger come interrupt us. We want to avoid this. And most importantly of all, please give lots of room to the mourner for the scene. She needs lots of space.”

    I turned to Konrad, lowered my voice. “Mourner?”

    “Oh. Hah. I think he meant performer." Konrad pointed to a girl in a gray dress, sitting on a log. Behind her was what I assumed to be the makeup artist adding hairpins to her braids.

    "Polina is our actor for the scene.”

    We trudged along, single file through the bush. There was tall grass everywhere, the kind you can barely lift your foot over (and not to mention brambly vines to make it more fun). The further we went, the more I started wondering how the assistant director up front knew where he was leading us. Was he following a compass? Or just winging it?

    Konrad was making small talk in Polish with the makeup artist ahead of him, discussing the schedule or perhaps the previous day. I knew they had been shooting for three days already, and had about twelve more to go, which is relatively normal for a single location horror movie.

    What wasn’t normal was wading this deep into uncharted parts of a forest with no path, no signage, and no clear way back.

    I was worried that no one in the outside world would know where we were. If something bad were to happen (like a mudslide or deluge or something) it would be really difficult to try and get any sort of help. Did someone bring flare guns? Did anybody bring bear mace?

    I didn't want to be the baby who came to complain, but I had to voice my concern somehow. So I waited until Konrad had finally finished his conversation, then casually whisper-spoke.

    “Hey Kon. So did they get a permit for this place? Is there some record of us being here?”

    Konrad laughed. “Anna come on, we’re just going to a meadow.”

    “I know but I’m worried about safety. Like does someone have first aid?”

    “The camera team has a first aid kit, yes.” He pointed behind us, at the two men lifting a massive gear case. “They’re also carrying our lunch. Including a lentil sandwich just for you—I told them you were vegan.”

    “Oh. That's nice.”

    “Trust me, everything is copacetic. Just focus on your job.”

    According to my watch, the trek only took about thirty-five minutes (although it definitely felt more like an hour). Eventually all the dense foliage fell away and opened up into a very sizable meadow, which despite the overcast sky, still managed to gleam in a sort of gray brightness. I couldn't say it was totally pointless to have walked this far, because the meadow itself was actually quite beautiful. Whoever scouted it had done a good job.

    "Okej here we go." The AD said. The camera team’s carrying case was dropped and unloaded. With expert efficiency, the tripod, camera, and bounce boards were set up for today's first scene.

    The director pointed to a large oak tree in the center of the meadow. The gist I got was that our actress was going to be praying beneath the tree in some kind of wide establishing shot.

    When I turned to the actress, I noticed that she must've fallen into a pond during our trek—the bottom of her linen dress looked damp. Everywhere she stepped, her shoes made a squelching noise, and her wavy black hair shined like wet kelp. The makeup artist was doing her best to dry her.

    "We're going to go for a wide shot of the tree," Konrad translated the AD’s latest update. He pulled me over to the picture monitor. "There will be dialogue—a chanting, and a groaning—from the actor"

    I'd be groaning too If I had fallen into a pond.

    From my backpack I pulled out a case of portable lavalier mics, which were perfect for the occasion. The beauty of a lav is that you can strap it to a person and record their voice remotely as long as they didn’t rustle their clothes too much. It doesn’t sound as clean as a boom mic, but for a wide shot such as this, it would be much easier to hide.

    As I went up to the actress, I considered whether I should pin the lav to her bra, or some hidden fold on her dress, but before I could even introduce myself, the director appeared with crossed arms. My path was blocked.

    "Don't touch actor. Give her space."

    "Oh. Uh. But I was going to mic her up?"

    Olek stared down with gray, disinterested eyes, looking past the tiny microphone I was holding. Something told me this wasn’t about audio. He just didn’t want me touching Polina.

    I was going to suggest recording her voice afterwards as an alternative, so it could be added in post, but then Olek’s finger unfurled, pointed at me, and then pointed at the boom pole resting on a tree stump.

    "But that … won’t work," I said. The boom couldn’t get close enough without appearing on camera.

    "Make it work." His eyes peered into mine, and suddenly I felt a spike of fear. The trench coat seemed more menacing than before. It was a statement. Don’t cross me.

    Incredulous and a little uneasy, I went over to Konrad who was setting up his mixing station. I explained what the director was asking.

    "Oh, I see." Konrad tapped his chin, and eyed Polina with a knowing look. “Yes, that makes sense.”

    “What makes sense?”

    “Well, Polina is a very sensitive performer. Strapping a mic to her might interfere with her process.”

    I looked at the actress and could only see a shivering, frightened looking girl, who probably wanted this to be over.

    “She’s what you might call … ” Konrad whirled his hand as he found the word, “A method actor. She is inhabiting her character. So we want to be as unintrusive as possible.”

    “Okay … ” I tried to keep the judgement from my voice. “Well then, why don’t you tell them they can shoot the wide silent, and we could pick up the audio with a boom in closeups.”

    "Oh I don’t think we’re shooting closeups.”

    “Well then we can record audio-only closeups.”

    “I don’t think Polina would be willing.”

    I furrowed my brows quite blatantly. This was all sounding really weird. “Well then what do you suggest?”

    “I suggest we see how close we can get you with the boom. Let’s give it a try.”

    We did give it a try. Even when I stood as far away as I could, with my boom pole fully extended to six meters, there was no way for me to record quality sound—not without appearing on camera.

    After some back and forth, the director decided the solution was for me to go hide in the tree behind Polina.

    I won't lie, it felt a little demeaning to be asked to go squirrel up a tree. I saw myself as a soon-to-be professional in the film industry, and had this been a legitimate union set, I would have certainly said, sorry no. But seeing as I’ve now been wrangled into an independent film, and I was a team player…

    <Sure. I’ll take a look.> I radioed on my walkie.

    <Thanks Anna. And sorry for all the back and forth.> Konrad legitimately sounded apologetic. <I should’ve warned you how picky this crew was. They’re perfectionists. But trust me, it’ll be worth it. Olek’s films are renowned. It’ll look great in your portfolio.>

    <Sure.>

    <Just be careful not to disturb the actress as you get close.> <Copy that. Back to one.> <Back to one.>

    I flipped my walkie back to channel one, then I un-telescoped the boom pole and trudged my way to the tree. I avoided trampling too many of the dandelions because I knew they were being featured in the shot.

    Olek’s films are renowned. Sure Kon. I’m guessing this flick will sit unwatched at the bottom of Netflix, Shudder or some adware streaming site.

    On approach I could hear Polina chanting under her breath. It was the same couple words slowly repeated over and over again. "Król kolców, posłuchaj mnie. Czy ja żyję? …"

    She was standing shakily with eyes closed, both her arms extended outward, facing the distant camera, as if reaching out to it. I really wanted to tell her to ‘save it for the take’ but I knew how weird actors could be.

    I’ve seen plenty of cast who like to act as if the camera is rolling all the time, so this behavior wasn’t particularly new. I just hoped that the tears streaming from her eyes, and the slight whimpering was all part of the act too.

    Sneaking a good two meters behind Polina, I approached the base of the oak and could see that many of its branches were indeed climbable. I hoisted myself up along the trunk and pulled up the boom behind me. There were a few different nesting options, so I tried sitting across a couple branches. Eventually I found one that seemed to support my weight—while also holding the boom. I extended the pole and fished around until I found a break in the leaves that allowed me to record Polina from the side.

    I suppose this might actually work.

    Olek’s voice came over the walkie, sounding as cold as it did in person. <You’re out of frame. Good. How’s that for sound?>

    I slipped on my over-ear headphones and listened to Polina's chanting through the mic.

    “Król kolców, posłuchaj mnie … ”

    <It sounds great. Are you picking it up Kon?>

    My boom was wireless, so it directly transmitted to a receiver on Konrad's mixing setup across the meadow.

    <Kon?>

    <I'm sorry Anna, the boom reception is a little crackly for me. Are you picking up any distortion?>

    I slipped my headphones back on and played with the Mic's position.

    "Czy ja żyję? Czy ja żyję?…”

    <Sounds fine. She's just doing her chanting thing.>

    <Hmph Okay. Well maybe to be safe … Did you bring a pocket recorder?>

    I sighed. Of course I would be the one booming and mixing this morning. From my pack I pulled out my contingency H4N Zoom—a handheld recorder.

    <Yeah I've got a backup.>

    <You think you could use it—just for this scene?>

    I turned on my pocket recorder and connected it with the boom. It was stupid because Konrad should have been the one up in this tree. He’s the main sound guy. I'm just the day call. The script had never even been sent to me.

    The frustration was tensing its way across my shoulders, but I exhaled it away. <Yeah I got this. Should I be aware of an upcoming scream or anything?>

    <It should just be chanting. And groaning. Maybe some wailing.>

    I had my fingers on the gain dial, prepared to lower it for any wails.

    <Okay. Well the boom is in place. My feed is clear. On with the show.>

    The first two takes went off without a hitch. On both occasions, Polina would start with her chanting, progress to a sort of chant-groaning, and then culminate in a wailing before the director yelled ‘cięcie!’—which was apparently cut in Polish.

    I adjusted my levels on the mini mixer each time to compensate for Polina's volume because the last thing I wanted was for the sound to peak (and therefore be unusable). After each take, I would also poke my head through the leaves to check in on the actress.

    Each time Polina would be standing in the same position, breathing hard, recouping her energy for another go. It was weird, but I guess this was her process.

    For the third take, Olek wanted to swap a camera lens, so I took a moment to review the audio I'd recorded thus far. The first file sounded fine. Polina's voice was basically clean save for some light wind, bird, and bug sounds. Pretty much perfect. But in the second recording there was this super distant, very faint, barely noticeable … squealing noise.

    As I scrubbed through the waveform, I could hear the squealing ride overtop of Polina's vocals. Drowning them out at times. It honestly sounded like some lone, wild pig had been crawling across the meadow, rearing its haunches, and squealing over and over.

    What the fuck?

    I listened to the rest of the clip. It definitely sounded like a pig, a big one too, maybe a boar. The squealing continued throughout, and towards the end of the recording it hit such an uncomfortably high pitch that I reflexively threw the headphones off and almost slid down the tree. Leaves and acorns fell all around me.

    <Anna you alright?> Konrad radioed from my hip.

    <Yeah, I’m fine. I just umm, I just need a second.>

    Navigating the small LCD screen of the mixer, I checked if maybe I was re-recording over existing files. Maybe the squeal had come from an old audio track? Maybe I had overwritten something corrupted? But the SD card was clean. Nothing looked wrong.

    <I uh … had some strange interference in the last take>

    <Interference?>

    It felt counterproductive to try and explain some out-of-place pig sound, so I decided to save the embarrassment. <Yeah, I lost Polina's performance to some … artifacting. But I'll reset my device so it shouldn't happen again.>

    <What about first take?> Olek radioed in. <How was that for sound?>

    <Oh the first take was still good. First take is clean.>

    <Then we're good.>

    <Copy that.> Konrad said.

    <Okay. If that’s fine with you, it’s fine with me.> I said.

    <Great.> The AD then joined in. <The lens is ready, actor still in position. Let's roll camera and sound!>

    <Copy.>

    <Rolling.>

    <Speed.>

    I shook my head free of pig thoughts and pressed my headphones against my ears.

    The mic still held its good position. I could hear the breathing of Polina as if she were right by my side. She took several sharp inhales, held her breath, and then slowly exhaled.

    Across the meadow I heard the director clear his throat, and then yell: “Actcja!”

    Polina’s chanting came quick and succinct, arriving with a bit more intensity than before. She must've known that they were going for a different shot or something because her words had completely changed.

    "Król kolców, posłuchaj mnie. Ona jest twoja i tylko twoja.”

    I listened intently for anything off, dialing back the gain as Polina’s vocals grew louder. There wasn't any pig noise or disruption, but for this take, Polina had started to cry during her chanting. And it wasn't the usual ‘actor crying’ I had seen on some TV movies or soaps. It was more of a grief-stricken sobbing. It sounded deep and authentic. The sobbing then turned into bawling, and quickly became hysterical.

    I told myself it was just a performance, and that I shouldn't think twice.

    The sobbing then turned into wailing. And then the wailing faded under brisk, heated shuffles, as if she was wrestling something. As if she was fending off an animal.

    Mid-wail, I heard her fall and get up multiple times. I heard her strain, as if she was struggling to brush something heavy off of her. Then after a final cry she stopped the performance altogether and made a heavy thud.

    After Olek yelled cut, the first thing I did was peer through the branches to check on Polina.

    She was on her palms and knees breathing hard, with a pool of something (vomit?) on the ground next to her.

    At the side of her dress, at about hip height, I saw a tear in the fabric, and a large dark stain. I squinted to see if there was a wound, or if she was actively bleeding, but from my height it was impossible to tell.

    <How was that for sound?> Olek radioed, indifferent as usual.

    I stared at the waveform I just recorded, then I quickly scrubbed and listened. It was the same hysterical performance. No distortion. No pig.

    <Good for sound> I said, hesitating to add more. I brought my walkie closer to my mouth and took a deep swallow. <Is ummm … is Polina okay?>

    I held a branch away so I could see Polina breathing. She hadn't fallen over or anything, but she certainly wasn't standing either.

    <Polina did great. Amazing performance> Olek kept his radio bursts short. <What is your question?>

    I stared at the blotch on her dress. It looked like it was growing. <Like does she need our help or anything?>

    <Help?>

    The radio stayed silent for a time. Then Konrad came on. <Hey Anna. Go to two.>

    I flipped channels. <Go for Anna.>

    <Hey. What’s going on?>

    <I’m just … it sounded a little real coming from Polina last take.>

    <Real? You mean the performance?>

    <Yeah. Like should someone check on her?>

    <Hey Anna. You do realize this is a movie right?>

    No shit Kon. <Yes I just—she looks like she's bleeding.>

    <Anna, it's called makeup.>

    <I didn't see any makeup artist come up.>

    <She did, in between takes. While you were in the tree.>

    I didn't think I had heard anyone come up, but then again, maybe I was busy reviewing the audio. I just assumed Polina was alone the whole time.

    <Well I … I was just worried that's all.>

    <Didn't I tell you we were shooting a horror?>

    I would describe Konrad as a nice guy. We get along and I like him as a friend, truly I do. But on set he could be a total prick.

    <Okay Kon, fuck you too. I'm just by myself in this tree recording screaming from an actor that I can't see. Sorry for being overly concerned about another human being … >

    <Sorry, I didn’t mean to come off rude.>

    <It should be you in this tree anyway.>

    <I mean if you’re uncomfortable … you want me to switch with you?>

    I did actually. I really did. But then I envisioned what I would have to do. I'd have to climb down, wait for Konrad to get over, get Konrad setup, and then get myself out of frame. We'd waste over ten minutes, and we've only been shooting for twenty. It's still only the first scene. The AD would not be happy, and most certainly Olek would not be happy (which I didn't want to witness). Worst of all, everyone would know I was scared, and that would be fucking embarrassing.

    <No I'm fine. It's fine. I'll be fine.>

    <It's okay. You're gonna be okay.>

    <Yes. Back to one.>

    Polina was still on all fours, so I just had to assume this was her new starting position. I let go of the branch and allowed leaves to obscure her once again. I sat down, readied my mic, and flipped the walkie to channel one. <Okay, it's all good everyone. I've sorted it out. Sound is ready.>

    Almost immediately the AD responded. <Great. Let's go for another. Roll camera. Roll Sound.>

    <Copy.>

    <Rolling.>

    <Speed.>

    "Actcja!"

    Even sitting in the tree, a whole field away from the crew, I could still sense the irritation in the director's voice.

    I tried my best to distract myself by listening to the audio and treating all sounds as objectively as possible. Nothing was too authentic. It was all just performance.

    Polina's chanting came fast and hard as before. "Ofiara jest blisko. Ona leży na drzewie. Twoje do wzięcia!”

    Her words were different too, but I just had to assume Olek had given her new directions. Nothing surprising. Nothing to be worried about.

    She started to cry again. And this time quite aggressively.

    “Nie! Nieeeeee! Nieeeeeeeee!”

    And not only that, but she actually got up and ran away from her first position. I could hear her run around the tree, her voice growing and shrinking each time she circled by the mic. Obviously this wasn’t great audio, but I didn’t want to be the one to interrupt the take. So I did my best to adjust the levels on the mixer.

    “Ja tego nie chciałam! Ja tego nie chciałam …”

    Then, of all things—the squealing came back.

    It was large and wet, as if the creature had a nose full of phlegm. It started to circle after Polina, chasing the actress’ wet shoes as they slapped against her feet.

    I was gripped in my seat, and I stared below at the ground of the tree surrounding the trunk. I searched for the shadows of Polina’s legs, for the trundling of any hooves, but I couldn’t see anything, it was all happening outside the leaves of the tree. And beyond the leaves of the tree, I could only see faint silhouettes. I was too scared to push the branches aside.

    My mic was picking up the circling of these two entities. The shrieking, terrified voice of Polina, and the heaving, snorting thing right behind her.

    I wanted to drop my mic, headphones and all my gear, but I was paralyzed. The pig-beast sounded too angry and purposeful to be any animal. The word ‘demonic’ rattled in my head.

    Then I heard a small crack—like snapping of a celery stick, or a bone. There came a stifled inhale, a stumbling sound, and the worst, most vicious squealing I’d ever heard.

    Polina was screaming no doubt, but she was barely discernible beneath the shrieking peals of the stomping hog. It sounded like a hundred bats were coalescing to form one ungodly screech after another. Over and over again.

    Tearing sounds. Ripping sounds. Biting. Crunching. Eventually, the only thing that proved capable of pausing the squeals was the amount of chewing the monster had to do.

    Burping and scraping came next, and a disgusting number of slurps. Somehow this thing had known to park itself perfectly beneath the microphone as it ate. The feasting was being recorded with utmost clarity.

    I looked at my pocket mixer. This had been going on for over four minutes now, and no one had said anything, the radio stayed completely silent. I watched and waited as the pig grew quieter as well.

    Chewing turned to gnawing. Gnawing turned to licking. And in time the licking grew so faint, it felt like it had blown into the wind.

    I listened for anything more, for a final snort or retreating of hooves, but all I heard was the rustling of grass and chirping of birds.

    “Cięcie!”

    I shunted away the arms of leaves and stared at Polina's spot. The rags of her gray dress lay there in a pile, surrounded by trampled grass and signs of struggle. No beast. I leaned forward on the branch for a better look, for any signs of flesh or blood. Then something rammed the tree.

    Branches and twigs smacked my neck as I fell. The ground arrived hard, punching my tailbone.

    As fast as I could, I rolled over to standing and looked for any signs of a large animal, squeezing the air back into my lungs.

    There was nothing by the tree. Nothing in the meadow. The wind snatched at my clothes.

    My headphones still dangled around my neck, and I heard the faintest of murmurs. With a light touch, I brought up the left earpiece to my ear and listened close. Squealing.

    Although my microphone had fallen on the ground behind me, somehow it was still picking up that pig sound.

    Then, there in the distance, I could see it emerging from the crew. A large black shape galloping toward me.

    I bolted in the opposite direction.

    <Co ona robi?>

    <Anna, where are you—?>

    I don’t know what was behind me, or how close it was, but I had to get away. The oak was not safe. The crew was not safe.

    Without much thinking I ran straight for the forest’s edge and started to weave between other trees, hoping to lose my pursuer.

    But the pursuer was fucking fast. And as it chased, I realized I wasn’t running away from any sort of forest animal or boar. There were only two feet tearing behind me. It was a person.

    Feeling my heartbeat in my throat, I jumped over some fallen logs and turned back to catch a glimpse.

    Oh my god. It’s Olek. Holy shit.

    The director stared back with a soulless leer. He was carrying something long and sharp, and his boots crushed through the forest without effort. He had chased like this before. I wasn’t the first.

    I screamed and kept running, deeper into the forest now, not really knowing where to go. He was faster than me and would catch up in moments unless I could find some obstacle between us.

    Why is he chasing me?

    Pond water splashed into my face as I reached a wetter area. I prayed for some swamp or bog I could use to slip away, but the ponds were just sparse little islands in a dry forest.

    But as I sprinted down a slope, I could see the opening to a steep drop. I was nearing the edge of a narrow rocky ravine. A dried up river. If I jumped over, I could probably land and cling to the opposite side, which was a rocky lip. It would definitely hurt, but I could pull myself up and maybe get away. It was worth a shot.

    I neared the edge, took two steps back. Paused. Ran forward. And leapt.

    I fell hard on the opposite stony edge, and it crumbled beneath my weight. The rocks and pebbles broke apart from the tightly packed dirt, and my hands failed to grab hold of anything.

    Oh god what have I done.

    The impact was immediate. All air vanished from my lungs. There was pain all along my back and tailbone which grew worse as I raggedly inhaled.

    Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Olek climb down toward me. I feebly tried to crawl away, but it was no use. The escape attempt was over.

    Olek’s cold gray eyes appeared menacing despite giving no actual expression to his face. He stopped a foot away from me and surveyed my wounded body—out of shock, or worry?—I couldn’t tell.

    He lowered the weapon he was holding, which I could now see was the boom I had left behind and placed it at my feet. Then he leaned close, put a hand on my shoulder and brought his face close to mine. His voice sounded ominous, yet still very much concerned.

    “How was that for sound?”

    2 Comments
    2024/03/22
    21:27 UTC

    16

    I haul away junk from hoarder homes. What I found at my last job made me quit.

    For most of my years, I'd been dragged around by the twin steeds of addiction and crime without a thought beyond my next fix. Then I was arrested. That was the wake-up call I needed. Once I was inside, I had to deal with my addiction with both therapy and forced sobriety. It wasn't easy. During my lowest moment, vomiting into a prison toilet, I found something I thought I had lost – hope. I came out the other side of my stint healthier and ready to take my life in a new direction. Prison had been the tough love I needed. I was ready for the free world again.

    I soon discovered the free world wasn't ready for me. Part of my release agreement was that I needed to find steady employment. I thought that sounded simple enough, but I had no idea how cruel the world could be to anyone who colored outside life's lines. Despite being capable, willing, and reformed, no one wanted to hire me.

    My parole officer told me not to stress because he knew a few people who might be able to help. He saw that I was trying and made a few phone calls. He hooked me up with Pete, a good dude who owned a junk removal company named "Moving Buddies."

    "Been out long?" he asked when I sat with him.

    "About a month."

    "How did the family take it?"

    "Don't have one to lean on anymore," I said. "Part of the reason I ended up where I ended up, ya know?"

    "I understand," Pete said, "We all deal with grief in our own way."

    "Most of those ways don't end in jail time," I said.

    "No, they do not. But, it brought you back from the dead and to my doorstep. I'd say that's a win/win."

    Less than two days later, Pete hired me, and I was ready to go. Despite the name, Moving Buddies was not a moving company in the traditional sense. It was a junk removal company that specialized in cleaning up evictions and hoarder homes. It was long, backbreaking work, but it kept me busy. I welcomed the distraction.

    I wasn't even the only former con on the team. My partner and driver, Devon Baker, or D, as he liked to be called, had also done time in his past. We chatted about it the first day, and it bonded us. Like me, he had gone in for armed robbery, but he had received more time. Like me, he struggled once he got out. He took this job out of desperation, too, but he said it saved his life.

    "I mean, don't get me wrong, it sucks," he said as we drove to our new job, "but it's better than fuckin' jail, ya know? Plus, Pete's not a bad guy. Tight as a dolphin's asshole with money, but he gets the life. He'll cut you some slack."

    "I was starting to think people like that didn't exist."

    "Nobody loves ex-cons," he said. "Wait until you start up with the dating apps. You're gonna really feel the hate then."

    I laughed, "Who'd hate a cuddly teddy bear like you, D?"

    He laughed, "That's what I'm saying. But it's cold out there, brother. Ice cold."

    We were headed out to our gig for the day. Some old fart had passed and left a mess for his kids. I hated hoarder homes because there was always some extra bullshit hidden in the piles. You could not imagine smells. They stick with you hours after your shift. We've found dead pets and living wild animals in some homes. Never a dull moment.

    We arrived and were greeted by an exhausted-looking man in his late forties. He was the son of the dead guy and told us what we already knew from the work order. I felt sympathy for him – he inherited a huge mess.

    "Sorry about how it looks. Dad went, well, crazy in the last few years. All he talked about was conspiracies and people out to get him and...and." He caught himself. "He changed, ya know? Then he let this place turn into this."

    "Not unusual in our line of work," I said, trying to comfort him.

    "Believe it or not, this isn't even the worst we've ever seen," D added.

    That seemed to ease the man's mind, and he left us to do our work. D sidled up to me as he left and nodded at the house. "Yo, this is the worst fucking house I've ever seen. Easy."

    When we finally cracked the tomb's seal, the full brunt of the smell hit us like the concussive wave of an atomic bomb. A potent combination of death, rotting food, and vomit stung our nostrils. D wasn't lying – this was the worst ever.

    "Let's have a smoke before we get hip deep in this shit," D said, pulling out his vape.

    "Agreed," I said, pulling out my crinkled pack of Marlboro Reds and naked lady Bic.

    "Those'll kill you, man," D said, nodding at my pack of cigarettes.

    "Those chemicals won't?"

    "Shit," he said, exhaling a massive puff of vapor, "I didn't say all that now."

    We finished our smokes and steadied ourselves. We wiped Vapo rub under our noses and opened the door. The entryway was crammed with old garbage. The house had so many flies that I thought it might get yanked from its foundation and take to the air. The old man may have died, but there was still some life inside this place.

    "Goddamn," D said, "How did the city not condemn this place?"

    "Maybe he knew people in high places?"

    "Should've met a garbage man," he said, getting to work.

    Hoarders were the worst. What they all have in common is some sort of mental break that sets them on this course. I've found it's often associated with some kind of loss—a job, a spouse, a child. They compensate for their loss by trying to save anything that "could be important" or that "they could use later." They never do. Thus, you get homes stuffed with towering monuments to our disposable culture.

    "The hell?" D said from a corner of the living room.

    I walked over to him and looked down at the ground where he was pointing. "It's trash," I said.

    "Under the bag, man!"

    I moved the bag and nearly vomited. Under the bag were the remains of two very dead cats. They looked like they'd recently died but were under a few ancient garbage bags. I saw a wrapper for a McDLT in one bag, and they stopped selling that in the 90s.

    "You didn't know those were cats?"

    "I know they're cats! Look at their backs."

    I did, and that's when I saw what looked like a bite mark on the remains. Something with razor-sharp teeth had chomped some of the spines away. You'd miss it if you quickly glanced at the remains, but when you looked at them, you could clearly see the bite marks.

    "What the hell did that?" I asked.

    "That looks like a lion bite, bro," D said, shaken up.

    "If we find a lion in here, I'm gone," I joked. "It may not be hungry, though, considering he seemed to have recently had a snack."

    "Shit's not funny," D said, "I have two cats. Scooby and Shaggy."

    "My bad," I said.

    "Did this old man put them there?" D asked, "Because this is some old-ass garbage, and those are recently dead."

    "Maybe whatever ate them dragged them here.+ Want me to remove them?" I asked but didn't wait for his response. As I went to bag up the cats, we heard something skitter on the floor behind us. We both turned around, and a few trash bags rolled off a pile and spilled on the floor.

    "If there is actually a fucking lion in here, I swear to God," I whispered.

    "Shh," D said, his eyes scanning the room.

    We both looked around for the source of the noise but didn't see anything. I was about to say something when we heard more scrambling off to our left. I rushed over, moved away a few bags, and let out a terrified, high-pitched scream. After the initial shock, I started laughing.

    "What?" D asked.

    I reached down and pulled up a beat-up jester doll buried in the stacks. Its porcelain face had split down the middle at some point, and the left side was gone. The right side's painted face had worn away with time and exposure to garbage juice, but one unblinking eye stared out at us. Its long limbs hung toward the ground, hunched over like it had a bad back.

    "Who would want this?" I asked.

    "Weird fucking hoarders."

    We heard skittering again, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a massive rat run from under some old cardboard boxes and back towards the bedrooms. I dropped the doll and chased after it, but it was gone before I could do anything. D shook his head.

    "Be careful when we're grabbing shit," he said, "those things will take off the tip of your fingers."

    I grabbed the doll and propped it up on the pile of trash so it looked like it was sitting on a throne of garbage. "I'll hire the jester to look out for us. It needs a name. What about Trashley?" As soon as I said it, the doll's heavy limbs made it slump to its side.

    D laughed. "Trashely already sleeping on the job!"

    We went back to work. We set about clearing out the living room and kitchen before we moved on to the closets and pantries in those rooms. Closets were the worst part of a hoarder's home. They crammed closets full of the weirdest shit known to man. Once, we pulled eight taxidermied animals out of a living room closet. It was a nativity scene. Baby Jesus was a stuffed dormouse.

    We played rock, paper, scissors, and D lost. He had "won" closet duty. I set back to clearing out the living room leading towards the hallway and let D work on the closet.

    D had moved out three garbage bags when I heard him yell and fall out of the closet. I ran over to him as he was scooting away from the closet door. He was genuinely spooked. I helped him up and asked him what happened.

    It took him a second to put his thoughts together. "Something touched me."

    "What?"

    "I swear to god, man. Something reached out and touched my hand."

    "It was probably," I said before he cut me off.

    "Bitch, I know what a hand feels like. A fuckin' hand touched my arm."

    "Okay," I said, "Gonna let the bitch comment slide."

    "My bad, man," he said, shaking his head, "but that shit ain't never fucking happened to me before."

    "You gotta a flashlight? Let's take a look."

    "In the truck," he said. "I'll go grab it."

    He left, and I shook my head. I was working under the belief that he had touched a rat's tail or something. Rats loved the stink of trash, but people tended to avoid it. The smell in this place would keep Oscar the Grouch at arm's length. From behind me, I heard the rats scrambling around.

    I went over to where I had heard the noise but didn't see anything. D came back into the house and saw me looking for the rat. "Heard something?" he asked.

    "I think we may have a few friends watching us," I said, glancing through the garbage piles. "Can I see that flashlight?"

    He handed it to me, and I shined the beam into the sea of living room trash bags. Nothing jumped out at me, so I assumed the rats were adept at hiding from humans. Something did catch my eye, though – Trashley. The doll wasn't in the place where I had left it. Maybe it had fallen during the closet panic, and I hadn't noticed.

    I plucked up the doll again. "It might've been our jester friend here," I said, "and not the rats."

    "I don't like that doll," D said. "Reminds me of Poltergeist, the fuckin' clown thing. Man, that messed me up good."

    "Maybe we should put a tracker on it," I joked.

    D didn't laugh. "Good idea." He eyed something on the ground and grabbed it, "Put this on it."

    He handed me an old cat collar with a little bell on it. I gave him a look, but he insisted. I dutifully put it around Trashley's neck and gave it a shake. The bell jingled, and D looked satisfied. I put Trashely back on the trash pile throne and handed D back the flashlight.

    "Let's go see about your closet hand." I walked over and pulled the closet door back open. "Hey," I said to the potential person in the closet, "we're gonna empty that closet. If you wanna get out of here without the two of us stomping you, I'd leave now."

    Nothing happened. I wasn't surprised. It's not that I doubted D—if anything, the dude was honest to a fault—but the story was so far-fetched. There's no way anyone could be in there. But still...D is honest. If he felt a hand, he might've felt a hand.

    "You gonna feel around in there or what?" he asked me.

    "I said let's look."

    "You gotta feel too. I felt."

    "I didn't agree to that," I protested.

    "Neither did I, but here we are," he said, "don't make me pull rank."

    I wasn't going to win. The only thing left to do would be to stick my arm into the garbage closet, hoping that a phantom hand wouldn't grab my arm. What the fuck even was this job?

    D shined the light into the darkness. Two bags fell and split open on the floor. One was filled with maggots. I looked back at D, "If I'm sticking my hand in there, you're picking up the creepy crawlies."

    "Fine," he said. "Now, come on, man. Let's do this."

    I sighed and reached into the closet. It was packed with smelly garbage bags, and the old owner had also heaped in a bunch of raggedy blankets to fill the gaps between the bags. I slid my arm into a tar-black opening and felt around in the darkness.

    "How long do I need to feel around for a hand?"

    "Bro, just do me a solid, huh? I need to know I'm not crazy."

    I pushed my arm deeper into the hole and felt around the trash bags. I half expected D to laugh and tell me this was some elaborate prank he was pulling. But, when I glanced back at him, he intently watched me. There was real fear in his eyes – a thing I didn't think I'd ever see out of him.

    "I don't think…"

    My hand brushed against something long and pointy, like a finger. My eyes bugged open because D ran closer with the flashlight. "You feel it, don't you?!"

    I did feel it. It was a hand. I reached around, found the wrist, and pulled as hard as possible. All the bags around me started to roll, and before I knew it, my force sent me falling back on my ass. The rank garbage rained all over me, but I still held onto that arm.

    I pushed the bags off myself, maggots landing on my face and hair, and stood up. D dropped the flashlight and was doubled over with laughter. I looked down at my hand and saw why. I was holding an arm, but it didn't belong to a man or some creature.

    It was a mannequin arm.

    I threw it down with disgust and shook all the creepy crawlies off me. D had dropped to the floor, barely able to breathe. I was hot. This job was bad enough, and now this? "Did you fuckin' know it was a mannequin arm?"

    "I swear...I swear I didn't, man. But that shit is funny as fuck."

    D has the kind of laugh that can bring anyone around to join him. Not long after, I fell under the spell of his piped-piper chuckles. I threw the arm at him, and he caught it. He helped me off the ground and apologized between the laughs. He patted my back with the arm and started cracking up again. I hurled the arm across the room.

    That's when we heard Trashey's bells ringing. We looked to where I had left the Jester, but it wasn't there anymore. D and I locked eyes. We both wanted to speak but found our ability to do so gone as if we had violated an agreement with Ursula, the sea witch. We heard the little bell jingling again, this time coming from one of the back rooms.

    "How?" was all D could push out.

    "Rats," I said. "Has to be."

    "Why are the rats taking the doll?"

    BOOM! The closet door behind us slammed shut. We both jumped, and when D's feet hit the ground, he sprinted out the front door. I wanted to join him, but I caught a shadow moving along the wall leading to the kitchen and turned to it. In my peripheral vision, it looked like something with long limbs skulking into the kitchen.

    The bell started ringing again. It was still in the bedrooms. "He..hello?" I called out. Nobody answered. I took a step toward the crowded hallway that led to the back bedrooms. "Is anyone there?"

    This time, there was the sound of something moving in the kitchen. Unlike the quick skittering we had heard previously, this was someone moving slowly and deliberately. Someone trying not to make any noise. They were either trying to hide from me or stalk me. Neither idea sparked joy.

    "Bro, I'm sorry," D said, peering in from the front door. "I didn't mean to run like away like a little kid, man."

    I turned to him and put my fingers to my lips to shush him. He nodded, and I pointed toward the kitchen. He wearily inched back into the house, whipping his head around to see if anything around him was out of the ordinary. Feeling assured he was safe, he crept in but kept the flashlight in his hand, cocked and ready to swing.

    The bell started dinging again in the back room. I pointed towards myself and then the backrooms. D nodded, but he wasn't going to join me back there. I wasn't even sure I could make my way back there as quietly as I wanted. There was a small path between the piles of trash, and I was too big for it. I was sure I'd make a racket cutting through, giving whoever was back there a fair warning that someone was coming.

    Regardless, I was going to try. As I took my first step, we heard something moving in the kitchen again. This time, D saw the same shadow I had. He mimed to me that he thought a man was in there and that he was going to head that way. I delayed my trip to the back bedrooms and hung back just in case he needed some help. Still, after the adrenaline of the moment passed, I had second thoughts about going to the back bedrooms alone. It seemed like the kind of decision a dumb character would make in a slasher movie. I may not be smart, but I ain't that dumb, either.

    I quietly stepped toward the kitchen, flanking D as he approached. We heard the cabinet doors open and slam close. There was more movement on the floor as well. It sounded like more than one rat. Then the strangest noise came out of there...the jingling of a bell.

    Someone threw a trash bag toward the living room as we stood there. It landed with a wet splat and spilled the rotten innards across the floor. The food in the bag was so old it had melted into a putrid, black ooze. It sprayed onto D's pants.

    "You about to get fucked up!" D yelled. He rushed into the kitchen, flashlight held high, ready to crown the bag tosser. I ran behind him, believing a show of force might deter whoever was in there.

    But when we entered the room, there wasn't a person in there. We saw two rats running along the counters but no lanky-limbed person. The rats squealed, dove into the trash pile, and disappeared from our view. D looked over at me and shook his head. "There was someone in here, man. Those damn rats didn't throw that bag."

    "Can I help you, gentlemen?" came a voice from the front door.

    D and I turned to see a nicely dressed middle-aged white guy standing there. His fake but friendly smile was plastered on his face and didn't present any immediate threat. With this job, you always get looky-loos who want to see how demented their neighbor had been, but they rarely walk into the house. Considering everything that had happened up to this point, the Pope could show up, and we'd be leery.

    "You can't be in here, man," D said.

    "I'm always here," the man said.

    "Well, then your streak ends today," D said, keeping calm, "this is a job site now and isn't safe for the general public."

    The man started laughing. "I'm not the general public."

    "Did you know the man that lived here?" I asked.

    "In a sense. I watched him for years," the stranger said. "He made many poor decisions. Strange person."

    "Well, he's not even a person anymore," D said, his tone shifting. "He's passed on and left us this mess to clean up. Since we're in control of the site, we can ask you to leave. If you get hurt, we can get sued. If we get sued, I get fired. I get fired, my landlord kicks me out of my place, and I have to live in my car. Since I'm not trying to live out of my beater, you have to go, sir."

    "You live off Baltimore Avenue, right?"

    D's face dropped. He did live near there, but how did this guy know that? D squared up and took a more aggressive posture. "Who are you?" D asked. "You work with Pete?"

    "I know Pete," he said, "but he's never met me."

    "What the hell does that mean?"

    "Yeah," I said, "you're speaking in riddles. Just tell us who you are and what you want."

    Before the man could speak, we heard Trashley's bell jingling again. This time, it was coming from inside the kitchen despite my having heard it in the back bedroom just minutes earlier. How did it get into the kitchen? D and I turned back and saw a rat run across the floor with a cat collar around its neck.

    "Was that the collar on Trashley?" I asked.

    "Yeah," D said. We heard the jingling as the rat dove into the sea of trash bags and disappeared from sight. Then, it went quiet again.

    "Where is the doll?" I asked.

    We returned to where the stranger had been standing, but he was gone. I glanced back toward the front door and saw it swinging on its hinges. I looked at D and shrugged. As weird as that dude was, he was gone now.

    "Who the fuck was that?"

    "How did he know where I lived?" D said. "What the hell is going on, man?"

    There was more jingling in the kitchen again. We turned away from the open front door and back to the noise. D and I entered the garbage-stuffed room and scanned for the bell's location. It rang a few more times but stopped as suddenly as it started.

    I elbowed D in the ribs and nodded at the kitchen window. It was mostly covered with old shoe boxes and a ratty old curtain, but you could see shadows moving outside. We saw the stranger pass by the window, heading toward the back door.

    We waited a beat, and then the door handle started shaking like he was trying to get in. The door must've been locked because he didn't open it. D was beginning to get frustrated and yelled out, "Hey man, you gotta get the fuck out now. Okay?"

    The man stopped but didn't walk away. You could still see him outside in the curtain. D, thoroughly annoyed at this point, marched through the trash and ripped open the curtain on the back door. Instead of seeing the man standing there, though, we saw nothing but the waist-high grass in the backyard.

    "What the…" D mumbled and let go of the curtain. You could see the stranger's outline again when it swung back into place. I audibly gasped, and D grabbed the curtain and yanked it away again. Again, there was nothing but grass waving in the breeze.

    "How?" I said.

    Before D could respond, one of the cabinet doors swung open, and Trashley spilled out. The doll landed with a thud on the counter. We watched the lifeless ragdoll as it lay on the ugly formica and waited for it to move again. As if it read our thoughts, the doll's left arm fell and dangled off the edge. That was enough to drive us both out of the kitchen.

    As we returned to the living room, the front door opened again. The stranger had come back. D walked up to him and got into the man's face. I ran over and put an arm on D's shoulder, but he shrugged me off.

    "Who the hell are you, man? What are you doing here?"

    "I came to check on this place and see if things were in order. You two seem to be the perfect men for the job."

    "Did Pete send you?" I asked. "Did you know the guy that owned this place?"

    "He was one of the people we monitored. He was meddling with things beyond his control, and he paid for that curiosity."

    "You killed him?"

    "No. He awakened something he shouldn't have. He paid for that decision. I came to witness this.""

    "Witness what?"

    "Maybe we should call Pete," I said. "Get this straightened out.

    "I didn't know dolls could stand like that," the stranger said, pointing toward the kitchen.

    We both snapped our heads back toward the kitchen and saw Trashley standing tall on its thin fabric legs. It didn't move, but it was clear it had moved at some point. It was in a small pile on the counter when we last saw it. The whole energy in the house had changed in an unnatural direction, like seeing watch hands run backward.

    D's eyes were so wide I was afraid they'd pop out. He was gripping the flashlight so tight I thought he might shatter it. Drops of sweat formed on his bald head and rolled down his face. He wasn't a tiny man, and I was worried these scares might cause his heart to stop.

    Confusion is too weak a word to describe what we felt in the moment—befuddlement, maybe—like discovering there had been aliens on Earth this whole time, and your boss was one of them. As we stared, the stranger said, "I think now you have a real mess on your hands."

    "I think I'm about to beat your ass," D said, turning to confront the man but not finding him standing there. "What the hell? Where did he go?"

    There was a rumble of thunder, and it shook the house. D and I both ducked like something was going to fall on us. I felt the thunderclap's vibrations in my guts. I glanced at the windows and noticed the sun still peaking through the edges of the blackout curtains. There were no clouds overhead, and I realized that the thunderclap didn't come from above us but from below.

    I opened my mouth to speak, but the words died in my throat when we heard something knocking inside the closed closet door. It was quiet initially, but each successive thump was louder than the last. Soon, the knocks were so loud and so violent the door knob rattled with each rap.

    I glanced back into the kitchen. The Jester was gone. It had either fallen behind some of the bags or had moved away. Neither option made me feel too good. If this thing could skulk through the trash without making a sound, it could sneak right up behind us without us knowing. I didn't know if it was violent, and I had no intention of finding out, but the thought nested in my brain and set up shop.

    "D, the doll is gone."

    "Man, fuck this place," he said, nodding toward the door, "let's get the hell out of here."

    "Best idea I've heard today," I said, heading toward the door.

    D got there first, and when he grabbed the handle, he let out a painful yelp. I didn't need to ask what happened because I had heard the sizzle. He pulled his hand back, and the mark had already reddened and started to swell.

    "What the hell?" he said, blowing on his hand as if his breath would cure it.

    The knocking in the closet started up again. It was loud from the jump, but the noise that bothered me was hearing the doorknob turn and the closet door squeak open. I ran out of the vestibule and back into the living room to discover the Jester hanging from the handle. Its half face was turned up into a crooked smile.

    "D," I said, my voice trailing. He walked over to me, and when he saw Trashley hanging from the door, all the blood ran from his face.

    "H-hello?" I offered to the open door.

    Nothing but silence was coming from the closet. I was happy for the silence. Loved every sweet second of it. Maybe it meant that all this hoo-doo voodoo shit was over, and we could get back to normal.

    It wasn't over.

    The closet door flew open, sending the jester doll flying into the kitchen and out of sight. We heard something breathing inside the darkness of the closet. Across the living room, there was a movement in the trash piles. I looked over to see the mannequin hand flying through the air and back into the closet.

    "We gotta go," I said.

    D slapped at the front door handle again, which was still hot. He shook his head. "I can't go this way."

    We burst back into the living room and heard more rumbling from the closet. Keeping a wide berth, we stayed away from the closet and eyed the back door in the kitchen. Before we could step in that direction, there was another bone-shaking thunderclap. This time, though, all the piles of trash from the back bedrooms flooded into the living room and created a wall of garbage blocking access to the back of the house.

    There was a growl from the closet, and we both looked over and saw that mannequin's hand reach out and grip the door frame. Whatever was in there had attached the arm to its body and was pulling into the living room. That was our signal to get the hell out.

    We turned to run, and all of the kitchen trash rushed forward. Like the back room trash, the bags formed a wall trapping us inside the living room. There was another growl from the closet, and a second arm reached out and grabbed the door frame. This arm looked organic but not well. The flesh was gray and ripped. You could see muscles and bones as the arm flexed on the door.

    "Fuck this," D said. He ran at the wall of trash blocking the kitchen and threw his whole massive frame into it. Like the Kool-Aid man, he burst through and landed with a thud on the filthy floor. His plan worked, and even though he was covered in foul-smelling shit juice and in a living nightmare, he turned back to me with a smile so wide you would've thought he'd just won the Powerball.

    The smile quickly faded. From the top of the refrigerator, Trashley uncoiled like a spring and launched itself at D with an old rusty knife in its tiny hands. It landed with a chaotic thud but quickly scrambled to its feet and sunk the blade into D's calves.

    D screamed, but the doll just kept slashing at his legs. Blood was pouring out of a dozen wounds and mixing in with the rotten garbage on the floor. D tried grabbing the Jester, but it quickly jabbed the knife forward and clean through D's hand. It tried pulling the blade out but was stuck on the gristle and tendons.

    I leaped through the wall and landed on the slick floor like Bambi stepping on ice. Unlike the deer, though, I kept my balance. D screamed at me to help him. I took one good step and booted Trashley in the face, sending it violently flying across the room. It landed against the stove like the ragdoll it was, and I heard it's porcelain face crack even further.

    I reached down and pulled D up. He screamed in pain, and blood was gushing from his wounds, but he knew enough to get to stepping. There was a roar from the closet, and I peeked over my shoulder long enough to see a set of bull horns trying to wedge through the narrow closet door.

    "We gotta move," I said, shouldering D's weight under my own. He was struggling to walk, and the pain was exquisite, but to his credit, he was not letting the oozing wounds slow him down. I'm convinced he would've just ripped that leg off at the knee and hobbled out the door if he could've.

    We got to the back door, and I slapped at the handle. Like the front door, it was hot as well. I looked around for anything to cover my hand and spied an old rag in a nearby trash bag. With my free hand, I ripped it open and grabbed the rag. It was wet and smelled like death, but I didn't care. I touched the rag to the handle – it sizzled, and I could still feel the intense heat on my skin – but it worked well enough to try to open the door.

    The handle wouldn't budge. I dropped the rag and tried to boot the door open, but all that did was send pain up my leg and back. I swore, but it was drowned out by the crashing coming from the living room. I glanced back and saw the closet door frame being ripped from the walls.

    "Look out!" D yelled.

    I turned in time to see Trashley leaping through the air with a fork in their hands. It landed on my leg and sunk the fork's tines into the back of my knee. I screamed in pain and lost my footing, sending both D and I to the ground. I had collapsed onto the doll and could feel it jabbing my shoulders with the fork.

    I sat up, and the Jester lept for my face. D, without hesitation, plucked the doll out of the air like he was snagging a line drive. In one fluid motion, he turned and hurled it hard against the stove again.

    I scrambled to my feet, my knees burning, and tried to bash the door open. I hit it three times as hard as my body could handle, and all I did was damage my shoulder. I went to slam into it a fourth time when I felt D's hand grab the waist of my pants and yank me down.

    I landed hard on top of him, but he didn't mind. As I slammed into his chest, I turned to see Trashley grab the bottom of the stove with its stringy felt arms and easily lift it off the ground. With the ease of an ace pitcher hurling a fastball, the doll threw the stove in our direction.

    My old duck and cover drills came into practice, and I covered my neck and head as the stove flew over our bodies. The stove slammed into the back door, cracking it in half and knocking it off its hinges. Daylight streamed in, and our salvation was a mere few feet away. I could see our way out to freedom.

    But it was just an oasis.

    The stove bounced off the wall, nicked my back, and landed square on D's right arm. It shattered under the weight. He let out a scream like a wounded wild animal. The way we were tangled up sent his painful hollering directly into my ear. He thrashed under me, trying to get away from the weight of the stove, but was only making the break worse.

    I rolled off of him, grabbed the stove, and pushed it off his mangled arm. I reached down and helped D up, but he could barely move. I was afraid he was in shock, and if we lingered any longer, the thing pulling itself out of the closet would be out and after us. I didn't know what it had planned for us, but I didn't think it would invite us to a potluck or anything.

    "I know it hurts, bro, but we have to…"

    Then I smelled the gas. I looked over to where the stove had been and saw the telltale wavy vision of leaking gas. At that moment, like divine inspiration, a plan came to me. I reached into my pocket and found my lighter.

    "I can't move," D said, "Just leave me, man."

    "Told you I wasn't a bitch," I said. "Give me twenty feet of hustle, and I can get us out of this mess." I showed him the lighter, and he knew the plan. D nodded, gritted his teeth, and leaned his weight on me. He was in so much pain, but he bit his lip and moved.

    I spied an old paper towel roll and grabbed it in my free hand. I managed to help D get out of the house and walked him about fifteen feet into the backyard. I placed him on the ground. He grabbed his arm and let out a whimper but didn't want to slow me down. "Take cover," I said, and he scooted away. I headed back to the house, but he called my name. I turned and saw his painful, sweaty face.

    "Toast these motherfuckers," he spat out.

    I nodded and headed back toward the house. I held the paper towel roll firmly and pulled out my lighter. I didn't know how fast the gas would ignite, but I knew I wouldn't be able to dawdle. I also realized this might be the last thing I ever did, but I was okay with that decision. It was worth it if I could send these two things back to hell.

    When I got to the door, the smell of gas was strong. This entire house was an accelerant, and everything would light up like a city's Fourth of July celebration. I stepped inside, and it was surprisingly quiet. I looked over at where the closet door had been and only saw a massive hole. The thing had gotten out, but I didn't know where (or how) it was hiding.

    When I turned my attention back to the gas, I saw the Jester. It was standing on the counter. As soon as I turned, it leaped at me. It landed on my neck and coiled its limbs around it like an anaconda. I struggled to breathe and fought with everything I had left in the tank. The Jester's hands, previously soft and cotton-filled, were now tipped with razor-sharp claws. It raked those Kruger-esque daggers across my face. Blood gushed from my wounds and dripped into my eyes, blurring my vision.

    I screamed and pulled as hard as I could, but this little monster was velcroed to my body. I had dropped the lighter and paper towel roll in the struggle, but that was a secondary concern. I needed to get free before attempting to light this place up. I felt the doll's legs growing as it tried to wrap up my arms. I was face to face with its blinking, drawn-on eye.

    It opened its half-mouth, and inside was row upon row of porcelain daggers. It lunged for my face to bite my cheek, but I held it off as best as I could. The arms around my neck started to tighten, and around the edges of my eyes, the world began to dim. I was afraid I was done for.

    I felt my knees buckle, and I fell onto my back. The black edges of the vision were starting to tunnel. I had seconds to do something, or I'd be toast myself. I moved my thumbs under the Jester's tightening arms and pushed with all my might. At first, it didn't budge, but then I felt the pressure lessen and could breathe again.

    "Fuck you," I spat and funneled all my stored-up anger and resentment, and strength into pushing this little clingy bitch off me. It snapped at my hands and caught my knuckles, but I kept going until its spindly arms were off my throat. I ripped its legs off my body and threw the Jester right towards the gas leak. It crashed against the wall, its half-face shattering on impact.

    I searched around for my lighter and found it. I flicked the spark wheel so hard I feared it'd break. There were a few sparks, but nothing caught. I urged it on, taking a peek at where the monster was. As I looked up, I saw the Jester's new face. The porcelain had broken away to reveal a red and black pulsating mass of muscle, blood, and gore that dripped from the wound.

    There was a bellow from the living room, and a massive creature that looked strikingly like a Minotaur, albeit with one mannequin arm, came stomping into view. It must've sensed my presence because it roared again and charged at the wall. The wall shuttered and cracked but held for the time being. I knew it'd come down easy the next time it ran at the wall.

    I was running out of time.

    I pressed my thumb down hard on the spark wheel and gave it a skin-ripping spin. It worked! There was finally a dancing orange flame at the edge of the Bic. I held it against the paper towel roll and waited for it to catch.

    The wait felt painstakingly long. The Minotaur bellowed again and slammed into the wall. It's massive head came through. I looked at the Jester, getting down in a crouch to leap at me again.

    "Light, goddamn it, LIGHT!" I screamed.

    The temperature finally hit four hundred fifty-one degrees, and the flame transferred from the lighter to the towel roll. I threw the roll at the Jester as it took to the air. The roll hit him, and the impact sent them both to the floor. They landed right near the gas line.

    I managed to get about seven feet outside before the flame caught the gas and sent the entire house sky-high. My body was thrown like a rag doll twenty feet into the neighbor's backyard. I landed on my shoulder with a sickening thud and blacked out.

    Hours later, I woke up in a hospital room. A dozen or so machines around me were beeping and keeping me going. Pain racked my entire body, and each breath was a world of discomfort I'd never been to before. But I was alive.

    Officially, the cause of the explosion was a gas leak. The fire department said it might've been leaking for years, but it was hard to determine because of all the stuff crammed into the home. D was in the hospital for about two weeks before being released. I was stuck for a few more weeks, as the explosion had rocked my brain and gave me post-concussion symptoms.

    We shared a smoke outside on D's last day in the hospital. We talked about what happened and thought it best not to be totally honest with everyone. This was mainly because we were sure everyone hadn't been honest with us, especially Pete. The stranger had name-dropped him specifically, and Pete acted very strangely in the explosion's aftermath. He was surprised we had survived and asked a lot of odd questions, some of which seemed to suggest he knew more than he was letting on.

    D has slyly started looking for a new job, and I'll follow him when I get out. I'm counting down the days not only because I'm sick of hospital food but also because I don't feel safe here. Pete keeps popping in, and I swear I saw the stranger hanging around the lobby.

    But what really concerns me and makes me think I might not make it out of here is what happened last night. At about three in the morning, when everyone on the floor was sleeping, I heard a bell jingling in the corridor outside my room. When I went out to look, I saw the shadow of a short, long-limbed person turn the corner and disappear.

    2 Comments
    2024/03/21
    01:28 UTC

    9

    Beyond the Dying Light

    In the waning light of the universe, as stars flicker out like dying candles, we huddle together, the last remnant of humanity on a frozen shard of rock.

    "We're the last ones, aren't we?" Maya's voice cuts through the silence, her breath a ghostly mist in the cold.

    I nod, unable to find words that can wrap around the truth of our situation. We are the final witnesses to the universe's grand finale, a show devoid of spectators, save for us.

    We gather around the dimming ember of our artificial sun, a feeble attempt to ward off the cold and dark. It's not just the physical cold that bites at our skin—it's the realization that we are witnessing the end of everything. The universe, in its last breath, seems indifferent to our plight.

    "I heard the engineers talking," Maya says, her eyes not leaving the black outside. "They said the reactor won't last another cycle. What happens then?"

    I know the answer, but to speak it would make it real. Instead, I place a hand on her shoulder, a futile attempt at comfort. The darkness is not just around us; it's within us, consuming the last flickers of hope.

    "Do you think anyone will remember us?" Maya asks, her eyes searching mine for an answer I don't have.

    "In a way, we are the universe's memory," I reply, trying to sound more convinced than I feel. "As long as we're here, it hasn't forgotten itself."

    But even as I speak, I know the truth. Memory is a function of time, and time itself is dying. With no one left to remember, our stories, our struggles, our very existence will dissolve into the void, leaving no trace behind.

    In my dream, I see the universe as it once was—a tapestry of light and life, a symphony of possibilities. But even in dreams, the darkness creeps in, a reminder of what awaits.

    When I awaken, the ember of our sun has dimmed further, casting long shadows across the faces of my companions.

    "We're the last verse of the universe's song," Maya murmurs, her voice barely audible, as if afraid to disturb the encroaching darkness.

    "It was a beautiful, chaotic song," I reply mournfully.

    In the final moments, as the light flickers its last, we gather close, a fragile circle of warmth in the consuming void. Hands find hands, fingers entwine, seeking solace in the touch that words can no longer provide.

    Maya's hand squeezes mine, a silent goodbye that echoes through my heart.

    "We were here," I say, more to the universe than to her. "We lived, we loved, and in the end, that was everything."

    "I'm glad it was with you," she whispers.

    The blackness that follows feels profound, filled with the echoes of a billion galaxies that once were. We wait for the end, not with fear, but with a quiet dignity, the last guardians of a story that will never be told.

    And then, there is nothing.

    3 Comments
    2024/03/20
    08:13 UTC

    4

    I Found Out Why My Dad Never Talked About His Experience in the Vietnam War (Part 1)

    The past two years have been incredibly challenging. After my mom died, I moved back home to become the primary caretaker for my father, Thành, who is in the final stages of colon cancer. The responsibility has been incredibly taxing, both emotionally and physically, on me and my wife, Mira. Watching someone you love slowly fade away is a heart-wrenching experience that words can hardly describe.

    Every day brings a new challenge, a fresh reminder of the inevitable. Yet, in this twilight of his life, I've found a strange comfort in our one-on-one conversations, these rare moments of tranquility amidst the storm.

    Dad grew up in a small village in Central Vietnam, and his stories often whisk me away to those simpler times. He speaks of his childhood with a sparkle in his eyes, narrating tales of mischievous adventures and youthful dreams. I hear about his journey to America, a leap into the unknown, fueled by hope and resilience. These stories, lighthearted and warm, have been my solace, a gentle reminder of the man he once was.

    As I prepared his chemo, meticulously adjusting the doses and equipment, careful not to disturb is trick shoulder, Dad's gaze fixed on me with a seriousness that halted my movements.

    "Spencer," he said in a voice barely above a whisper, "I have to tell you something." His eyes, usually filled with warmth, held a flicker of something unrecognizable - was it fear? Or perhaps regret?

    As I adjusted the pillows behind him, making him as comfortable as I could, I took his weathered hand in mine. The room was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the machines keeping him company. My heart pounded with a mix of apprehension and eagerness. "Ba, whatever it is, I'm here," I said softly, encouraging him to share his hidden tale.

    “There’s something I've never told anyone, not even your mother.” he began, his voice steady but distant. “It’s about what I witnessed during the War.”

    I sat there, stunned. My father had always been a closed book when it came to his time as a South Vietnamese soldier during the Vietnam War. Whenever my siblings and I had dared to broach the subject, he would shut us down immediately, sometimes with a stern look, other times with a sharp word.

    “Are you sure, Ba?” I ask hesitantly.

    He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on a point beyond the walls of the room. “Yes, it’s time you knew.” He took a deep breath, as if gathering the strength to delve into memories long buried.

    The following story is a direct translation from Vietnamese to English of my dad's account of his experience with his permission:

    As I carefully position the Claymore mine, the jungle around me feels both suffocating and oddly comforting. I've become a shadow in these dense woods, with skills honed from too many battles fought and too many lives lost. The infamous Hồ Chí Minh Trail, a serpent that weaves through the terrain, carrying the lifeblood of our enemy.

    Our position is strategically chosen. We're entrenched on a hilltop, offering a commanding view of the trail below. It's a defensible spot, with natural barriers on three sides. Our mission is simple: eliminate any Commie bastards daring to tread this path.

    The rest of my platoon of Rangers, dispersed in strategic cover, are setting traps of their own. The air is thick with anticipation and the heavy scent of wet earth.

    The jungle, dense and unforgiving, seems to absorb our every breath, every heartbeat. We're not just soldiers; we're brothers in arms, each carrying a burden of loss and vengeance that weighs heavily on our souls. The Việt Cộng, faceless enemies in the shadows, had taken more than territory; they had stolen pieces of our lives, leaving gaping wounds that would never heal.

    In the hushed whispers around the campfire, we don't just share rations; we share stories of our loved ones. Lieutenant Tuấn talks about his little brother, a bright-eyed boy who wanted to be a teacher, now lying in an unmarked grave. Private Sĩ's voice breaks as he recounts the night the North Vietnamese soldiers stormed his village, his mother's cry haunting his dreams.

    As I finish setting the mine, my fingers, calloused and scarred, instinctively reach into the pocket of my uniform. I pull out a photo, worn from too many days tucked close to my heart. It's a family photo, one of the few keepsakes I have from a life that now seems a world away. My eyes linger on one face in particular - Hiệp, my older brother.

    Hiep, the person who taught me how to ride a bike on the uneven dirt roads of ​​Túy Loan. Hiep, the person who used his own body to shield mine, when our drunken father came home in a fury, his fists itching for something to hit.

    Hiep, the village official with dreams of peace, whom the Viet Cong executed during the Tết Offensive, leaving his body in a ditch, along with their other victims, as if his life meant nothing. I can still see my sister-in-law, once vibrant and full of laughter, wearing the veil of a widow, her children's eyes reflecting a future stolen.

    Every patrol, every ambush we set, is not just a military strategy; it's a personal vendetta. In the quiet moments, when the jungle whispers its ancient secrets, I find myself talking to my brother, promising him justice, promising that his death will not be in vain.

    As I glance to my side, I see my friend, Specialist Vinh, his fingers deftly moving over the beads of his rosary.

    "Hey, Vinh," I whisper, nudging him gently, "make sure you say a prayer for me too." I give him a halfhearted smile. I'm a Buddhist, but in times like these, I'll take all the protection I can get.

    Vinh looks up with a small, knowing smile. "Don't worry, brother. God watches over all of us."

    Sergeant Nghĩa, a stern figure whose presence commands respect, moves silently among us, his steps barely disturbing the forest floor. The lines on his face tell stories of countless battles, each crease a testament to his resilience. He pauses beside me, his eyes scanning the perimeter with a practiced gaze.

    "Corporal Thanh," he addresses me, using my given name which few dared to utter, "everything secure on your end?"

    I nod, meeting his intense gaze. "Yes, sergeant. The Claymores are set, and the men are in position."He places a firm hand on my shoulder, a rare gesture of camaraderie. "Good. Remember, it's not just about holding the line; it's about protecting each other. We're all we have out here."

    His words, though simple, resonate deeply. I nod in agreement.

    As he moves on, I find a secluded spot near a towering tree, its roots offering a makeshift seat. The night is slowly descending, wrapping the jungle in a cloak of darkness. The chirps and calls of nocturnal creatures become the soundtrack of our vigil.

    Time seems to stretch and compress in these waiting hours. Every shadow becomes a potential threat, every rustle a possible enemy.

    In the enveloping silence, as the jungle's heart beats in sync with ours, I catch myself whistling softly. It's a nervous tick, a habit I've picked up somewhere along the way, a means to steady my jittering nerves.

    Late into the night, as the moon casts its silver glow over the jungle canopy, we lie in wait, each man a coiled spring, ready to unleash hell at a moment's notice.

    In the dense underbrush, I hear the faintest sound of footsteps, muffled but unmistakable. The enemy is near, their hushed whispers barely audible over the heartbeat thumping in my ears. My grip tightens around the detonator wired to the Claymores.

    The Viet Cong, unaware of their impending doom, continue their advance, inching closer to our trap. The tension is palpable, a physical weight in the air. I wait, my senses heightened, for the perfect moment to strike. And then, when they are almost upon us, close enough for me to smell what they had for dinner on their breaths, I press the detonator.

    The explosion is deafening, a fiery eruption that tears through the night. The Claymore unleashes its deadly force, obliterating a group of Viet Cong unfortunate enough to be directly in its path. Shrapnel flies through the air, marking the beginning of our ambush.

    A spray of blood and viscera from the explosion showers down upon us, a sensory overload that's both nauseating and invigorating.

    I shoulder my M16, its familiar weight, a cold comfort in my hands, and fire into the shadows. Every burst of gunfire is a desperate attempt to fend off the encroaching horror, to protect the men beside me. The muzzle flash of our weapons cuts through the darkness, revealing glimpses of the enemy – shadows darting between trees, faces contorted in fear and rage.

    The Viet Cong, caught off guard by the ferocity of our assault, scramble to find cover. Their return fire is sporadic, disorganized, the panic evident in their ranks. We press our advantage, relentless and unforgiving. I keep firing, the recoil of my rifle jarring against my shoulder.

    Amidst the cacophony, the shouts of my comrades blend with the cries of the wounded and dying. Sergeant Nghia's voice cuts through the din, a steady command urging us to hold our ground, to keep the pressure. And we do, with a ferocity that borders on the primal.

    The enemy, realizing the futility of their position, begins to retreat. Their retreat is not orderly; it's a desperate scramble for survival, indicative of the chaos we've inflicted upon them. We do not let up, pursuing them with our gunfire, forcing them deeper into the dark embrace of the jungle. It quickly turns into a rout. Or so we think.

    As the last of the gunfire dies down, a heavy silence descends upon the forest. The aftermath is a grim sight - the ground littered with bodies of both friends and foes, but mostly foes. The smell of death permeates the air.

    In the eerie calm that follows our ambush, we quickly begin tending to the wounded, our hands slick with blood and soil. My heart races, adrenaline and fear mingling in my veins.

    I can sense it in the air, the sharp, electric tang of impending doom. It's an almost palpable shift in the atmosphere, like a noose tightening around our collective necks.

    Lieutenant Tuan, sensing it too, barks out an order to our radio operator, Private First Class Hoàng. His voice, laced with urgency, cuts through the bedlam, "Call in air support, now!"

    Hoang's voice is calm but urgent, his fingers gripping the radio handset like a lifeline. "Tango-Three to Falcon Base. Heavy enemy engagement. Requesting immediate close air support at grid Bravo-Char—”

    As Hoang relays the coordinates, his voice suddenly cuts off. A sniper's bullet pierces through his helmet with a sickening thud. He slumps forward, his lifeless body still clutching the radio.

    Tuan snatches the radio handset, his voice a mix of determination and desperation. "Falcon Base, this is Tango-Three. Coordinates Bravo-Charlie-Five-Niner. We need immediate air support, over!"

    The words barely leave his mouth when another bullet strikes Tuan squarely in the chest, a clean shot that sends him reeling backward. The handset falls from his grip as he collapses.

    There's a crackling response from the radio, the voice on the other end distant but clear. "Tango-Three, Falcon Base copies. Air support is en route. Hang tight, over."

    Suddenly, without warning, more bullets whistle through the trees, an invisible death raining from all sides.

    In the midst of the chaos, Sergeant Nghia swiftly assumes command. "Corporal Thanh, fire a flare!" he shouts.

    Without hesitation, I reach for the flare gun. I aim skyward, and with a deep breath, pull the trigger. The flare bursts into the night sky, a beacon of bright red against the dark canopy, casting an eerie glow over the battlefield.

    The sudden illumination reveals a sight that causes my heart to sink. Before us, stretching across the forest floor, is what appears to be an entire battalion of Viet Cong soldiers. Their numbers are overwhelming, like a dark tide threatening to engulf us.

    A shrill whistle pierces through air, a harbinger of further violence. It's quickly followed by a flood of Viet Cong charging out of the jungle, their weapons firing wildly. Their faces are a blur of hatred, illuminated sporadically by the flashes of their guns.

    In an instant, our position transforms into a maelstrom of bullets and screams. We return fire, but it's a desperate, uneven battle.

    "Hold your ground!" Nghia barks.

    The gunfire intensifies as the Viet Cong try to overrun our position before air support arrives. We fight back with everything we have, but the fear is palpable – every soldier knows that the next bullet could be theirs.

    The enemy crashes into our lines with a ferocity that turns the battle into a savage melee. Bayonets flash in the dim light, slicing through the air with deadly precision. Rifle butts smash against bone and flesh. Fists, hardened by desperation, strike with a raw, primal force.

    In the midst of this chaos, a Viet Cong soldier lunges at me, his bayonet gleaming in the moonlight, attached menacingly to the barrel of his AK-47. The feeling of imminent death grips me, but instinct takes over.

    In a swift motion, I sidestep his charge, feeling the rush of air as the bayonet slices past me. I grab his arm, using his own momentum against him, and twist it violently. The AK clatters to the ground. We are now locked in a desperate struggle, our faces just centimeters apart.

    The soldier, quick and agile, doesn't falter. With a sudden jerk, he breaks free of my grasp and in a fluid motion, sweeps my rifle away, leaving me disarmed too.

    His eyes lock onto mine. I can see the raw desire to survive in his eyes. We both know it's either him or me.

    With a surge of strength, I push him back. He stumbles, but quickly regains his balance, his eyes never leaving mine. We circle each other warily, each waiting for an opening. The sounds of battle around us fade into the background, this moment becoming a world unto itself.

    Suddenly, he lunges again, his fists aimed at my face. I deflect his blows, feeling the impact resonate up my arms. I counter with a punch of my own, catching him off-guard. He reels back, but I don't let up. I grab a discarded rifle from the ground and swing with all my might.

    The rifle butt connects with his head with a sickening thud, sending him sprawling to the ground. He's dazed, but not defeated.

    Without hesitation, I raise my rifle, aiming it squarely at his chest. The weight of the decision presses on me, but survival leaves no room for doubt. I squeeze the trigger. The sound of the shot echoes in my ears. His body jerks with the impact, then lies still. I don't linger on the act; there's no time for remorse or reflection in the heat of battle.

    In the midst of this frenzy, I catch sight of Sergeant Nghia. He's moving with a limp, his usual steady gait now faltering. Blood seeps through the dark green fabric of his fatigues. Despite his injury, he continues to fire, his resolve unbroken.

    I rush to his side. "Sergeant, you're hit!" I shout over the din of battle. "Medic! I need a medic here!"Nghia grabs my arm. His grip is strong, belying the pain he must be enduring. "Listen, Thành," he says with urgency, "we need to retreat. Regroup and live to fight another day."

    "But Sergeant—" I protest.

    He interrupts me with a fierce intensity. "Do it, Corporal! That's an order! Save the men!"

    Reluctantly, I signal to the remaining soldiers, shouting orders for a fighting retreat. We start to fall back, moving with urgency but maintaining cover. The enemy, sensing our retreat, presses their attack, emboldened.

    Sergeant Nghia, despite his injury, maneuvers towards the M60 machine gun, a hulking presence. With deliberate, almost methodical movements, he mounts the gun, steadying it against his shoulder.He lays down a withering barrage of cover fire, the machine gun roaring to life in his hands. Each burst from the M60 is like a thunderclap, reverberating through the jungle.

    As we fall back, retreating into the dense undergrowth, I can't help but glance over my shoulder. I see Sergeant Nghia lying next to his spent weapon. I see him with a grenade, clutched tightly in his hand in a final act of bravery and self-sacrifice. His eyes meet mine one last time, conveying a silent message of farewell and a command to keep going.

    "Nghia, no!" I scream, but it's too late. He pulls the pin and hurls himself towards a group of advancing enemy soldiers. The explosion that follows is deafening, a fiery blast that lights up the night.

    As we retreat, the air suddenly trembles with the ominous whistle of incoming mortars. The forest erupts into a symphony of explosions, each blast shaking the earth beneath my feet. Dirt and debris rain down as trees splinter and fall, their mighty forms reduced to mere obstacles in our path.

    In the mayhem, a mortar shell lands perilously close. The impact of the shell sends me flying, my body slamming into the earth with brutal force. For a moment, I'm dazed, my ears ringing, vision blurred.

    My cumbersome flak jacket takes the brunt of the blast. I feel a sharp pain in my chest, a searing heat that spreads rapidly. Instinctively, I reach for the source of the pain and find a jagged piece of shrapnel embedded in the jacket. It's mere millimeters from my heart.

    Crawling on all fours, I desperately search for any sign of my platoon. But the smoky haze renders everything indistinct, shapes and shadows merging into an unrecognizable blur. The realization hits hard – I am separated from my unit, alone in this hellscape.

    I crawl into a shallow ditch, my body scraping against the rough terrain. The ditch, barely deep enough to provide cover, becomes my temporary refuge. My heart pounds frantically in my chest. The air is thick with smoke and the smell of burning foliage.

    Through the haze, I catch glimpses of enemy soldiers sweeping the area, their voices a menacing murmur in the dense jungle. I press myself lower, my face against the damp earth, trying to make myself as small as possible. The mud and leaves cling to my uniform, blending me into the landscape.

    The fear of capture, of falling into enemy hands, is overwhelming. Memories of stories told by fellow soldiers about the brutality of the VC surge through my mind.

    I hold my breath as a group of soldiers passes by the ditch. Their boots come perilously close, mud and leaves falling from their soles. I can hear their heavy breathing, the rustle of their uniforms, the clinking of their weapons. One of them pauses, and for a moment, I fear he has spotted me.

    But then, a distant sound catches his attention. The faint but unmistakable roar of jet engines crescendos through the jungle, pulling my pursuers’ gaze skyward. The soldiers around my hiding spot suddenly become agitated, their focus shifting from the ground search to the skies above. The sound grows louder, more distinct, a herald of impending doom.

    I risk a glance upwards and see a squadron of A-4 Skyhawks streaking across the sky, their sleek forms cutting through the clouds. They move with a precision that speaks of deadly intent, a force of nature unto themselves. Only the Americans fly A-4s.

    The VC soldiers, now fully aware of the impending danger, scatter in a frenzied attempt to evade the aerial assault.

    The jungle canopy shudders under the thunderous roar of the Skyhawks. Suspended for a fleeting moment, the world seems to hold its breath. Then, with a precision born of countless sorties, the aircraft release their payload. The objects, canister-like in shape, descend with a grim inevitability, their trajectory marking a path towards the heart of the enemy’s position.

    As the canisters impact, an inferno erupts, not the familiar, searing orange of napalm, but an otherworldly glow that paints the predawn in hues of eerie green and purple. The flames, unnaturally vibrant, consume the foliage with a voracious appetite, leaving behind a surreal landscape bathed in ghostly light.

    I know I must move, must put distance between myself and this alien inferno, or risk being consumed by it. The heat is intense, a wave of searing air that presses against my skin, urging me to flee.

    Crawling out of the ditch, I stagger to my feet, disoriented and dazed. My lungs ache from the acrid smoke, my eyes water from the intense light of the flames.

    I stumble forward. The ground underfoot is uneven, treacherous with fallen branches and debris. I'm driven by a primal instinct to survive, to escape this hellish scene. The fire seems to chase me, its fingers of flame licking at my heels.

    As the first light of dawn begins to filter through the smoke-filled sky, I keep moving, my legs pushing forward on sheer instinct.

    Emerging into a clearing, I pause for a moment to catch my breath. I scan the surroundings, searching for any sign of my comrades, any indication of where to head next. The eerie silence is unsettling.

    My throat is parched from the smoke and exertion. Reaching for my canteen, I unscrew the cap with trembling hands. Just as I raise it to my lips, a sudden, sharp crack splits the air. Instinctively, I duck, but not before feeling the shock of impact against the canteen. Water splashes across my face as the canteen is violently jerked from my grasp. A sniper's bullet, aimed with deadly precision, barely missed my throat.

    The sharp report of the sniper's rifle echoed through the clearing. Pinned down, I crouch low, my heart racing, adrenaline surging through my veins. Every instinct screams to move, but I know the slightest motion could spell my end.

    The underbrush is dense, a tapestry of shadows that could conceal an army. My breathing is shallow, each exhale a calculated risk. The sniper is patient, a tiger waiting for his prey to make a fatal mistake.

    Minutes stretch into an eternity. The sniper's silence is as terrifying as his bullets. Staying here is a death sentence. I need to locate him, turn the tables.

    I remember my training in counter-sniping. Find the sniper's likely position, use the environment to your advantage, and move unpredictably. The shot came from the north, judging by the sun's position and the bullet's trajectory. He must be nestled high, with a clear view of the clearing. I focus on the trees, looking for any irregularities, any hint of human presence.

    Then, I see it – a slight glint, a reflection of sunlight off a scope. It's subtle, but to a trained eye, it's as glaring as a beacon. My pulse quickens; I've located the son of a bitch.

    With the sniper's position pinpointed, I start to formulate a plan to outmaneuver him. I need to close the distance without being detected.

    I grab a sizable rock from the ground, its rough surface biting into my palm. With a swift, practiced motion, I hurl it towards the east side of the clearing, opposite my position.

    The sniper, predictably, shifts his fire towards the sound. It's a momentary distraction, but it's all I need. I seize the opportunity, bolting towards the dense thicket on my left.

    Each step is deliberate, calculated to avoid snapping twigs or rustling leaves. The sun is now high, casting deep shadows that I use to mask my movements. I keep my eyes fixed on the spot where I saw the glint, using it as a guide.

    As I inch closer, the details of the sniper's perch become clearer. He's nestled in a crook of a large tree, his position commanding a clear view of the clearing.

    I continue my approach, moving in a wide arc to flank his position. The ground here is littered with fresh fallen leaves, a natural carpet that muffles my footsteps. I'm close now, close enough to hear the faint creak of him reloading his rifle, scanning the clearing for any sign of movement. The sniper is a slight figure, his body language tense and focused. He's armed with an SKS rifle. A conical straw hat conceals his face, blending him into the natural surroundings.

    My hand tightens around the grip of my M16. I raise it slowly, lining up the sights with where I expect his head to be. My breathing steadies, my finger gently pulling on the trigger.

    My rifle jams. The unmistakable click of the failed mechanism echoes mockingly in the quiet jungle. Panic surges within me, a cold wave threatening to wash away my resolve.

    The VC sniper, alerted to my presence, whirls around to face me. To my shock, it’s not the hardened warrior I expected, but a young woman. Her black hair matted with sweat, is tied back in simple pigtails that give her a deceptively innocent appearance. Her face, streaked with dirt and an expression of deadly determination.

    For a moment, we lock eyes, each of us taken aback by the other's appearance. Her dark brown eyes, wide with surprise, quickly harden into a steely resolve. Taking advantage of my hesitation, she discards her empty rifle and lunges at me with a machete, the blade glinting menacingly in the sunlight.

    “Die, imperialist dog!” she spits.

    I react instinctively, sidestepping her initial strike, but the momentum of her attack brings us crashing together. Our struggle is fierce, a tangle of limbs and weapons. The machete slices through the air, narrowly missing my face.

    Our bodies collide with a force that knocks the breath from my lungs. I grasp at her wrists, trying to wrestle the machete away. But her grip is unyielding. The edge of the blade presses against my neck, a cold, sharp threat that sends a shiver down my spine.

    I muster all my strength and manage to twist her arm, forcing the machete away from my neck. With a sudden surge of energy, I push her off balance. She stumbles backward, and I seize the opportunity, tackling her to the ground.

    I try to pin her down, covering her mouth with my hand in a desperate attempt to prevent her from making any noise that might alert her comrades. But she's relentless, her survival instincts as sharp as her blade. She sinks her teeth into my fingers, the pain searing and immediate. I wince, feeling the warmth of my own blood trickle down my skin.

    Her teeth sink deeper, and the sharp pain forces me to release her. She scrambles to her feet. The machete is still clutched tightly in her hand, its blade smeared with my blood.

    My arm throbs with pain, blood soaking through the sleeve of my fatigues. The sounds of approaching footsteps break through the chaos of our struggle. I can't tell if it's friend or foe.

    As the VC sniper raises her machete for another deadly strike, her eyes suddenly widen in abject horror, fixated on something directly behind me. The bloodlust in her eyes gives way to unmistakable terror, halting her mid-swing. She stands frozen, her body tensed as if ready to flee.

    “Oh, my God…” she manages to utter, her face pale. “Comrade Phong?”

    I dare not turn to look, fearing any movement might reignite her attack. But the expression on her face tells me all I need to know: something behind me poses a greater threat than our desperate struggle.

    I slowly pivot, keeping one wary eye on the sniper as I turn to face the new threat.

    Standing mere meters away is a figure so grotesque, so otherworldly, that my mind struggles to comprehend it. It's humanoid, but its skin is blistered and peeling, like the flesh of someone who has been consumed by fire and somehow survived. The remnants of a North Vietnamese uniform cling to its twisted form, the fabric melding into the charred skin.

    Another figure emerges from the jungle, equally monstrous. Its face is a nightmarish mask, swollen and deformed, with eyes that no longer resemble anything human. I notice the gold crucifix hanging from its neck. It belonged to my friend ,Vinh, now reduced to this unholy mockery of a man.

    One by one, more of these gruesome beings step into the clearing. Their movements are jerky, unnatural, as if their bodies are rebelling against the very act of motion. The air fills with a stench so foul, it clings to the back of my throat, a mix of decay and burnt flesh.

    The beings close in, their movements unnerving in their disjointed nature. Their mouths snap open and closed with a deformed eagerness. Foam gathers at the corners of their lips, dripping down in sickening trails. The sound of their teeth snapping together is a macabre rhythm, echoing ominously in the clearing.

    As the figures surround us, the sniper and I are inexorably pushed back to back, our previous struggle forgotten in the face of this unimaginable horror.

    Part 2

    Part 3

    Part 4

    Part 5

    Part 6

    Part 7

    Part 8

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    0 Comments
    2024/03/18
    14:23 UTC

    5

    The Court of the Wilting Empress

    “Goddammit, that creepy bastard said he’d be here to meet us,” Genevive murmured under her breath as we waited in the crowded and baroque lobby of the Triskelion Theatre.

    Just like its chief patron and the man we were there to meet, the Triskelion Theatre dated back to our town’s folkloric past before it was officially incorporated in the mid-19th century. It was built on the southern edge of Avalon Park, on the border of what’s now the entertainment district.

    Going there as a little girl with my father or on school trips, it always seemed so majestic and magical, like something out of a fairy tale. It felt like it belonged to a more genteel age and that just going into it was like stepping through the looking glass.

    Even as an adult, it still retained that atmosphere of antiquated refinement, and it was obvious that had been a deliberate design choice. At a casual glance, nothing definitively modern stood out. The floors were tiled in marble, the light fixtures were all shaded with stained glass, and columns of richly carved dark wood upheld a lofty ceiling, with velvet curtains and enormous mosaics decorating the walls.

    And to gifted clairvoyants and studied Witches like Genevieve and myself, it was apparent that the theatre’s otherworldly mystique wasn’t just smoke and mirrors. What the uninitiated would simply take as mere aesthetic motifs, we recognized as strategically placed sigils that made the entire theatre into one large spell circle. Scattered talismans decorated the theatre as if they were everyday baubles, and I’d be damned if the whole place wasn’t built over at least one of the otherworldly passageways that Sombermorey is interwoven with.

    “He’s here, don’t worry,” I assured her with a gentle squeeze of her hand. “He’s just schmoozing around somewhere. There are hundreds of people here, and we’re not his most important guests.”

    “This lobby isn’t that big, and he wears a top hat. We should be able to spot him,” Genevive said as she craned her neck around.

    “It’s fine, Evie. We’ll speak with him when we speak with him,” I said. “Otherwise, let's just treat this like a normal date night.”

    “Believe me, I’d love to, but it’s a little hard to relax when we’re in a cursed theatre owned by an outlandish occultist with a history of botching rituals,” Genevieve sighed. She did try to relax a little, putting her arm around me and drawing me close to her, her face adopting the ‘sorry boys, she’s mine’ expression it often did when we were in public. “You’ve got Elam on standby, I take it?”

    “He’s around,” I promised her. “He’ll swoop in at the first sign of trouble.”

    “In that case, I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you for him. We don’t offer free seating to spirits, you know,” we heard the posh and pompous voice of Seneca Chamberlin ring out from behind us. “Samantha, Genevieve, so good to see you this evening! It’s been too long!”

    “That’s debatable,” Genevieve retorted.

    “Hello, Seneca. You seem to be in better spirits than the last time we met,” I remarked.

    “And with good reason. With the Grand Adderman dead and Miss Noir so busy in Adderwood, I’m essentially the de facto head of the Harrowick Chapter again,” he boasted proudly. “Plus, I was able to get a particularly persistent Incubus out of my nightmares, so I’m sleeping much better.”

    “If there’s anyone who shouldn’t have trouble sleeping at night, it’s you,” I said.

    “And it’s all thanks to you, my dear,” he reminded me with a smug smile. “If it wasn’t for you, Emrys may never have been willing to consider letting the Order negotiate terms of surrender. He’d have simply wiped us all out, yours truly included.”

    “And is every member of the Ophion Occult Order as head over heals about the regime change as you are?” I asked facetiously.

    “Well of course not, but what can they do?” he shrugged. “The Darlings are unaccounted for at the moment, but most of us don’t have our own private basement universe to bunker down in. Emrys’ chains are broken, and his avatar is restored to its full power. All we can do is mumble about it and hope he doesn’t catch wind of it.”

    “We’ve heard that Emrys has built some kind of spire in Adderwood to better control and exploit the multiversal pathways that run through it. Is this true?” Genevieve asked.

    “It most absolutely is not. Emrys and Petra built the Shadowed Spire,” he replied. “Shame on such a self-exonerated feminist like yourself to marginalize her contribution to so magnificent a megalith, erasing the greater woman behind the great man, or whatever self-indulgent twaddle you usually peddle.”

    Genevieve glowered at him in barely restrained rage, and I gently placed my hand on her and put myself between them.

    “When we last met Emrys – and Petra – they were working alongside an entity who called himself Mathom-meister,” I said. “He was personally after the Darlings, and his people in general seem to have a penchant for slaying gods and taking their powers as their own. Did Evie accidentally marginalize his contribution to this spire as well?”

    “Um… yes, now that you mention it, I believe he did provide them with at least some of the know-how on how to better tap into the nexus in the Adderwood,” Chamberlin replied. “What of it?”

    “Since this spire was erected, I’ve noticed a shift in the ley lines running over Harrowick County, ley lines which this very theatre was constructed to take advantage of,” I replied. “Tonight’s performance isn’t just a play, is it? It’s a ritual meant to take advantage of the Shadowed Spire’s impact on the Veil.”

    “You’re trying to summon another god, aren’t you Seneca?” Genevieve accused. “Mathom-meister didn’t just agree to help with the spire because he wants revenge on the Darlings. He expects regular sacrifices of divine Ichor to feast on, and he expects the Order to supply him with it.”

    “Please, you’re both being paranoid,” Seneca said dismissively. “Do you really think I’d try something like that after my fiasco with summoning Emrys?”

    “Yes,” Genevieve and I said together.

    “Well, you are both sadly mistaken. I can assure you that there will be nothing preternatural about tonight’s performance aside from the on-stage chemistry of the cast. I simply invited you here as a display of gratitude for all that you’ve done,” he claimed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a couple of other guests I’d like to greet before the show starts. I suggest you get your final refreshments and start making your way to your seats. I’ll be sure to wave down from the Emperor’s Box!”

    I started to object, but he was already off and tracking down another patron.

    “We’re going to have to clean up his mess again, aren’t we?” Genevieve sighed.

    “If we don’t, who will?” I shrugged. “Let’s just hope that it doesn’t take three years this time.”

    We grabbed some goblets of hot mulled wine and bags of gourmet caramel corn and made our way into the theatre. We had balcony seats, granting us both a decent view of and a sense of security from anything that might transpire below. As we waited for the play to start, I took a glance over the playbill we had been provided.

    “I’ve never heard of this play before,” I remarked. “The Wilting Empress – Goddess of all things dying but not yet dead, appearing both to Men on their deathbeds and entire worlds on the eve of their Armageddon, merely to savour the spectacle of their demise. She offers no true salvation, but those desperate enough to escape Hell or Oblivion may enthrall themselves to her in a state of eternal dying. When she and her emissaries appear to a village in the embrace of a virulent plague, its populace must decide for themselves whether to risk crossing the Veil, joining the Wilting Court, or to persevere in the living world seemingly without hope or reason.”

    “Sounds pretentious,” Genevieve remarked. “I don’t know of any deities that go by the title of ‘The Wilting Empress’. Have you ever come across it in any of your grimoires?”

    “It’s not ringing any bells,” I shook my head, still looking over the playbill for anything that might be useful or interesting.

    “Samantha! Genevieve! Fancy running into the two of you here! Chamberlin’s doing, no doubt,” a familiarly jubilant voice rang out from behind us.

    “Professor Sterling?” I asked as our academic acquaintance took a seat in the row behind ours. “You were gifted with tickets to tonight’s performance as well, I take it?”

    “I’d hardly consider attending any of Seneca’s self-aggrandizing social functions a gift, but I can’t say no to the chance to observe this amazing piece of thaumaturgical architecture in action,” he said, looking up reverently at the Triskelion’s frescoed ceilings. “I assume that you’ve assumed this is no ordinary play?”

    “We have, which is why I’m glad we’ve got a member of the Order we can trust sitting with us,” I replied. “Did Emrys order Seneca to do this, directly or indirectly?”

    “I’m afraid I can’t say one way or the other. I’m not high ranking enough to be privy to the Order’s inner machinations,” he said. “However, Erich Thorne did give me a heads up that this play came to Seneca from Ivy, and Ivy got it from Emrys. Where he got it from, I can’t say, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it came from that Cthulhuly-looking Mathom-meister creature. I wish I could have gotten a look at the script but Seneca’s been adamant that no one get a sneak peek at tonight’s performance. We’re just going to have to stay vigilant for whatever he has in store. Please tell me that’s not wine you’re drinking.”

    “Well, it’s served hot, so some of the alcohol’s evaporated,” I said apologetically.

    He rolled his eyes before reaching into his pockets for a pair of the Order’s Omni-ocular Opticons that he swiftly pulled over his head.

    “If anyone asks, these are opera glasses. Prescription, if they get especially nosey,” he said. “Since we’re sitting next to each other, we can compare notes between your natural clairvoyance and what I see with these.”

    “Ah, sure, of course,” I agreed awkwardly as he began scanning his head back and forth while slowly turning the ouroboros-shaped dials on his goggles.

    “Hm-mmm. Definitely a good place for a séance but I’m not picking up any spectral entities yet,” he agreed. “Hold on, I think I got something. There’s a source of ectoplasmic condensates just to your left, with a Chthonic aura to boot! It’s a Damned spirit summoned from the Underworld by some kind of necromantic – wait, that’s just Elam, isn’t it?”

    “Mm-hmm,” I hummed, turning to my spirit familiar and giving him a warm smile. “Find anything?”

    “You were right about the Cuniculi. There’s a passage right beneath the stage, with a trapdoor leading straight into it,” he reported. “I tried shadowing Seneca for a bit, but he knew I was there and he didn’t let anything sensitive slip. The cast seemed a bit nervous about the play, but I didn’t get the impression that any of them were in on what Seneca was up to.”

    “What’s he saying?” Sterling asked. “These things don’t have audio and I can’t read lips.”

    “He says there’s an entrance to the Cuniculi beneath the stage,” I replied. “If it’s opened, then this whole theatre will become a psionic resonance chamber, like the one under Pendragon Hill.”

    “This place is already laid out like a spell circle, and every person in here will be a living node inside of it,” Genevieve said. “What if he’s planning on sacrificing all of us? Maybe we should just pull the fire alarm and evacuate the theatre.”

    “Call me naïve, but I don’t think even Seneca could get away with mass murder on that scale,” I replied. “We’re part of the spell circle, but I don’t think the audience is the sacrifice. We need to see what he’s up to, see this Wilting Empress for ourselves. I say we stay.”

    “Fine,” Geneieve relented, taking a sip of her mulled wine. “Elam, don’t go too far. We might need you if things get ugly.”

    “Don’t worry. Being dead’s still not enough to make me want to let my guard down within gunshot of Seneca Chamberlain,” Elam said, settling his stance as he prepared to stand guard over me. I held out my bag of caramel corn as a thank you, and he discretely took a few kernels.

    “Should he really be doing that here?” Sterling asked, raising his goggles to see what a ghost eating caramel corn looked like to the unaided eye.

    “It’s dark, and no one’s paying attention,” I assured him, offering him some of the corn as well.

    “Seneca’s here. The show must be about to start,” Genevieve announced.

    We all looked up and back at the Emperor’s Box and saw Seneca standing at the edge and waving to the audience. As promised, he waved at us in particular, and even shot a melodramatic finger wag at Elam for sneaking into the performance.

    “Is that Raubritter sitting up there with him?” Genevieve asked in disdain.

    “Looks like him. Who else is with him?” I asked as I strained to get the best view I could without drawing attention to myself.

    “The guy in the red glasses is Mothman, the guy who owns the auction house,” Elam said. “I don’t recognize the woman though.”

    I could see that the woman had long, midnight-blue hair and a matching dark stripe – either make-up or a tattoo – running across her eyes. Despite the dimness and distance between us, there was no mistaking the Sigil of Baphomet branded upon her forehead.

    “That’s Pandora Nostromo. The Nostromo family runs a Chapter House somewhere in the Alps, so she doesn’t come by Sombermorey too often,” Sterling said. “Good thing, too. She’s one of the Order’s most powerful Baphometic Witches.”

    “I already told you; Baphometic Cultists are not Witches,” Genevieve hissed at him.

    “Not the time, Evie,” I whispered. “Whatever you call her, her presence here tonight is concerning. I doubt she came just to catch a premiere.”

    Before any of us could say anything else, the curtains on the stage were pulled and the play began.

    As we had inferred from the playbill, the play was quite dark. The opening scene had them tossing bodies into a mass grave. Some of the characters turned to God in their desperation, others to science, but many were angry at both for failing to deliver them from their plight. There wasn’t much action in the first act, just people suffering and philosophizing about it, with most of them succumbing to despair and hopelessness. It wasn’t until the end of the first act that we had the first mention of The Wilting Empress.

    A teenage boy named Osmond, desperate to save his mother from the plague, starts having visions about the Empress. Most of the other characters dismissed him as delusional, if not mad from the plague himself, but he develops a growing Messiah complex as he prepares to summon the Empress, planning to save not only his mother but the whole town.

    The third act opened with Osmond digging up the mass grave under a bloodred full moon. He was rambling in a perfect blend of mad hysteria and theatrical monologue, communicating with the audience while maintaining the fourth wall. The scene reminded me of when I had found Elam digging up the grave in my cemetery, and I suddenly got a very uneasy feeling in my stomach.

    I watched with mounting dread as Osmond hauled up a corpse from the mass grave. As he tore away its wrappings, the audience was horrified at the reveal of a disturbingly realistic body. I brought my hand to my mouth to stifle a gasp, not because of the dead body, but because this was not the first time I had seen that body.

    “Samantha? Samantha, what is it?” Genevieve whispered as she clutched my other hand.

    “That’s the immaculate corpse Sheather took from my cemetery two years ago,” I whispered back. “The one Artaxerxes substituted for himself in his deal with Persephone.”

    Sterling shot forward in his seat, finetuning the dials of his Opticons as he analyzed the body on stage.

    “Oh god. This is bad, this is really bad,” he muttered.

    The audience gasped as Osmond pulled out a consecrated athame and began carving a sigil into the corpse’s chest. Just as it had when I had prodded it with my athame, the body shot to life and reached out to strangle its defiler. Unlike me, however, the actor playing Osmond was prepared for this and wore some kind of protective collar that kept the corpse from crushing his windpipe. Osmond chanted foul-sounding incantations as his blade carved deeper into the undead corpse, and I could see dark forces starting to coalesce around him.

    I looked up behind me towards the Emperor’s Box and saw Pandora standing at the edge. The sigil on her forehead was glowing, and she was mouthing the same incantations that Osmond was. Seneca glanced down at me and smiled, seemingly unconcerned with this turn of events.

    “Should we stop this?” Genevieve asked.

    “It’s too late,” I gasped with a shake of my head.

    Just as I finished speaking, Osmond had finished the sigil on the corpse.

    The stygian blue blood gushing out of the lacerations formed a seal that looked vaguely goetic, though it was hard to say for certain from that distance. A torrent of dark energies came gushing out of the sigil, blowing Osmond aside and pinning the corpse to the floor. An aged and feminine voice began screaming so loudly the whole theatre began to vibrate and I clutched onto Genevieve as I feared either the roof or the balcony might collapse at any minute.

    Incorporeal beings of dark mist shot out of the sigil like cannon balls. While their front halves were gaunt and skeletal humanoids, long and frilled tails undulated behind them as though they were some sort of sinister, spectral mermaids. There were thirteen of them, I think, and they settled at a buoyant altitude and began slowly circulating around the theatre, one coming so close that I could have touched it.

    Pandora, I noted, did touch one, and it recoiled from her hand like a struck dog.

    Once the entire Wilting Court was in place, the Empress herself emerged. Like her court, she was skeletal and spectral, but in place of a visible tail, she was instead clad in a dress of enormous wilting flower petals, and she more an elaborate headdress made of the same material. She grew to an immense size, several times the height of a regular mortal. When she was fully emerged, her screaming came to an abrupt end as a deadly silence fell upon the theatre. No one said anything, most of them likely uncertain of what they were witnessing and if it was all just a part of the show.

    The Empress hunched over, her head darting from side to side as she appraised her situation. With a snarl, she looked up at Pandora and began to speak.

    “You dare summon me here?” she demanded hoarsely. “I am a cosmic vulture. I feast on dying worlds. Do you, small, sad little creature, so enamoured with your own suffering, truly believe that this is the end of your world? In your singular experience of an ephemeral mortal life, can you not tell the difference between dying and waning? Nature, Civilizations, and even the gods themselves wax and wane in accordance with their own cycles. Dread the winter if you must, hate the winter if you must, but do not call upon me because in the depths of your despair, you have convinced yourself that it is the only winter, or the worst winter, or the last winter, even if the spring is one which you will never see. This World and its people have many long and storied ages left before them. There is nothing here for me worth feeding upon, nothing for you to offer me! Release me now, and retreat back to your dark recesses until your own demise takes you, and take what solace you can, as inconceivable as it may seem, that the World will go on without you.”

    “Fascinating; apocalyptic deities have no patience for doomers,” Sterling remarked.

    Nothing about the Empress’s monologue seemed out of place for the play, aside from the fact that it was being addressed to a member of the audience. Pandora, for her part, did not seem moved by the Empress’s appeal.

    “Empress, I have not summoned you here to barter,” she said coldly. “I did not bring you here to forestall an apocalypse, but for the thousand bygone apocalypses you have gorged yourself upon already. Your ichor is potent, and I now serve those who would drain you of every last drop of it. Submit now, and spare yourself further humiliation.”

    The Wilting Empress wailed in outrage, and without warning her Court began swooping down and assaulting the audience. Panic immediately broke out, and people began storming towards the exits en mass.

    “She’s not strong enough to keep that thing her prisoner!” Genevieve declared. “We need to release the Empress before she destroys this whole building!”

    “If we can get to the corpse and desecrate the sigil, that should be enough!” I cried. “Elam, keep the Court off us the best you can! Sterling, distract Seneca and the others so they don’t interfere!”

    “On it!” he replied as he jumped from his seat and made a dash towards the Emperor’s Box.

    Geneive and I jumped up from our seats and began racing down the stairs, weaving our way through the crowd that was still trying to make their escape. Several members of the Wilting Court swooped down at us, but each time Elam was able to deflect them. Whatever they were made of, they did not like Chthonic energy.

    As we made our way to the stage, I glanced back up the Emperor’s Box to see what was happening. The Empress and Pandora were still locked in a battle of thaumaturgical wills, but I could see that Sterling had climbed up and was hanging on the railing. I couldn’t hear them, but it looked like he was deliberately trying to break her focus with his good-natured banter. Mothman was yelling at him, but Seneca was just shaking his head and laughing. Seneca’s eyes, incidentally, were the only eyes focused on Genevieve and I.

    As we arrived on the stage, the immaculate corpse was spasming about uncontrollably.

    “Hold it steady!” I shouted as I grabbed for the fallen athame. Genevieve got behind the corpse and held it down at the shoulders, but as I charged towards it, I felt an arm reach across my neck and grab me in a chokehold.

    “Samantha!” Genevieve shouted as she ran towards me, only to stop the instant I heard a gun cock next to my head.

    “Drop the athame!” a weary voice ordered, and I could see in the periphery of my vision that it was Osmond.

    I thought of doing what he said and kicking it to Genevieve, but I knew she’d be too concerned about me to desecrate the sigil herself, if she even could with it moving around the way it was.

    “We have to stop this!” I implored him. “Pandora can’t control that thing, or be trusted with it if she can!”

    “But the Zarathustrans can!” Osmond claimed. “The more spilled ichor we give them, the more ichor shall be spilt, until all of creation is awash in the blood of tyrant gods and reality is ours to remake in our own image. You heard her! She won’t help us unless we’re already dying! That’s not a god anyone needs! The Zarathustrans took their fate into their own hands aeons ago, and they can help us do the same.”

    “Get that fucking gun away from her head!” Geneive screeched, angry tears in her eyes as she took a step towards us.

    “Stay where you are!” Osmond shouted, pointing the gun towards her instead.

    The instant the gun was off me, Elam rushed Osmond from the side. He immediately began spasming and screaming as the cold and dreadful taint of Elam’s Chthonic form coursed through his flesh. As Genevieve went for the gun, I wasted no time jumping on the corpse, pinning it down just long enough to lash the sigil with the athame.

    As soon as the center sigil was desecrated, the spell circle was broken.

    With nothing holding her back now, the Wilted Empress unleashed a shockwave of telekinetic energy that sent Pandora flying backwards. She then dove back down, punching her way straight through the stage and into the Crypto Chthonic Cuniculi down below. Her entire court dove down after them, one after the other, but the very last one took a slight detour and possessed the immaculate corpse instead. We stared on in horror as the revenant moved in spasmodic but now purposeful movements, springing to life and jumping down into the pit below after the Empress.

    “Stop them! Stop them!” Pandora screamed as she ran towards the stage. She likely would have chased after them had Mothman not been there to hold her back.

    “Now now, Pandora, you know full well running off ill-prepared into the Cuniculi is suicide,” Seneca chastised her as approached the stage himself, pulling Sterling by the ear along with him. He threw him towards us and then snapped his fingers at a pair of his guards, who rushed to remove the semi-conscious body of Osmond.

    “Your leading actor just held Samantha at gunpoint!” Genvieve shouted as she angrily waved the gun around. Now that I could get a better look at it, I saw that it was an ornately engraved, antique flintlock pistol, the kind that Seneca himself was infamous for possessing. “This is one of your spellwork pistols, isn’t it Chamberlain?”

    “I swear I’ve never seen that gun before in my life,” he said with a smirk. “But feel free to keep it as compensation for your troubles. I’m just glad you two are alright.”

    “What the hell were they doing down here in the first place?” Pandora demanded. “If they’re the reason we lost the Empress –”

    “You were never going to be able to hold a spirit like that for long and you know it!” Genevieve shouted. “If we didn’t break the spell circle when we did that thing would have destroyed the whole theatre!”

    “Did you put them up to this, Seneca?” Mothman demanded.

    “I told both of you that I had multiple thaumaturgical experts in the audience in case the ritual went awry and they needed to intervene,” Seneca reminded them. “I knew you’d be far too proud to admit defeat if the Empress proved too much for you to handle, Pandora.”

    “Now we have nothing to offer to Mathom-meister!” Pandora hissed at him.

    “And we would have nothing to offer him if the Empress had killed us,” Seneca countered. “Perhaps next time he’ll make more reasonable requests of us, if asking for the ichor of a fallen Titan can ever be considered reasonable.”

    Pandora snarled at all of us before storming off, with Mothman following close behind.

    “Samantha, if you’d like to lay any charges on that actor I’d be happy to –” Seneca began.

    “No. You roped him into this the same as us,” I said with a disgusted shake of my head. “Tell me, though; who was that gun intended for?”

    “Not for you, of course. An ordinary gun would have been sufficient if that had been the case,” he insisted. “No, it was simply better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it. I am truly sorry that you were ever at the receiving end of it, my dear. You’re the last person I would ever wish any harm upon.”

    “Because I’m so useful to you?” I asked flatly.

    “Useful and insightful,” he quipped back.

    “Seneca!” Raubritter called from up in the Emperor’s Box. “We need to be reporting this, yes? We should be leaving.”

    “Of course. Ladies, Professor, and the late Mr. Crow, thank you so much for attending this evening. I can’t wait to see you all again,” he said as he made his way out of the theatre.

    “Seneca, wait! Where the hell did you get your hands on that corpse!” I demanded, but he was already out the door.

    “Should we go after it?” Genevieve asked.

    “No, Seneca was right. Going down into the Cuniculi unprepared is suicide, and we’d never be able to track them anyway,” Sterling replied as he knelt over the hole in the stage and adjusted his goggles.

    “Even if we could, we’d have no way of subduing it now that it’s possessed by whatever those things are,” Elam added. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”

    “I guess you’re right,” I sighed reluctantly, leaning over Sterling to wistfully stare down into the Cuniculi below. “And considering how connected it is to Artaxerxes, I doubt Seneca is just going to let it go that easily either.”

    0 Comments
    2024/03/17
    19:36 UTC

    2

    To See the Sound (Part 1)

    The boys rushed out of the lecture halls as the Bells tolls clanged through the halls. A sign that the morning classes had ended and second Mass would begin.

    “Hey Leto, look, let’s skip Mass.” Dante brings up as they round a corner in the massive university they hail from.

    “What do you mean? We can’t skip. Well, you can’t. You’ve already dodged two and you know what’ll happen on the third.”

    To which he steps firmly in front of Leto and with his right hand grabs an invisible waistcoat, with his left holds an imaginary pipe.

    “And to the Scholars we gather and give thanks. Each day remembering their honor, each night their sacrifice.”

    Leto couldn’t help but laugh at the near perfect impression of Chief Headmaster Gaols opening statement for each service. A laugh quickly followed by a hand on his shoulder. Holding with strength that no man should possess.

    “Exactly right lads, and I do expect to see you in your pews as the Bell sings?”

    Both looking down at their feet they solemnly reply in union.

    “Of course sir, by the Scholars grace sir.”

    “By the Scholars grace indeed. On your way now.”

    Peering back around the corner the came from to watch the Chief Headmaster on his way they find he’s nowhere in sight, seeming to have vanished into an eyeless void.

    The boys make their way upwards past the classrooms, by the lecture halls and into the open garden that rests soundly in the center of the campus. A clock tower in the east mirrors them as they approach the circle of benches near underneath the Blackthorn tree.

    “10:10, so we still have ten minutes until we “Are expected to be in our pews.”” Leto mocks not quite as closely to perfection.

    “Three tens my friend. If there’s never been a better sign. Come on Lele, we have plenty of time to get up there and back to Mass before old Gaol could even sing the first hymn.” Dante nudges as he says this, but eyes the clock tower the whole way through.

    “Well, I have been eager to see what the Bell really looks like up there.”

    “Right right but it’s who’s ringing it that holds the real mystery!”

    “Hm, fine let’s go. Only if you promise to never call me Lele again.” Glaring knives with dull points as he gives in. Dante chuckles slyly, happy he got the reaction he was looking for.

    “I promise, now let’s get.”

    They stand and grab a couple fruits each off the branches of the low hanging tree, making their way towards the eastern point of the yard. Then working lightly ‘round the side of the looming brick, stone and cast figure they slip through the back entrance. Using the key they pawned from the chamber butler in their dorm.

    “Remind me to give him some extra desserts after next supper Leto. He’s earned them.”

    Leto nods once to Dante then a second time towards the narrow winding staircase. They step to the middle and gaze upwards, eyes circling the path until they find they can’t find an apparent end to it. Dante stumbles and Leto barely manages to grab his sides to catch him before he falls.

    “Sorry, I’m okay, I-I felt like I was falling upwards towards it for a moment. Let’s go, let’s end the rumors right here.”

    Steps echo through the vertical corridor as the work they’re way up and up and up. Staying close to the walls as the railing had stopped only a few spirals ascended.

    “Hey Dante, how long have we been climbing? It feels like longer than 10 minutes.” Leto’s voice manages out. He’d been feeling faint after the railing ended and showed no signs of returning. “I’m not sure, but long enough that I’m not turning back yet.” Dante’s hand shoots out and holds the wall to his right, also feeling not too well in this endeavor.

    As he does a clanging, chiming tone torrents them from below. Shaking the walls and causing his hand to jump back.

    “From.. below? Dante! That came from underneath us! Not above! W-what’s going on here?!” Leto cries with a new sense of urgency as his head is pounding at each mighty boom of the Bell. As his vision began to distort and circle round as the staircase they stood on he begins to lean and lose his balance left towards the kreening call of the intrusive symphony below. He finds nothing to catch his falter, as the last thing he manages to make out before plummeting further into the sea of sound and spirals, is Dante’s limb body gripped monstrously by a long oily limb. It writhed down from above… below? Leto couldn’t tell at this point. He went weightless and unconscious downwards towards the Bell. Or as he know realized Bells.

    0 Comments
    2024/03/15
    20:38 UTC

    3

    My life is 'Normal' [Part one]

    ITS REAL!? All of the shit on this website is real!?

    That was my reaction all those years ago when I was thrust headfirst into this world of boogey men and cryptids. Now though starring at the bleeding corpse of this ‘dog thing’ I'm only mildly surprised they usually don't get this close to the property. Anyway, the only other emotion I'm feeling right now is disgust, there's a bit of blood on my left boot. Which SUCKS cause I just finished cleaned the gore from the other day only recently. Sticking my foot into dirt I try my best to clean it off. Once done i headed back to my pickup, it's an old Isuzu i got for dirt cheap. Usually when i drive him most of his engine lights turn on and he leaks oil from point A to point B but apart from that he’s alright. Also, the cars a he, there's a reason why i got him for dirt cheap. See the thing is he’s haunted, but not in the convectional way. See there's a spirit of what I assume to be either a golden retriever or a malicious entity that came to like me for whatever reason. Also, his name is Buster, how I came by this truck is a story in itself. Which i may or may not post here so talk to me nicely alright.

    That was my reaction all those years ago when I was thrust headfirst into this world of boogey men and cryptids. Now though staring at the bleeding corpse of this ‘dog thing’ I'm only mildly surprised they usually don't get this close to the property. Anyway, the only other emotion I'm feeling right now is disgust, there's a bit of blood on my left boot. Which SUCKS cause I just finished cleaned the gore from the other day only recently. Sticking my foot into dirt I try my best to clean it off. Once done i headed back to my pickup, it's an old Isuzu i got for dirt cheap. Usually when i drive him most of his engine lights turn on and he leaks oil from point A to point B but apart from that he’s alright. Also, the cars a he, there's a reason why i got him for dirt cheap. See the thing is he’s haunted, but not in the convectional way. See there's a spirit of what I assume to be either a golden retriever or a malicious entity that came to like me for whatever reason. Also, his name is Buster, how I came by this truck is a story in itself. Which i may or may not post here so talk to me nicely alright.

    Instead of finding the corpse of a canine with ridiculously bright blue eyes and a bad case of the mange i find nothing. Stopping just where the corpse should be disturbed earth and a trail a dark blood heading off into the undergrowth. So, i have two options i could just leave it as it is and write a report or i could go get it... damn. Sighing I hold up old reliable and head deeper into the forest. I can already feel my head pound as i imagine the lecture I'd receive from the big guy. Buster lets a small mechanical whine and hold up my hand telling him to stay I need to be done with this. 

    Following the obvious trail of blood and dirt it doesn't take long for me to find the culprit. See the corpse didn’t magically get up and run away i made sure it was dead when i was you know killing it. No see it was stolen by another creepy crawly. A pale and hairless person had their back turned to me gorging itself on my kill. Sneaky bastard, I hadn't had heard him approach. Their skin was pale and completely devoid of any hair, this was one of the skinnier ones and it was alone. Good so this would be easy. They were as dumb as rocks with the only thing being mildly threating about them was their incredible bite force and arms ending in spikes, Luckly there was only one of them.

    Moving as quietly as I could I got closer to the thing. Making sure not to disturb the under growth or snapping any twigs. Though I doubted I needed to be so careful, the thing was a messy eater, and nothing could be heard over the squelching and tearing noises it made as it ate.  Once I was quite literally on top of the thing, I turned old reliable so the thin part was facing the creature and raised it above my head. Making sure I was aiming for the things neck I swung down hard. My aim was true, and the shovel whistled as it cut through the air. Sadly, though I didn't put enough ‘oomph’ into the swing. So instead of cleaning severing the head from the body, the shovel only imbedded itself in the things neck. It let out a terrible screech that cut through the afternoon air. It tried to jump away from me, catching me off-guard but my grip was strong and I was able to hold on to old reliable, the only problem was I lost my footing as the shovel was yanked forward and I wound up falling face first it to the gore of what was left of the fleshgaits meal. Great. Letting a disgusted groaned I slowly stood up trying my best not to heave as I did.

    The fleshgait had only managed to take two more steps before it succumbed to its wounds, and by wounds i mean the shovel sticking out of its neck. It twitched four or five times before succumbing to its wounds. Wiping the mess from my neck and face and I got to freeing my shovel from the creature's corpse. At least I got paid extra for two bodies instead of one this week. The thing had died on its stomach with its arm dug into the dirt. Placing my foot on its head i tried to yank old reliable from its neck. It took three tries before I was able to the shovel from its neck. It was in their deep. 

    Stretching I shaded my eyes against the setting sun its orange glow cut through the overgrowth sending rays across the forest floor. Leaves slowly fell from the trees carrying with it the smell of red maple and blood. Birds chirped and called out to each other from above and a brook bubbled nearby. This view was spectacular and would've have been perfect, if not for the smell of rotting flesh...wait rotting flesh? Ah fuck me. A chorus of yips and animalistic calls sounded from deeper in the forest. Scanning the trees wildly my eyes landed on a group of humanoid shapes making a beeline for me. There were four fleshgaits, six counting the ones coming from my left.  With my training, a weapon and a little courage, I could take them out with little difficulty. Getting into position and gripping old reliable I readied myself. When the first fleshgait broke through the nearby tree line I sprang into action like a marathon runner i bolted...in the opposite direction the freaks had come from.  I wasn't a hero, and they weren't paying me enough for this bs. 

    My feet carried me with the momentum only a person running for dearlife could. I broke branches and crushed leaves as a mad dash to buster. It only took me a minute to reach him. Chucking Old reliable into his bed I rushed to the driver's side and yanked his door open as quickly as I could. Buster let out a surprised rev as I shut the door behind me and franticly fought to buckle my seat belt. Three of the fleshgaits followed me and I watched as they approached buster with caution. I could feel them try to get into my head already names of people I had never met begun swimming through my head as well memories of them. Mary a friend I came to hike with run from two of the fleshgaits chasing her. Fear shot through me as I realised, I was close to leaving a friend behind.

    O god those things were gaining on Mary. I reached for the door handle ready to throw it open and let her in. Buster jumped into action kicking up dirt as he drove us away. As Buster drove down the dirt path my mind begun to clear, the fake memories slowly faded they hadn't had enough time to take root. The fear at loosing Mary had been crippling but now it slowly faded and my pulse slowed. There was no Mary. As though to sooth me Buster turned on the radio but the only thing he was able to catch was static. Closing my eyes and leaning back I relaxed letting Buster take us home. 

    I suppose now would be a good time as any to introduce myself the names Ryker, badass cryptid hunter and babe magnet. Okay no, but seriously, names Josh and I've been leaving in this part of the woods for about two years now. See my life was pretty much normal for the first fifteen years until something happened and it wasn't. I was left in under foster care and drifted between homes for a while and by some sheer bad luck picked up by the agency. So, for most of my younger years i was trained by them. I'm not at “liberty” to say what that training was or what the agency was so don't ask. For the first few years I did pretty well until I didn't. I could come up with a hundred excuses to why I failed, reoccurring nightmares, shitty sleep schedule my instructor was a prick etcetera you get the idea . Anyway, they got tired of me pretty quick. After a while they sent me of to my first real mission which was secure an ‘active’ area. As you've already guessed it this was the place. 

    For the first year it was chill I barely had to do anything I would usually avoid all the spooky stuff until my handler put a stop to my goofing off. Now if I don't deal with a certain number of cryptids a week then I won't be able to feed myself. Hence the fact I was burying a mangey dog earlier, see the thing is I found a work around. Instead of carrying the corpse of whatever small-time cryptid I caught that week all I had to do was grab a piece of it as evidence and burry the rest. Now for the big question why I am telling you this, well why not I'm in the middle of nowhere with albeit a bit slow and i want to share some stories with you to pass the time. Anyway, that's enough about me I'll tell you the rest later. Leave any questions you’d like in the comments and I might answer a few of them. Anyway, see you’s next time, I guess. Josh out.

    0 Comments
    2024/03/14
    19:05 UTC

    5

    Shrine of Whispering Relics

    Ethan trudged home, his steps heavy with the weight of another failed interview. This latest rejection marked his twentieth attempt. “Another milestone, I guess”, he muttered bitterly to himself. These were the numbers only for the interviews. He could not bear to even think on the staggering number of applications he had submitted, knowing it was nearing the four-digit mark. His mind drifted back to the interview, where the panel of suits had showered him with praise before dealing the killing blow: the position had already been filled internally. They finished off with hollow words of encouragement, assuring him that success was just around the corner as long as he kept pushing, but his thoughts had already switched to plans of not being sober tonight.

    The sun shining on his face brought him no joy as he walked down the silent neighborhood street, gazing at houses completely out of his reach. He worked hard all his life, and was always told how those who worked hard got the rewards. They failed to mention the timeline of rewards though, and that often the only reward for hard work was more hard work.

    He didn’t know which neighborhood he was in, but he avoided checking his phone. Today, he longed for wandering and getting lost, hoping that the longer he stayed out, the less harshly reality would hit the moment he returned home. It might also prevent him from using the stash he had stored for moments like these. Even though he craved escape, the future he envisioned for himself required him to face challenges head-on, no matter how painful. Also, he wanted to make sure he was in his right mind in case the girl he liked replied to the text message he had sent a few days ago.

    The houses in this area were nice, many of them modern-looking and glass-heavy, which made him curious about a spot nestled between two of these houses. The spot was completely overgrown, with looming trees casting heavy shadows between the houses, creating a corridor of darkness. It seemed to lead to a park, and since he enjoyed getting lost in thought while walking in parks, he thought it might be a worthwhile detour.

    It didn’t lead to any park, but it led to some sort of stone monument. If he were in Japan, it would have definitely been a shrine, but he knew that kind of stuff wasn’t popular here. He realized how quiet it was, like a blanket had been placed over the area, muting the sounds of cars, construction, and even birds. If he paid attention, he wouldn’t even hear the sounds of insects. He thought the rock that the monument stood on was a perfect place to sit for a while and contemplate his next moves. He noticed there were strange-looking figurines along the way. The monument stood about half his height, and it didn’t resemble a gravestone, or at least he didn’t think it did. An inscription, covered in dust, adorned its surface. The words he managed to make out seemed like Latin or something similarly obscure. He speculated it might be the resting place of someone rich, which motivated him to linger longer, hoping to absorb some of that old money energy. Although, he did try his best to not disturb the place. He didn’t want to leave evidence of his presence. That’s the sensation you feel when you enter a place seemingly untouched by humans for a long time; it feels somehow spiritual. He went and sat on the stone, and the stress leading up to the failed interview caught up with him, sending him into a nap on the cold rock, his back leaning against the monument.

    When he woke up, he was surprised to feel how refreshed he was. He must not have realized how much of the stress had built up in him, as that seemed to be his normal operating mode these days. Just when he was about to get up and continue his way home, he noticed that leaning his back against the monument must have cleared away the dust. He also must’ve been way more tired than he thought because he realized the inscription was actually in English.

    The inscription read:

    Beneath this silent stone, a slumbering deity lies,

    With ancient whispers and unseen eyes.

    Turn back now, lest your soul be lost,

    To the void where sanity is the cost.

    Only an idiot would not heed something this ominous, but he noticed there was more, although he almost missed it because the rest was still covered in a thick layer of dust. Wiping it away, he could read the rest, although he had to tilt his head to read it since it was slightly crooked, and it broke the uniformity of the rest of the inscription, making it seem like it wasn’t originally part of the rest of it. Whoever messed this one up probably got executed, thinking it came from that time period when people faced execution for mishaps like this. He chuckled to himself before reading the last bit.

    Yet to the brave who dare to kneel and pray,

    Conduct the ritual, desires shall obey.

    Of course I’m brave, he thought. He was a part of a generation with no wars, only self-created issues, so his bravery was measured by the number of failed job applications he could stomach. He thought perhaps it was time to use unconventional methods since whatever he was doing clearly wasn’t working. He laughed aloud, fell to his knees, and mockingly exclaimed his worship. “Please give me a job, any job. I swear I’m not picky! Also, I hope you can make Cathy see how great a guy I am, since I will never give up no matter how many rejections I get! Twenty interviews today, over seven hundred applications, I think, and the numbers will keep getting bigger, baby! Also, please make the numbers in my bank account grow bigger too. I hope you used to be one of these house owners, so you can give me some of your luck!” He remained kneeling for a while, running out of things to say, the embarrassment building up quickly, prompting him to hurry back into the street before anyone he thought might have heard him could see him. He didn’t care at first, but now his reputation was at stake, and he decided to just hurry home. He touched the slight bulge in his pant pocket, smiling just a little at his courageous act of swiping one of those weird figurines he found hiding in the overgrown grass. He would just mix it in with the rest of his toy display collection, something he still had not grown out of. This act of courageousness gave him a rush he hadn’t felt in years, making him feel like a rebel. He actually felt confident and kept this feeling all the way home.

    And he still had that feeling when he woke up. Good things started happening after that day. He chalked it up to his newfound confidence and felt, for the first time, that he could actually be in control of the direction of his life. He looked proudly at the figurine he snatched. What was he initially so afraid of? He was in a generation devoid of true peril, where fear was superficially manufactured, like his fear of disturbing a sacred place.

    People he met seemed to treat him better. Probably because of the way I walk and the way I dress. See what putting a little effort into my hair and clothes does?

    Women were smiling at him, even men, though he ignored those. It was probably because he was no longer only looking down, but now he was also looking up. People who know where they’re going look up, and I’m one to know where I’m going. At first, he thought he was only faking the confidence, but now… People seemed to listen to him intently; he didn’t have to keep repeating himself like before. He felt more commanding. Even when he went to restaurants, it seemed like they actively wanted to give freebies. Is this how confident people live?

    He had been to this restaurant down the street from where he lived so many times, but this was the first time the owner seemed to engage with him. The owner wanted him to try a new dish he was planning to put on the menu next week. He explained that he wanted to give Ethan a sneak peak as a token of appreciation for being such a dedicated patron. Ethan hadn’t even realized the owner noticed him coming in so often, as he barely looked up at him most of the time. The owner smiled as he waited for Ethan to try it. It was delicious. “Is this chicken?” he asked, but the owner had to rush back to the kitchen.

    He didn’t even realize he stopped waiting for Cathy’s reply, and he was surprised when she called instead of sending a message. A call these days met something serious, and he had no idea how he had managed to skip all the usual preliminary moves to get to this point. They had already set a date for this week. When things start working out, they really start working out! All those sayings he read in self-improvement books were actually coming true.

    Even his neighbors in his apartment treated him better. That unspoken rule of not talking to others in the elevator didn’t seem to apply to him anymore, and his rides to the 20th floor were actually quite pleasant as residents seemed delighted to share their day with him. Even when one resident mentioned a missing person in the area, it didn’t hinder this pleasantness. On one occasion, a neighbor stopped by to chat and was ecstatic to share that she had finished renovating her place. She mentioned using a color that all the cool celebrities use these days and had extra paint left. “It would be a shame to waste”, she said, so she offered to paint a room for him. Even though he didn’t think he needed to spice up his place, the great feeling he got when people offered to do things for him made him agree. “I only have enough paint for one room. How about your bedroom? I’ll even spruce up your decoration, free of charge. I’m an interior designer you know!” she laughed, and he laughed along because he knew she was a telemarketer. She assured him it would only take a few hours, so he decided to go to the gym.

    He flexed his muscles and ran his fingers through his slicked back hair in front of the gym mirrors. He noticed people staring, and he liked it. The fruits of his dedicated labor at the gym could finally be tasted.

    When he returned to his place, his neighbor was waiting outside his door with a big smile on her face, eager for him to see the changes she had made.

    He entered his bedroom and immediately found the color peculiar, like a shade he recognized but couldn’t quite name. It was also darker than he preferred, but seeing her so pleased, he put on a show of happiness. Noticing the figurine he had taken was on his bed, he returned it to the shelf with his other toys. She watched him, likely realizing she had forgotten to place it. Before leaving, she handed him a tinfoil-wrapped plate. “Since I had some spare time, I prepared a specialty from my hometown. I had some extra, so here you go!”, she happily exclaimed. He remembered she told him she was from the same area as him, which was here, but he didn’t recall any specialty like this. He tasted it and it reminded him of the dish from the restaurant. Too lazy to go over to ask what type of meat it was, he made a mental note to ask her next time they met.

    The day he had eagerly awaited arrived: his date with Cathy. He arrived early at their meeting spot, a cozy local coffee shop, and sent her a message to let her know he was there. She replied with “?”, and before he could respond, someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Cathy. They had a splendid date, eventually finding themselves at a bar. Everything seemed to flow effortlessly, leading him to believe that such a smooth date was a sign of destiny. He ended up drinking more than usual as he was enjoying himself, and he couldn’t quite remember how he made it back to his place, but he didn’t care since Cathy was with him. It was the most blissful night of his life.

    Cathy was sound asleep beside him, her back facing him. He reached out to touch her shoulder, just to reassure himself that he wasn’t dreaming, and couldn’t help but smile to himself. He was too excited to fall asleep. A ping rang out on his phone, signaling a new email. He blindly reached for it somewhere around his pillow, but instead, his hand brushed against the figurine. He didn’t remember putting it here, so he got up and returned it to its place on display next to his other toys. He found his phone, and glancing at his email, he was surprised to see a message from the company he had recently interviewed with. They must be working around the clock, he thought, noting the time was past midnight. He could hardly believe his eyes when he read the email. It turned out that the person they had hired had ended up turning down their offer, and now they wanted to extend the offer to him. Overwhelmed with joy, he fell to his knees and shouted. Thank you thank you thank you. He tried to wake Cathy up, but she was sleeping like a rock. He stayed on his knees, letting tears stream down his face, before finally getting up and standing silently before the figurine.

    The next day, Cathy brought something up that had been on his mind as well.

    “Ethan, I want to be with you forever.”

    “Me too, Cathy.” he replied, unable to contain his smile.

    They stood on the rooftop of his apartment building, under an overcast sky. It was one of those days where the sun was briefly obscured behind the clouds, its rays fighting desperately to penetrate the grey cover, casting only a fraction of the light they were meant to.

    “Here, take this!” she exclaimed excitedly, handing him something with which he was already deeply familiar with. He happily took it, running his fingers over the strange, protruding shapes, marveling at how beautiful it felt. “I want you to have a piece of me wherever you go, even if it’s far, far away.” He nodded, understanding completely.

    She hugged him tight. “Make sure you hold on to it tightly the whole way down. Come. Let’s go together.”

    They held hands and walked to the ledge. He looked up to the grey sky and muttered strange words that he himself had never heard before.

    Then he jumped, smiling as he pressed the figurine tightly against his heart.


    Tracy walked with her head held low, barely looking at where she was going. She knew she wanted to get out of the terrible relationship she was in but was procrastinating the inevitable. A constant feeling of dread consumed her, as if time was running out, compounded by pressure from her family to get married and have kids. On her way back home from another stressful day at a job she hated, she decided to take a route she didn’t usually take, just to wander for a bit and calm down before dealing with her crappy roommates. It was a hot, sunny day. She noticed a spot of shade between two very tall apartment buildings. Remembering hearing about someone jumping off a building somewhere around here recently, she couldn’t shake the feeling that such incidents were happening more frequently these days, perhaps due to the economy, she thought. She had forgotten to put on sunscreen, so she decided to walk towards the area that she thought looked out of place, where a few looming trees created some much-needed shade.

    She entered the darkness under the trees and noticed some strange figurines in the overgrown grass, leading up to a stone monument.

    1 Comment
    2024/03/13
    21:52 UTC

    7

    Geiger's Escape (Part III - Final)

    I - II - III


    On the surface, the sand had gathered a collection of spider-shape etchings.

    Geiger was rolling over back and forth, feeling the grains scratch his underbelly, then caress the scars of his spine.

    How mentally tiresome.

    He lay there for a time, exhausted by that dome-bred worm and his own improvised con. Will she fall for it? He did not know.

    For the moment, he lay unmoving, as if that needle had indeed pierced his head. Gloved Hands was not around, but if he were, he might think him dead.

    Geiger went over the scenario. Leda would have no choice but to cooperate; it was the only way to escape. He had spent ages contemplating all possible methods, they would have to stack in height. She’ll go beneath, I will go up top. Then I’ll pull her up . . . if she has behaved herself.

    He let his limbs curl upward, as if he were truly dead.

    How sad to hear Leda would sooner escape for some magical utopia over the true wild. He was familiar with the Eternal; it came with all the other drivel that the dome spat out. It was no surprise that trapped dome bugs with busy brains would contrive such esoteric nonsense. That accursed dome was unnatural.

    But, he thought, feeling the pain in his abdomen, and now his forehead, perhaps I should have settled for being happy there. As fake as it was, at least I could see the true sun beyond its translucent roof. As well as the stars. And it was certainly far larger than this pathetic bowl.

    Abruptly, he stood up, sand rolling off his sides. No. I mustn’t think like that.

    He recalled his real burrow, beside a great river in a boundless forest. Where the water would roar, sprinkling him with tiny grains that would roll off his back. Like the sand, but liquid. Soothing. Even a fierce torrent of water could possess a quaint softness. It was a lifetime ago that the true wild embraced him, not this stagnant stillness.

    I will return, Geiger vowed. I must.

    He let himself remember the chirp of birds, and the fear they brought. The thrum of wings, and the anticipation before a hunted meal. The occasional crash of pebbles, the whip of wind, and the thud of sudden footsteps.

    Footsteps?

    The sand around him vibrated. The mammalian beast was returning. Geiger scented and found the characteristic reek of tobacco-infused sweat. He watched for the shadow to form above.

    Unlike the dome bugs, Geiger knew Gloved Hands, or the Nephalim, as they called him, was nothing extraordinary. He was an animal: like a rat, a frog, or himself. There was nothing special, physically, about him. It was only his bizarre behavior he could not understand. All of his perverse meddling.

    What is the purpose of all these arbitrary experiments? Is he trying to offload their own mental anguish onto those who crawl beneath?

    Geiger looked to the top of the bowl and watched the glint of the silver scalpel; another obsession he didn’t understand. Metal. There were few materials Geiger loathed more than this impervious mutation of rock. Perhaps the only one worse was glass.

    The fingers lowered a stabbed mealworm and pried it off the scalpel’s end.

    Two meals in one day?

    A rare event. Perhaps Gloved Hands thought Geiger deserved an easy meal after defeating the “special” caterpillar. The mealworm writhed; it had landed upside down and was unable to right itself to its measly front legs.

    “Hey. You. Can you understand me?” the spider asked.

    The response was a meaningless squeal.

    Whenever Geiger witnessed a primitive, he felt jealous at first. Jealous that his life had lost the purity that the mealworm contained.

    To be primitive was to live in pure instinct: no cloudiness or second guesses. Every day was a test of resilience and reflexes, competing among the best of the best. The true wild wasn’t easy, but Geiger loved it for that.

    How very badly I want to go back.

    Then he became appreciative of memories. The ability to recall past events in detail was undoubtedly heightened by the black rain, and for that, Geiger was thankful. Back in the wild, everyone existed in a state of now. You could never think back to a then and appreciate or learn from it.

    Which was a shame because most of Geiger’s thens were his favorite moments. Like when he hibernated, warm in his hovel, the river roaring outside. Or when he slew a scorpion and bit off the tail it had planned to kill him with.

    Maybe everyone in the wild should be exposed to just a tiny bit of black rain, so they can at least appreciate past glories. Just not too much. Was such a balance possible? Geiger could never settle on an answer. He did not know if there was one. He suspected it was much like being inside or outside the glass, one could not inhabit both.

    Eventually the mealworm righted itself, wriggling in its usual appetizing fashion.

    Geiger shot his legs up, ready to pounce. But at the last moment, he changed his approach. Instead, he hopped over to the cactus and broke off a needle, just as Leda had done. He gripped it with his pedipalps and thrust it precisely into the mealworm’s head, mercifully ending its life.

    He looked up at the fingers above, which had separated stiffly, frozen in midair.

    What did you think of that, Gloved Hands?


    Dr. Devlin Diggs reclined at his desk, flicking the cap of his favorite lighter. The satisfying scrape of metal on metal was half the reason he still enjoyed his lifelong habit. He flicked the flint wheel, summoned the ember, and lit his herbal cigarette.

    He had been smoking more frequently ever since the funding for the EntoDome had been suspended. They were in a negotiation period when he was not allowed back in. Not allowed inside the very structure he’d helped to plan and create. Such were the politics of environmental science.

    But this was nothing new; there were plenty of periods in Devlin’s life where funding was put on hold or a project was cancelled. A modern scientist knew not to despair, but rather to use the time to tend eggs in other baskets.

    Devlin had several other projects. Among them were a mosquito-sterilizing experiment (which had gone poorly), a Morse code training of fireflies (still in development), and his little pet project with the wolf spider (his favorite).

    He had been interested in the devious arachnid ever since he’d uncovered its rampage at the EntoDome. The nightly spray of Nootropic affected all the arthropods differently, but the spider had been going on sprees, killing every insect it crossed without eating the remains. Once caught, Devlin was excited to study it closely, but privately; he didn’t want anyone thinking he’d become carried away with his little “coliseum bowl.”

    Collecting other “competitors,” Devlin had arranged a series of matches for the spider to face, testing its . . . evolutionary fitness.

    First, there was a fierce bark scorpion (defeated by losing its tail). Then an adept soldier beetle (who was deftly decapitated). Then many others, including a clever moth larva (who Devlin had nicknamed Zorro); but the caterpillar, too, had been defeated with surprising ease. Interestingly enough, the spider even borrowed its needle-fencing technique.

    Now, several weeks since, Devlin had stopped his little indulgence. The spider had proven its talent quite thoroughly, and he did not want to risk its health further; Devlin had plans for breeding the spider. Its value was obvious: an all-purpose exterminator would be very useful against pest invasions. For instance, with a few adjustments, legions of such a wolf spider could eliminate zones of pine beetle epidemics. All worth considering.

    At his desk, Devlin reviewed the species order on his computer: he was getting variants of Lycosa dacica, a female wolf spider from a lab in Romania. All he needed was one healthy mating, and he’d acquire hundreds of useful spiderlings for further manipulation.

    Satisfied with the order, Devlin hit Send and butted his cigarette on the desk’s edge. An assassin wolf spider could be the next big biocontrol his company would be known for. It could mean more money, more trust, and that they’d finally give back his keys to the EntoDome.

    Devlin was about to light up again when there came a strange flitting sound. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flutter of movement. Something peculiar at the edge of the coliseum bowl—which, for the last few weeks, had been more decor than experiment.

    He stood up, pushed up his glasses, then froze, astonished.


    Geiger pounced to a desperate height. He managed to catch Leda by her hind legs, which threw them both against the curve of the glass bowl. They tumbled back down to the sand, limbs intermingling.

    “Leda, how could you!” Geiger kept his hold on the little moth, careful not to tarnish her wings; he needed them to be whole. “I fed you, hid you, guarded you while you slept!”

    The plan had imploded. When Geiger had returned to his burrow after Gloved Hands had left, he discovered that Leda had cocooned into a chrysalis. All his escape efforts became redundant. Despite his artful con, she had come up with her own strategy: flying.

    “My trial is to escape.” Leda smacked Geiger’s head. “It has nothing to do with helping you!”

    The spider recoiled, but his claw grip was strong, adding pressure to her thin neck. I could snap it so easily.

    “I cannot lift you,” Leda choked out. “I do not have the strength. You are dooming us both.”

    Geiger could feel his insides reel. He couldn’t believe it. Damned if he did. Damned if he didn’t. All this effort, just to watch an impudent moth fly away; her lifespan was mere days. A void of despair began to swallow him, briefly diverting his strength.

    Leda twirled, loosening his clasp. Geiger let go, afraid of damaging her wings. With two swoops she lifted skyward, her magnificent new antennae whipping across her sleek, new body.

    Geiger crumbled. What am I to do? Pull her down again? She could not lift him, nor was she robust enough to stack beneath him anymore. She had chosen wings as her escape, and Geiger had lost his chance.

    “I have passed my final trial, wolf spider. I will see you in the Eternal.”

    Triumphantly, she rose past the glass, just as Geiger had envisioned himself doing countless times before. Her profoundly large eyes glanced back.

    A look of sympathy? He could not tell.

    A whimper began to form. Geiger had never cried, but he had no energy left to repel whatever this emotion was. His mandibles sputtered erratically, and his myopic vision blurred further.

    The winged shadow began to lift, fluttering with grace. He wanted to bury his head in the sand, to become a part of it. To dissolve into tiny granules and disperse.

    Lost. All hope gone.

    Then the sand began to shake. He turned, alert to the minute vibrations of sprinting thuds. Gloved Hands came unusually fast.

    In stagnated awe, Geiger watched the shadows move quickly, attempting to scoop Leda. Panicked as they were, the fingers could not clasp her undaunted glides. She soared around them, mocking them.

    Despite everything, Geiger hoped she could escape. It was either her freedom or no one’s. He would rather there be an escapee.

    Something shimmered, and the hands summoned a metal rod. At its end was a net. With whip-like momentum, this instrument was able to reach at an insect at speeds unseen.

    Get out of reach, Geiger thought. Go up.

    Leda was a new moth, and yet she would have to perfect flying here and now, with her life on the line.

    She’s aggressive; she can do it.

    The hands were still swinging, unable to catch her. Geiger hoped that whatever instincts Leda had left could be summoned to their full potential.

    The full body of the hands was forced to leap; the warm-blooded mass briefly floated in midair.

    She has flown high—that’s good.

    As Gloved Hands crashed down, the sand beneath Geiger shot up in a measure of vibration he had never felt before. Suddenly the cactus was pointed down, and the limestone cover of his burrow hovered in the air. Geiger witnessed the glass around him rotating. Its opening fell to one side.

    A smash. A clatter. Shards of glass rained on the spider’s sides. A volley of needles flipped in the air. Geiger scurried; his own reflexes now put to the test.

    He ran across the curved glass as he had so many times before, but instead of tumbling back down, he slid, riding its horizontal tilt. So many times he had imagined climbing through the rim. Countless times. And now he leapt through.

    There was a growing cacophony of even more shattering, but Geiger ignored it. He fell to a bizarre new floor, glazed with something reflective. He kept running, all eight tarsi tearing the ground.

    Geiger ignored his emotions, which had faded somewhere behind him. He ignored his pains, which had all healed into scars. His adrenaline was high, and he could feel it again: the instinct. The purity. The feeling of the true wild.

    0 Comments
    2024/03/12
    17:37 UTC

    5

    Geiger's Escape (Part II)

    I - II - III


    The burrow was steep and reeked of decay.

    The caterpillar fell hard onto a compact floor, her elastic body squishing. She righted herself with what few limbs she had available, then shrieked at the sight of a headless cricket. “Where have you taken me!”

    The wolf spider stood still, watching her. As if he could pretend to be harmless. “I’m saving you.” He gestured to the roundness of the burrow; its curved walls almost matched the glass barriers above. The caterpillar wondered how it maintained its shape.

    “This is my lair, where Gloved Hands thinks I’ll be eating you.”

    The caterpillar broke into a flimsy crawl, like an inchworm. She dragged herself up the steep entrance and tripped, grasping at a ledge. Sand sloughed from the ceiling.

    “Don’t do that,” the spider said. “The sides are very hard to buttress.”

    She ignored him and tried again, dislodging further debris in a cascade of dust. Something seized her feelers.

    “Now, you listen to me.” As if holding reins, he steered her antennae toward a dead earwig, which was now covered with sand. “Do you see this? I have no reason to hunt you if I have this to eat. Understand?”

    The caterpillar whispered through her silk-obscured face. “You are a deceiver.”

    The spider loosened his grip. “I am not deceiving you.” He tore a limb off the earwig and then broke it in two, presenting the mutilated body part.

    “In fact, accept this. An offering of peace. It is for you to eat.”

    The caterpillar glared. “I couldn’t eat that. I eat plants.”

    The spider tossed one of the halves and swallowed the other with a single clack of its pedipalps. “What kind of plants?”

    She took a moment to chew the silk off her mandibles, spitting it directly onto Geiger. “What ruse are you playing at? Food from a spider? My parents warned me about the ploys of your kind. Your webs might be invisible, but I still know they’re there. You can’t fool me.”

    The spider wiped the spittle from his face very slowly. She saw his forelegs twitch in a disconcerting rhythm.

    “Wait here,” the spider eventually said. He scampered out of the burrow. The caterpillar hissed.

    Once he was gone, she quickly inspected herself. Yes. A needle had been wrapped to her side. She had hope for winning this challenge yet.

    She fell to the floor and began to squeeze like an accordion, attempting to wriggle the cactus spine out. Slowly, it shifted, cutting some of the silk. She braced the weapon against a wall and spun. It resisted. She spun in the opposite direction, and it dislodged.

    Falling flat on the sand, the needle displayed its length. It had been plucked from the cactus top, chosen for an especially barbed tip. All she needed was to free her true limbs. Frantically, the caterpillar bit the silk on her thorax, chewing it like a leaf.

    But before she could scissor through, light leaked from the burrow entrance.

    The spider had returned, holding a large amount of green. It exuded the rich fragrance of chlorophyll; it transported the caterpillar back to the hosta plant she used to graze on. Suddenly, her stomach felt empty.

    “From a succulent above,” the spider said.

    The caterpillar slid over the needle, hiding its shape beneath her. “So, this is your torture? Mocking me with a final meal?”

    The spider’s sharp mandibles approached, dwarfing the caterpillar’s. Eight leering copies of her were reflected in his eyes.

    “How can I make myself clear?” The spider asked. He reached with his right pedipalp, pointing the sharp claw at her chest. She froze.

    With a series of fluid motions, he removed the silk binding the caterpillar’s torso. It peeled like an old molt. “I need you to live.”

    She watched the layers fall to the ground, hardly believing it. But now was her chance. She slid back; the needle retracted into her arms. She clasped it and stabbed directly above the spider’s many eyes.

    He froze. The tip punctured shallowly into his skin; its barbs prevented a smooth entry, but with an extra push, the caterpillar knew it would pierce.

    “Go ahead, then. Do it.”

    The spider pointed to an area slightly above the needle. “But through here if you don’t mind. The brain mass. Do me this courtesy at least.”

    The caterpillar stared, confused. She had never seen such behavior. In the caterpillar’s eyes, her captor was an impressive specimen: his knees shot out twice the height of his body, and his night-colored skin was a smattering of scars, scratches, and dents. He had undoubtedly fought dozens of times. His chitin must be thick; even here, he had a chance. And yet, he was willing to throw his life away.

    The spider clasped her spear. “No? You don’t wish to kill me?”

    He leapt back, smacking the needle away. He replaced it with the succulent from his rear arms. “Didn’t think so. Now, eat this.”


    Hunger separated them into their respective corners. The two bugs observed each other as they ate.

    “So, you’ve unbound me,” the caterpillar said, “and you’ve fed me. What am I now, your thrall?”

    Geiger tore a cricket’s wing off its costal margin. “I’m keeping you safe down here. When Gloved Hands leaves, we can try and escape.”

    The caterpillar pointed to the other victims. “How come you didn’t try that with the cricket or earwig, then?”

    “Because you’re the first I’ve met,” Geiger chewed, “in a very long time, who can actually speak.”

    The caterpillar stared blankly, scarfing down green.

    “Let me guess.” Geiger moved his pedipalps, miming the shape of an arc. “You came from the great glass dome, right? Where it sometimes rains black water?”

    “You’re speaking of Alryhm. Our world. Our home.”

    “It isn’t your home,” Geiger said. “It’s a prison: a larger version of what we’re inside. It might be huge and filled with plants, but it’s still surrounded by glass.”

    “I don’t understand.”

    “I was brought into the dome too,” Geiger said. “Doused with the same rain.” He pointed at his scalp. “But I’m guessing you were born there. Grew up in it. You don’t even know there is a true wild.”

    “‘True whiled’?”

    Geiger held his breath; he had tried to explain this before to many different bugs. He recognized that distant look on the caterpillar’s face: the slouching head, the unaligned jaws. She was ready to disbelieve him, or—more to the point—she was incapable of believing him. The black rain might expand intellect, but it did not always expand imagination.

    He could try to explain that the dome was a fake wild attempting to emulate the nature he himself had first been kidnapped from. For several weeks, he thought he had been simply re-released in his forest, free to find his hovel again. But he had quickly noticed the lack of wind, of birds, and the presence of the oppressive glass.

    The impenetrable barrier, as tall as trees, fenced the entire area into an oblong dome. There might have been plants, prey, and livelihood, but it was all curated. He, and others, had been exiled into an artificial forest.

    This caterpillar wouldn’t understand that. She hadn’t ever encountered a wild bug, much less a real river or bird. How would he even begin to unpack such concepts?

    No, Geiger thought, I’ll keep explanations simple for her sake.

    “Basically, young caterpillar, there are some bugs that are smart enough to speak with me, and others that are incapable. You are not like the crickets that are placed here, nor the earwig. You are intelligent.”

    Compliments were apparently the key to changing her demeanor. “Well, I should say I’m intelligent; that’s why the Nephalim hand-picked me.”

    “Hand-picked you?” Geiger had underestimated her delusion. _The dumb thing thinks she was chosen. _“Gloved Hands doesn’t ‘hand-pick’ anything. You are not lucky for being here, caterpillar. You are now trapped, as I’ve been trapped for days, seasons . . .” He did not want to admit that time had lost meaning to him.

    “Don’t call me caterpillar,” she said, swallowing a leaf. “I am born of an acclaimed lineage: a direct descendant of the Hegemony, the moth rulers of the spreading light. My name is Leda.”

    Geiger sighed. And to boot she was raised in some redundant dome politics.

    “But I see what this is all about now.” Leda lifted another green morsel. “The offered food, your constant banter: this section of trial must be focused on intellect.” She pointed to her scalp. “I defeated a wasp in another cage by choking her with my strength, then I outmaneuvered a mantis with my effortless speed. You I must defeat using wits. It is clear I must outdeceive the deceiver.”

    Her delusions are the worst I’ve seen. Despair burgeoned in Geiger’s gut, but he could not let the emotion paralyze him.

    “Speak your next riddle, wolf spider,” Leda said. “I can solve any lie you throw at me.”

    Geiger pulled away from his food and groomed the new wound on his head. He sat on a mound in the room, staring at this frustrating green worm. How could she be of any possible use? A mind as deluded as hers?

    He wanted to cocoon her in silk and be done with it. But instead he inhaled slowly, focusing on the needle wound as a distraction. Agony was new to him: another gift from the black rain. Back in the wild, a wound was a benign sensation, like an itch. But now, their altered minds offered the capacity to truly suffer.

    Geiger watched her gorge on the disgusting succulent, simply eating what was given her.

    As he fiddled with his pedipalps, an idea occurred. “So . . . you have seen through my guise.”

    Her feelers perked up, eyes observant.

    “You know that each truth I throw at you is a lie. Then you know, too, that our duel is but a distraction.”

    “Of course it is.” Her mandibles furled into a smile. “I could defeat you in an instant.”

    Geiger swallowed whatever pride he had left. “Undoubtedly you could. This stage of your ‘trial,’ that is to say, this final stage of your ‘trial,’ is in itself a ruse. Fighting me would be your undoing. You must prove that you can outwit Gloved Hands himself.”

    “What? Betray the Nephalim? That’s apostasy.”

    Geiger forced himself to walk on four legs, folding the other four behind his back—a posture he had seen in the most self-absorbed of the dome bugs.

    “I have seen countless fail.” Geiger pointed at the headless cricket. “Each time I do, I confer with the Nephalim.”

    “No, you don’t.”

    “Of course I do.” Geiger poked at Leda’s side, at the incision from Gloved Hands’s scalpel. “You think this stab was some coincidence? I ordered it.”

    The caterpillar winced, staring at Geiger with wide eyes.

    “At the wrist of Gloved Hands is a face I commune with. You can see antennae moving inside the glass. It ticks and talks. That is how I speak to him.”

    The caterpillar’s feelers twisted as she considered his bluff.

    “I’ve been here long enough to infer that the real trial,” Geiger stopped in front of her, “is an escape.”

    “What is this ‘escape’ you keep talking about?”

    “What do you think?” Geiger focused on breathing gently. “It is an escape beyond this bowl, beyond even the chamber outside of this bowl. To a place so ethereal, so sublime . . .”

    “Of course.” Leda fawned over another memory. “The Eternal!”

    Right, that’s what they called it. “Yes,” Geiger said, “the Eternal.” He turned away to conceal his derision at the absurd fantasy.

    “That’s what you were hinting at earlier,” she said, looking excited.

    The spider watched her sidelong. “By speaking instead of fighting, you have already surpassed all previous challengers.”

    Leda’s face beamed.

    “Now you must apply your new knowledge. I shall leave you here to formulate an escape plan.”

    Her antennae undulated, hungry for more praise, but Geiger had begun crawling out of the burrow.

    “The final trial is an escape to the Eternal.” Leda repeated, now staring at the rest of the succulent. “But how can I trust that . . . that you aren’t lying right now?”

    Geiger paused, lifting the lid of limestone. “You can’t. That you’ll need to decide for yourself.”

    Crossing outside, he peered at her through the small slit beneath the limestone. “I shall return when it is time.”

    0 Comments
    2024/03/11
    17:54 UTC

    1

    THE VACATION- PART 2

    Their ghostly voices started to slowly fade from the property as they began walking the wood line, which was the entire mountain top. In a few minutes they would be at the far corner of the property, Jennie got the keys that Jarrod given them three days prior and stared at them fiercely, this was going to be the greatest chance they had to make a move, we're going to get through, thought Mitchell. As they began to scan the area for the creatures returning after nothing all five were thinking they need to get down the ladder quietly but quickly as possible so one by one they descended the ladder with Jennie going first since she had the keys followed by Zion,Kyrie,and Adam. Then it was Mitchell's turn after surveying the area before climbing down and still seeing nothing he started going down slowly but his fear got the better of him throwing caution out the window he hurried down the rest of the ladder when he got to the bottom they all rushed to the front door but Mitchell looked back and saw the leader looking at them Mitchell made the mistake of making direct eye contact for the first time. Mitchell and the leader just stared into each other's eyes from a huge distance, but, Mitchell was starting into something, for where the eyes should have been there was nothing but large vacant holes of blackness

    Mitchell was overcome with despair that if he was killed or eaten by this monstrosity that his soul would never see the afterlife. The leader let out a rageful roar then it charged at them with the other two monsters yipping in joy about the chase to come it was running 50 miler per hour, an impossible speed, but not dangerously fast. C'MON MAN HURRY!! Adam said to Mitchell which snapped him out of his trance he than rushed to join the others on the porch Jennie got the door opened and they all rushed inside as Mitchell turned around one last time when going thru the door and was shocked to see the leader was upon them bringing it's clawed hand down which was bigger then Mitchell's entire upper body when he quickly closed the door they all heard it's claw swipe the front door but none of them excepted what happened next the door lit up blue with runes after the creature's fingers began to sizzle and blue flame quickly spread from it's fingers to the entire hand the monster roared in pain and backed away from the porch. As Mitchell saw all of this from the glass in the door he than looked behind him everyone was trying to catch their breath he helped them to the couch where they sat down to catch their breath. He than began to search for the gun safe that Jarrod told them about while leaving the others to catch their breath as he walked around the mansion first floor it was a giant opened space,like a loft,but much bigger sand VERY high class. It was filled with statues showing Angelic beings fighting Monsters,with the latter being defeated in dramatic ways.

    The rooms center piece was showed four beings, much larger than any other in the mansion, Earth was in the middle of the statue. Each light being was stood on a specific axis like a compass, like north,south,east and west. Next to each directional point was a name, they read Eros,Polus,Solus, and Urias. Mitchell never heard any of their names before he thought they must be angelic beings as well. While looking closer an element under each name fire,water,air,and earth.

    Mitchell than want back to the living room to see if everyone had calm down when he stepped in and looked at the others they were a bit shaken but mostly okay. Than asked if someone could help him look for the gun safe Adam volunteered to help the first floor had five doors Two bedrooms,Two bathrooms and a unexplored door. Mitchell went into the first bedroom looked around and found the safe that was open a bit on the side of the bed and found multiple guns. There were two shotguns,two rifles,three 44 magnum colt pythons along with the weapons there was about one or two dozen boxes filled with diverse ammunition. But before he called the others he thought about the unopened door as he left the bedroom to go for the unopened door Adam came and said "there was nothing in the room" to which Mitchell said "I hit the jackpot" Adam was joyful but Mitchell said we have to check the final door.

    Adam nodded as they walked and now stood in front of it they ready themselves and threw the door open. They saw a high-Tech room with bright white lights and big monitors along with guns that looked alien and staffs with glowing orbs on the top of them,spears,axes,and swords with brightly glowing runes inscribed in them. Then a voice came out of one of the monitors KIDS...KIDS CAN YOU HEAR ME, said a voice the two recognized, J...JARROD,the two finally said YES BOYS,YES,bring the others there is MUCH we have to talk about. As Adam went to go get the others from the living room Mitchell went to the monitors and one turned on showing Jarrod's face Oh my God,said Mitchell in surprise.

    That's right if we want to survive the night, the Gods are our ally, said Jarrod's face on the one-hundred-inch flatscreen on the wall, high up and right in front of him about one-hundred feet away. Adam brought the others in they were just in shock and awe for a few seconds while looking around the room Jarrod's voice broke the silence "Take a seat and get comfy what I'm about to tell you isn't a short story in the slightest." He said as the five teens took their seats and waited patiently for Jarrod to begin.

    Part 2 - Talk of The Past

    Over the next few hours Jarrod told them stuff that no horror of sci-fi movie could ever come close to copying. He spoke about how the world used to be three times larger and all creatures use to exist in this world, once upon a time until five children of the creators,or Gods,rebelled against them. Their most brightest son Jophiel,The Raging Sun,tried to overthrow their creators, by ruling over Heaven and Earth. Upon making it to the forth circle of Heaven, The creators summoned the four arch-angelic beings to bestowed upon them all AMAZING POWER! Power over Heaven and Earth together. The Gods made them reside over an access point over Earth such as East,West,North, and South, but also the four elements as well.

    Now with great new power,led by Eros,and his flaming sword of the fire element, he led his brothers Polus,Solus,and Urias to face Jophiel and their four siblings who followed the Raging Sun. In the end, Jophiel fell to the great power and he along with the other four were cast out losing their angelic forms. But the Gods couldn't let them fall to Earth so to save us they cast the five into the abyss so they could remind them of they had done but unbeknownst to them something was waiting in that same abyss. It's name is KAROH,THE VOID KING!

    0 Comments
    2024/03/10
    21:44 UTC

    9

    Geiger's Escape (Part I)

    I - II - III


    A shock wave emanated from the darkness. The vibrations rippled the walls of the glass bowl, shaking the sand contained within and jostling the legs of the dormant wolf spider. He awoke instantly.

    After the shock wave came a series of thuds; with each one, the spider focused on the tips of his legs. His microscopic hairs studied the sand as the coming mountain plodded toward him, one small earthquake after another. The spider rubbed his pedipalps, brewing saliva to discern the incoming smell. Will it be the usual?

    Rank mammalian sweat exuded from beneath the thick yellow rubber that stretched toward him. A tobacco-infused beard swayed above a torso wrapped in cotton, alcohol, and time.

    He returns again, the spider thought. Another meal?

    He gazed up at the bowl’s top. A great shadow loomed. The first glove arrived as if bored, gripping the edge of the circular glass. Its brother came slowly, lethargic as always, but between its fingers something wriggled quickly. The something was too fast to be a mealworm, which the spider was sick of anyway, and too large to be a cricket, which were annoying to chase.

    The glove opened, dropping a green shape to the sands. Numerous spiny hairs shot out of it. Rows of legs righted themselves. The foreigner stood alert, staring back with tiny black eyes and stunted feelers. She was young and wary. A caterpillar.

    Of course: caterpillars. The spider remembered them from the wild. Always stuffing their faces and growing their rumps.

    Back then, when he was in the wild, there was no reason to interact and no means of communication. But here and now, things could be different.

    “Hey. You. Can you understand me?” the spider asked.

    The caterpillar reared herself toward the only cactus in their enclosure and broke off a spike with her front arms, pointing it outward. “Back away, or I’ll cut you. I’ve done it before.” She waved the needle back and forth, like a reed flipped by wind.

    The spider was pleased. “So they’ve doused you too.”

    “Doused me?”

    “The black rain. It looks like you’ve had your fair share.”

    The caterpillar stopped waving the needle and held it firm. She scoffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

    The spider lowered his gaze, sighing. So many are oblivious.

    All the newer captives seemed to know less and less about the true wild. Like it was a primeval dream or forgotten myth. New bugs brought up in this fabricated place spoke as if speaking had always existed. As if they had never had their minds expanded and aberrated. They had lost sight of their roots. But at least they could communicate.

    “My name is Geiger.” The spider extended his tarsal claw in an open, welcoming position, just as another bug had once shown him. “This is a gesture of peace. To prove I won’t eat you.”

    The caterpillar stared at his claw, then clasped her needle tightly. “My gesture of peace is restraint.”

    There came a salt-scented belch. Geiger glanced up at the tips of the gloves running along the glass rim; beyond them hulked the silhouette of the warm-blooded beast.

    Geiger pointed up. “He’s watching us, you know.”

    The caterpillar backed away and lifted herself to observe the mammal. “Yes, I know that one. He’s fed me leaves in another place. And now he’s brought me here.”

    “He’s been feeding me prey,” Geiger said. “He expects me to kill you.”

    The caterpillar’s antennae shot up. “Kill me?” She made her needle dance again. “You can certainly try. I’ve slain mantises larger than you.”

    This almost made Geiger laugh, but he clenched his stomach. So the worm has learned to lie; that’s something we can use together.

    “No, I don’t plan on taking your life,” he said. “Nor should you mine. In fact, I advise we perform a deception that will save both of our lives.”

    “What deception?”

    “A mock scuffle,” Geiger pointed upward, “to satiate Gloved Hands. Otherwise, he might use the silver scalpel to agitate or wound us.”

    “I’m not falling for your ploy.” The caterpillar’s hairs all rose in a miniature replica of the cactus. “I have bested many creatures who thought to make me a meal; I’ll be damned if you trick me now.”

    The spider constricted his stomach to prevent his incipient chuckle. He disliked laughter. The black rain had damaged their physiology, enslaving them to the sudden impulse of emotions. And here it appeared that the black rain had somehow aggrandized this caterpillar to the extent that she believed she was some kind of warrior.

    “Listen, even if you kill me,” Geiger said, “you will simply replace me as prisoner. I’ve been here for ages; there is no escape.”

    He gestured to the warped glass, which bent light unto itself. “Those walls are too curved; they are unclimbable, no matter how many legs you use. Try as you like, but believe me, you will always slide back down.”

    The caterpillar’s eyes took in the enclosure without her moving her head. “You are trying to distract me so that you may pounce when I’m turned.”

    Geiger settled down with his legs curled beneath him in a demonstration of repose. It’s practically impossible to build any newcomer’s trust with so little time, he thought. Despite our doused minds, the primitive urge for combat always seems to win. To truly survive, this caterpillar must learn to control her impulse for survival.

    Geiger was pondering how to explain this when the caterpillar suddenly leapt.

    “Whoa!” He deflected the green blur. However, he felt a pain so sharp that his legs reacted instinctively. He pounced backward, flipping into the sand and kicking up the coarse grains as he righted himself, then jumped again, retreating farther as a precaution. Through his grain-addled vision, he witnessed the caterpillar lifting herself into a defiant stem, her face leering like a dangerous flower.

    A cactus needle was lodged in Geiger’s abdomen. He removed it, and from the wound thick teal hemolymph leaked onto the sand, darkening its surface. He experimented with breathing and found that the pinhole interfered, although not severely. What tactic is this? A cactus needle, turned into . . . a stinger?

    The caterpillar pulled another spear off the cactus. “You will be just another fallen challenger in the course of my trial.”

    Geiger spat, applying saliva, then silk, to his wound. “No. This is no trial. You were kidnapped; we were both kidnapped. Trust me, we have to work together to escape.”

    But the caterpillar ignored him. She climbed the cactus, curling herself between more spikes to find safety among their sharpness. Geiger watched, trying to think of the right words to assuage her fear. He did not want to lose another potential ally.

    Then his feet tickled. Through the sand, Geiger felt a drumming of rubber fingers on the glass above. Gloved Hands grew impatient.

    “Listen,” Geiger called, “you need to come down from there.”

    The caterpillar grabbed two needles, crossing them above her head. “I take no orders from you. Our fight is suspended until I am refreshed.” She climbed higher up the plant, toward a budding flower. “Nothing gets between fresh vegetation and—”

    The caterpillar was flung into the air. Her long body collapsed headfirst into the sand, her abdomen smacking her face. A long, silver scalpel jabbed into her side.

    “Gah!”

    Geiger waited until the metal lifted, watching the yellow fingers carefully. Once in the clear, he enacted a flawless pounce, as if pinning a mealworm.

    “Gaaaah!” The caterpillar writhed. She clutched at dropped needles and tried to slash at him with empty arms.

    But Geiger was already firing his spinnerets, blasting her with silk.

    “You deceitful lout! Attacking me when I’m toppled! Despicable!” She squirmed but could not overcome Geiger’s strength.

    The spider wrapped her, periodically checking on the hands above, which still held their shining instrument. With a few twists, Geiger finished binding the caterpillar’s torso. He began dragging her.

    “Let me go! You monster!”

    That’s right, play along. Geiger folded his mandibles and pretended to take a bite. He pulled her through the sand, creating large swish shapes: signs of a struggle. This is what Gloved Hands expected. Battle. Predation. In a basic sense, Geiger understood this glass bowl was meant to be some kind of arena.

    His efforts formed a long curve in the sand, speckled with his footprints. The trail dragged from the cactus and wound beneath a limestone rock. The caterpillar’s prolegs scraped at the surface, clawing at loose grains. She squealed for help. Then all movement vanished below the sand.

    0 Comments
    2024/03/10
    04:04 UTC

    11

    Resurfacing

    By the time we lined up at Mogey’s, the preliminary stims were already taking effect.

    Bryen, who was naturally lanky, now loomed in front of me like a crooked street lamp, neck bending lower than his shoulders, his eyes shining bright. “You ... feelin’ good. Sam?”

    I nodded with a dismissive “duh,” as if such an obvious question didn’t deserve a response, although truthfully I couldn’t speak beyond basic monosyllables. I would've liked to correct him and tell him I prefer going by Samantha, but such a verbal feat seemed impossible.

    The line trudged along. All of us twenty-somethings were jittering, just itching to reach the entrance.

    I pointed to my tongue to say we could swallow the paper squares we had been moistening. Bryen nodded. He claimed to have taken psychogens before, but all signs indicated otherwise. It’s kind of why I chose him as tonight’s date. I liked showcasing my mastery of the realm.

    “Almost. At. Front.” I somehow assembled.

    Bryen’s eyes were a nightscape, his pupils so dilated you could barely see the whites. Even still, he was able to focus them for a moment and stare at his wrist—where I had told him to write down: “remember you’re on drugs.”

    We swam in. It was a pool hall, one of those gimmick raves where they enhanced your stim to make you believe you were dog paddling. There wasn’t any real water of course, and to a sober observer we all looked pretty stupid, but trust me, on the right trip, the ability to float felt amazing.

    I treaded effortlessly, accustomed to the sensation. Very soon the rut of stupefaction waned, and I could feel my first wave of increased sociability swell. I was eager to talk. “So Bryen, tell me about yourself.”

    He paddled while sifting for thoughts. Eventually his tongue managed to find the same social lubricant. “Well. Like I said. I’m a student at UVC. I take game design. Umm...”

    “What’s your relationship with your parents?”

    “What? God. I don’t know.”

    “Where did you grow up?”

    “I’m. Born here?”

    I could poke fun at the uninitiated for hours. With my newfound confidence, I opened the locket around my neck and released my Fauna accessory into the air.

    “Is that … a ladybug?”

    I didn't say anything. It was fun to screw with newbies using domesticated insects—the Fauna fad hadn’t reached some of the freshmen. The beetle orbited my hair as I perfected my breaststroke over to the bar.

    The stools were filled with neighbouring trippers, a mix of youth still dressed in street clothes with a few “swimmers” in bikinis and speedos. Bryen followed in a doggy-paddle, completely silent. I started asking what the week’s best purchase was, and everyone leaned in with advice. Mogey’s was famous for promoting their own brand of synchronic hallucinogen, but they were equally famous for diluting it to crap. Tonight’s intel came from a group of partiers all wearing scuba masks, who explained that the top candy was anything sponsored by Hypey’s, a start-up promoting the work of recent chemistry grads.

    The long-haired barkeep was happy to sell me Hype-4, which he himself qualified as “a jungly good time.” And as per our tandem-agreement, Bryen got a variant labelled Hype-Classic. Your partner is supposed to take a slightly different candy than you are, so in case one of you OD’s, the other can hopefully do something about it. That’s the idea, anyway.

    “If either of you feel like taking another hit,” the barkeep said, “you know where to find me.” He gave an exaggerated wink.

    Bryen asked for a glass of water, and managed to drink half before spilling it all over himself. “Am I drinking water... underwater?”

    I pulled him away. Our Hype was scheduled to activate as soon as the band went on, which gave us a bit of time to find our raving spot. We paddled around the hall, trying to feel out a good area.

    Before becoming a club, Mogey’s had been a sewer terminal, and if you looked close, you could tell the archways along the ceiling were designed to fit massive sewer pipes, recycled plumbing even composed the chandeliers.

    Bryen drifted away from the crowd, cornering himself in an alcove made of brick and old pipes. “I just need a second … to find my grip.”

    I swam over and grabbed his hand for the first time. The jolt of human connection tended to reset confidence, but Bryen’s fingers felt cold, limp. Unable to curl.

    “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have agreed to this.” He shook his head. “It’s all … very … a lot.”

    I smiled and kept surfing on my talkative wave. “Listen Bryen, you’re a smart guy. Just think of this as a videogame you’ve designed. You’re playing it right now. It’s like life, but there’s a new set of rules. And the first one is: Think positive.”

    “How is this ... How do you do this?”

    I shrugged. “Over and over again.”

    He stared at me like I had revealed some terrible secret about his birth, or the meaning of life.

    I smiled harder and gave his hand a squeeze. “It’s okay. We can take a minute. Take your time.”

    “But... why do you do this?” His face was red. The stims were making him agitated, which was another obvious sign he’d never done this.

    “For fun, Bryen. We do it for fun.”

    “But that’s ... stupid,” he finally managed. “You don’t even like me. I know you don’t like me. So why did...”

    I didn’t like where he was taking this. The tendrils of his mood were brushing against my vibe, dragging me down. “Bryen, relax.”

    “And I agreed to it, even though I know you’ve done the same thing to like nine other guys...”

    “Bryen. You’re overthinking this. We’re here to party.”

    “You’re like a witch. You’re trying to sap something from me. Something to put in your … cauldron.”

    I gripped the plumbing beside me and took a breath. “Bryen, it’s okay to feel scared. Remember what you wrote?” I pointed to his forearm, but the ink had been smudged by his spilled drink. It was now nothing more than a mushroom blot.

    “My youth. That’s what you want. You’re trying to sap me so you can keep doing ... this.” He waved at the undulating crowd, getting ready for the music.

    “Bryen, you’re being—”

    “You’re ensorcelling freshmen, because this is all you have left. The seniors in your year are gone; you’ve used them up. So you go after us, the young bloods.”

    I shook my head, a bit shocked by the sudden Wicca, or psychoanalysis, or whatever he was spewing. “Bryen, you’re being paranoid. Just breathe in. Calm down.”

    He grabbed hold of the rusty pipes and then climbed up. It was so brash and quick that by the time I realized what he was doing, I could only manage to grab his ankle. “Hey. Where are you going?”

    “Let go of me, witch!”

    It was such a bizarre insult, and it bothered me more than I thought it would. I pulled on his leg, glancing back at the crowd, hoping not to make a scene. “Jesus Christ Bryen, get down from there. You're on drugs, for God’s sake. Relax.”

    He kicked me off and scrambled to the top. Mogey’s had a plethora of catwalks and ladders for those willing to climb, and Bryen now seemed eager to use them.

    I paused, unsure if I should follow. My wave of courage had crested. The pipes around me slowly began to writhe and bud flowers, and my ladybug flew about as if she could sense them. The Hype-4 must have started leaking into my stim. Technically I could still drift back to the bar, call off the Hype before it fully set in, but then all my efforts tonight would go to waste.

    Goddamnit Bryen. It was my own fault for diving into the deep end with a newbie. I should have known some young programmer wouldn’t be comfortable here. I should have corralled another athlete, or drama kid.

    I tugged at my braids, and the ladybug fluttered circles around my fingers. I was flailing. Again. Although this was nothing new because grazing the edge of rock bottom felt like my entire life story. The one area I’ve taken pride in being somewhat responsible was my tripping. I may have lost jobs, failed exams, and barely coped with things at home, but I could at least take care of myself here. I always brought a tandem date out of safety.

    I wasn’t going to let this set me back.

    I jumped and slid my hands on the plumbing, flipper-kicking the imaginary water. The ancient metal was sturdy, and I quickly climbed to the platform, careful not to rip my pantsuit. Up top, I could see the mic checks happening on the distant stage, clouds of dancers swimming between it and me. And then I saw my date, huddled, only a catwalk away.

    He was sitting chin-to-knees, nestled beneath more plumbing with ruby valves. Valves which now undulated like flowers caught in a breeze.

    I opened the lockets along my arm bands. Generally, I would have preferred to save this reveal for when I’m raving among the dance-crowds, far off this planet, but who knows if I’ll even get to dancing at this point.

    The dormant horseflies shot out from my wrists and took flight, encircling me as if trying to form a hula hoop. My ladybug sensed this, and on cue, started to sparkle with iridescence.

    Bryen stared at me, transfixed.

    “Alright Bry. You’ve found me out. I’m a witch, and I’m looking for a sacrifice.” I raise one hand, as if holding an invisible chalice. On cue, all the insects buzzed into my palm, forming a shining ball.

    “Each weekend I devour a soul in this hedon-sewer, and plunge myself deeper towards true, delicious oblivion: the dark serenity we all seek, if but for an instant.”

    He watched like a mesmerized child.

    I let the shining ball disperse, and offered a sinister, tongue-in-cheek grin. “Your life-force is sufficiently ripe for tonight’s concession. Consumption. Consummation.” My words get pretty good when I’m this high .“But don’t worry, if you cooperate, and share in my doomed euphoria, I shall spit you back into the normal life you once had. After tonight, all will be well.”

    Bryen rose, his hands finding purchase on the flower wall behind him.

    “Dance with me, Bryen. And all will be well.”

    He pointed, eyes staring in awe of my presence. “All you want is … a dance?”

    “Yes.” You ignoramus. “We’re going to swim back down, and embrace the carnage of the dance floor. It’s the whole reason we’re here.” For God’s sake.

    He backed away, stumbling over the shoots of venus flytraps. A couple bit into his shoulder, pinning him. “What if I refuse?”

    The leafy plumbing now snaked along the floor, trying to coil around my legs. The moments where I could process cogent thoughts were dwindling. The lights around Mogey’s had begun to dim, which meant the show would start soon.

    “Then you’ve condemned yourself, Bryen. Never again will you feel even an iota of ‘fun.’ Your friends will oust you, besmirch you. Your mother will coddle you, try to fix you with psycho-therapy. You will have nothing but your hopeless self. And in the face of such uselessness, you will become a backdrop at a venue, trying to leech whatever enjoyment some chemicals happen to stir in your skull—over and over again. Until you forget why you do it in the first place. Until you feel compelled to embrace the obscurity; swim into it, deeper and deeper until...”

    I broke down crying.

    My knees buckled and I fell against the metal grating, landing hard on my hip. A bed of moss rose up, trying to lift and support me, but I had no energy left to stand.

    Goddamnit. I broke the first rule.

    That familiar tingling at the tips of my hands and legs set in. My extremities leaked bubbles. It tickled. But instead of turning ecstatic, it felt as though I was being rooted. A dark jungle grew around and loomed over me.

    Leaves fell onto my face. Time slowed.

    What if I have a seizure?

    Dandelions sprout beside my cheeks, eliciting a rash.

    I imagined the clean-up crew finding my asphyxiated body, strangled by vines, and tossing it into Mogey’s secret incinerator. My ashes would be discarded along with all the other dead addicts into the city’s sewage—where we would become filtered a hundred times until there is nothing left but the ghostly atoms of our prior existence.

    Jesus. Think positive. I can’t lose tonight.

    The bubbles reached my elbows and knees. I rolled over in the undergrowth, hoping to lie face down to prevent choking on my tongue. But as I shifted, I felt myself roll away and become weightless.

    Oh dear, I have fallen off the catwalk.

    Sailing through the simulated water, pollen swirls off me as the plants let go. The lights have completely disappeared, and I’ve no clue where the floor is. I picture myself falling the three meters off the gangplank and brace for impact. My limbs turn to pinwheels.

    Pinwheels turn into breaststrokes. The movement helps distract me. With the grace of a dart frog, I swim until I gently skim the club floor, and then I land with my feet.

    That’s better.

    I look up and see Bryen’s shadow, lost in his own world. For all I know, I’ve truly convinced him I’m a witch.

    That was a stupid ploy. Of course it would scare him off.

    He stands up and runs further down the catwalk, deeper into the jungle.

    The lights return. Bass tones rumble. I look to the stage and can see the chalky band members start up a rhythm on their motor-drums. “Who’s ready to die tonight?” the lead singer asks.

    The crowd becomes a riot.

    As the Hype-4 bubbles reach my heart, another rainforest explodes in front of me. Tiger lilies, orchids, and trillium festoon my limbs. Rich, fruity colours swamp my movement until it feels like I’m no longer floating through water, but through thick, leafy molasses.

    Red eyes watch from the foliage. Wet tongues salivate. My glowing insects have multiplied into an asteroid belt—continually swirling, faster and faster.

    I dipped a finger into the shiny movement and produced a colour so shimmering it gives me sunspots.

    I’m blind. The forest growls encroach upon me. Sharp edges strike my lungs. I’m alone. I can’t breathe. Am I choking?

    My feet churn towards where they think the bar lies. I cough and pat my chest. No experience is worth dying for. No matter how great.

    The opening chorus begins, and the music slings bats and snakes out from the jungle behind me. My breaststrokes are now pathetic. I sink to the floor and grab at any vines that I can. My pantsuit drags, tears in places, but I don’t care: I’ve got to reach the bar.

    Feeling my urgency, my waist suddenly sprouts another set of limbs. Two extra legs appear above the other two, I skitter across the floor, trying to mimic the movements of my ladybug. I feel the molasses around me resist. The liquid tastes sweet. It must be honey.

    When I reach the overgrown bar, each of its flowers stare at me, following like surveillance cameras. Instead of a bartender, there sits an enormous honeybee, whose compound eyes rotate like a set of disco balls.

    “Bzoo!” I say and point to my head. “Zzzt! Zdoo! ZZZDOO.

    The disco-balls shrink down into a pair of human eyes; the bee’s antennae curl back into brown hair. He plays with a few tulips around him, shaking their petals.

    “Zub Zub Zdoo,” the bee-thing says, and then his mandibles turn into human lips. “Are you sure you want to cancel the Hype-4?”

    “Yes…” I shiver, holding my palms against my face. “Sorry. Thank you. Sorry. Thanks.”

    A pair of scuba swimmers pat me on the back, offer me a glass of water. I accept the drink while watching the meter-high jungle around me shrink down. The bromeliads become stools, the heliconias, a vending machine. There’s a corpse flower that sucks in its petals, curls into a ball, and turns into an empty beer keg.

    My extra limbs detach, quickly withering away. The vines retract from my ankles and straighten back into piping along the walls. The ground moss loses all its colour and disappears through the cracks in the floor. The hallucination fades altogether.

    I’m sober again.

    “Your friend,” the bartender asked. “Did you want me to cancel it for him too?”

    For a moment, I wanted penance. Dial him to eleven, I wanted to say. The coward should learn not to waste another person’s high. But instead, I nodded. “Yes, you can cancel it for him too. Sorry. Kind of flubbed our ‘set and setting.’ My fault.”

    He made the adjustments; I gave polite thanks.

    I waded back through the weak turbulence to find Bryen, no longer compelled to swim. With the synchrogen cancelled, the omnipotent band looked more like a bunch of dudes with too many piercings. The feed-cables in their backs looked gimmicky, and the Fauna in their hair felt overdone.

    This sort of jadedness usually only came the morning after, when I had a dry mouth and a headache to distract me. Feeling it now, it felt alien. Disheartening.

    I found Bryen at the base of the piping we had climbed before; his colour had returned, and he was nodding along to the motor-drums.

    “Sam! There you are.” He looked at me with a quizzical sort of smile, head still bobbing. “You know for a second, I thought I had fallen into like … an abyss or something. Petunias were chasing me, a pterodactyl almost tore off my head ... but now, I think I’ve settled into it. I’ve found some control. Is this what it’s supposed to be like? At a rave? On drugs?”

    I nodded with a sigh. “Yes Bryen. Yes it is.”

    I opened the lockets on my neck and wrist, returning my horseflies and ladybug to their state of dormancy. There came an urge to toss my Fauna accessories. To drop them through one of the grates along the floor. Instead, I gave them to Bryen.

    “Whoa, what are you—?”

    “Go ahead. I don’t want them.”

    He was instantly fascinated with the bug-ornaments, losing himself in their design. I considered taking his hand, dragging us home—but his spirits looked so high, and the band had only just started.

    “Catch you later,” I said. “Have fun.”


    I grabbed my bag from the coat-check and then squeezed past the growing centipede of teens and twenty-somethings all squirming, itching to dance. Something about tonight’s failure to launch deeply unsettled me, and I didn’t know why.

    I passed a girl covered in skeletal makeup and irises dyed the same red that I used to wear. With a few more piercings, she might’ve been me four years ago.

    For a moment, I wanted to tell her something—maybe offer a warning, maybe grant advice—but I didn’t know where to begin. So I settled for tapping her shoulder and giving her an affectionate wink. “Stay safe, darling. Enjoy the night.”

    She smiled, sticking out her tongue—it was littered with colourful paper squares. “Oh. Hell. Yeah. It’s. Party. Time.”

    1 Comment
    2024/03/08
    16:31 UTC

    2

    The Extraction of a Body

    She scoured her eyes with steel wool then slotted old railway spikes in her ears and knocked them deep with a hammer for the terrible things she had known were too far beyond the real.

    The faint call of waterfowl became fainter still because the landscape browned in fresh decay and early Autumn was upon the uneven hills of the New River Valley; each year the seasons shifted further on and the cold chill came but snow became infrequent and the olds gathered on storefront rockers to mutter about global warming and how it could be so biting cold on a planet that’s gone warm, but that was a time away yet.

    There was an old house which sat in solitude, overlooking Redman Branch, a small offshoot of the New River, and it would’ve been a good old house if not for it being plotted atop a cliff of running clay—foundation cracks sprawled across the cement block foundation that’d been exposed to the elements, untreated, unpainted for the last twenty years or more and the paint from its last coat came off in white chips that fell away like bad fingernails. The forever wet clay beneath the house had since attempted to reject the structure like a rotted tooth, but there it stood, not one of its webbing wounds spaced more than an inch, but those cracks were often and all manner of insects found refuge there and pushed the cracks further in their lodging; birds too took to the gutters where pine needles overflowed; a person could examine the uneven distribution of debris along the roof’s edge where blue jays or cardinals or titmouses may have left and there were new birds too that made residence there—Carolina wrens or the winter birds like that consistent dark-eyed junco, coy, serene in its stuttered trill.

    An old house it was and like others of its kind, it sat unquiet as a breathing creature resting there in its ground with sprigs of weeds caught up around its stained white latticework throat, shielding whatever trash caught there; tracing from the unmarked road to that desolate structure was hardly a path, overgrown with wheat-thick grass, flagstones placed ages ago, broken, more loam than rock. Out nearer Redman Branch where mist rose off the stream and collected in the morning dew, there sat a square patch of fenced land no bigger than the house, overgrown with milkweed and angry thistles; the forgotten vegetable garden was as sorry as the rest, a demonstration of nature conquering man again.

    Clouds pushed across the sky, gray, and made the air so thick with the threat of a storm, a person couldn’t help but breathe longer. Still, it did not rain.

    The house was a singular story against those clouds, against the yellowed greens of half-naked pine trees further beyond the unkempt lawn, and yet its peak forgave an attic with a porthole overlooking the gravel street from a position, inches higher than the porch’s slanted roof, which jutted from the wood paneling of the home, constructed uneven, warped, and unprofessional as any addition by a poor roustabout. Across the mouth of the house stood a cross of tautly lined neon yellow tape.

    It was a stain on the incline, a dilapidated artifact, and inside was the body of a dead woman.

    A white van in a cloud of blue smoke growled along the gravel street at a crawl, a biohazard sticker was planted across its rear doors, and decals ran either side of its body that read GRAYSON COUNTY CORONER’S OFFICE in thick arial black lettering against dry mud splashed white paint. The van came to a halt at the pathway with tall yard grass overhanging the gravel, reaching for the tires; the vehicle inched forward then turned in four points—as though the driver was nervous about getting it stuck—to reverse itself partially onto the path leading to the house, its back doors facing the home. Two white men removed themselves from the carriage, each looking first to the graying sky with wistful expressions then to each other.

    One of the men wore a red baseball cap; the words: Make America Great Again stood across his forehead in threadwork. His face adorned a wiry beard and old acne pock scars dotted his cheeks where they were visible. He reached into the cabin to turn the van dead and removed his mouth-sliding coffee thermos which he held from the rim crane-handedly. Across the left breast of his navy-blue collared work shirt, his name was printed: Bud.

    The other man, younger and shorter and skinner, stepped from the passenger seat, spat, and pulled a deck of cigarettes from his jeans pocket and lit one off a plastic Circle-K brand lighter; his thumb was brown with tobacco residue. “Bet there’s ticks n’ chiggers in this mess,” he said, then batted at the midriff-high grass, rounded the rear of the van, and stumbled over knotted places where weeds intertwined thick. His shirt was much the same as Bud’s, but the name on his was C.W.

    Bud nodded and met him there at the back of the van, casting another wayward glance at the coming storm overhead. “God, I hope it ain’t gonna rain.” He took a swig from his thermos and looked at the other man. “Smoke it quick—there’s work to do.”

    C.W. carelessly wafted his hand to demonstrate his care then pushed his free fingers across his buzzed head. “Should we offload the board, or?”

    “Might oughta check we’ve got a clear path through the house n’ see what the damage is. It’s a hoarder. You’n see the junk piled in the windows, can’tcha?”

    C.W. observed the still house then nodded and took a final long drag from the cigarette, shoots of smoke plumed from his nostrils, and he flicked the remnant unseen into the grass. He flung open a rear door of the van and reached into a netted pocket by the bulge spot of the rear right tire.

    Bud looked at where C.W. had thrown the cigarette and shook his head. “Might catch fire.”

    Without pulling his upper body from the van, C.W. said, “S’gonna rain anyhow.” Then the man slammed the door shut, a white cotton mask obscuring the lower half of his face; he pushed another mask out to his coworker.

    The two men marched toward the home, mask strings strung over their ears and the creak of the first porch step gave them pause and Bud tested the step with his weight and then they both angled under the police tape, C.W. quickly then Bud followed with his knees each giving off a pop as he rose to full standing again.

    A disconnected bench swing lay across the boards of the unpainted porch, its chains haphazardly strewn and a rusty washing machine sat there too, furthest from the entry, paneling half gone on one side from corrosion and among the rubbish were full, doughy trash bags piled tall, partly torn open to expose innards of cardboard, petrified food, stained linens. Each of the men withdrew latex gloves and donned them.

    “Shew,” said C.W., “I smell it from right here.” He shook his head and reached for the front door’s hand-worn oval brass knob.

    They pushed through the threshold into a blackened oblivion while shapes remained outlined in gentle light through brackish windows of the home; spiderwebs disbanded hung weakly as laxed garland from corners, and the tenuous grasp for the layout of this new land was abruptly lifted when Bud withdrew a pocket flashlight and pointed it straight up to catch the full place in a harsh white glow. The door swung gently closed behind the men and they scrunched together within the snake path that led onward; C.W. stood ahead and Bud’s breath came heavy behind his mask.

    Piles of stale tomes and subscription magazines remained stacked high on either side of the entryway like skyscrapers of a miniature city, spiraled haphazardly in their columns so that stained papers folded out from the collected pages here and there and though there seemed to be a method to their organization—a tower of fishing magazines was separated from a pamphlet targeted at automotive enthusiasts and even a few supernatural tabloids remained catalogued on their own, one of which boldly celebrated the marriage of Big Foot and a gray alien with poorly photoshopped wedding photos accompanying an article discussing the pair’s deformed offspring—as Bud’s flashlight passed over them, neither of the men took more than a brief notice or said a word of them. Across the bulk of the room were more trash bags much the same as the ones the two men had left on the porch, and some were so old sitting and worn in places that holes appeared either by disintegration or infestation. Whatever furniture had once been accessible in the room they found themselves, was long buried under said bags or loose raw garbage that had, in places, dried hard as bone. To the left was a closed door, unopened in ages with a residual splash across its face of a caramel color since dried. Along the wall that sectioned the room inaccessible by that door were a series of fiddles which hung stiffly from ornate, decorative hooks pegged across a six-foot lacquered board that’d lost its shine. Worst of all, in that derelict otherworld, was the trapped aroma of cadaverine.

    Bud, the older man, handed his flashlight to C.W. so that he may lead them then planted a firm hand on the younger’s shoulder for balance as they waded through the barely maneuverable trench, discarded items or once sentimental treasures carelessly fell beneath their feet and the two men sallied forth, stepped on whatever thing it was—sometimes a glass picture frame haphazardly balanced atop a stack of books and sometimes it was only an opened envelope that had gone the color of parchment. Flies and gnats, usually comfortable and undisturbed, lifted to life and buzzed among the men’s heads like plague crowns and C.W. blinked through them while Bud precariously covered his eyes with the forearm attached to the hand in which he carried his thermos.

    “I see’er.” C.W. shook his head and wiped his eyes for the pungent stench had moistened them.

    See the woman lying there, just through the threshold of the kitchen, face down in a circle of smeared dried filth, muumuu floral gown once a veritable collection of vibrant wildflowers now with streaks of brown blood dashed around the collar and the rest remaining in a dull purgatory from years of grime. Her once dark black skin had grayed. Her elderly calves looked as thin as children’s forearms and her calloused naked heels were upturned, cracked, and whitened.

    Bud blew a gush of air heavy through his nose. “See the head?”

    “Nah.”

    “Gimme me some room, step around her n’ let me get closer.”

    C.W. awkwardly stepped to meet the small opening between her feet then pirouetted gently, clawing the threshold’s edge to step into the kitchen. The linoleum could hardly be seen, but the places where it stood bare of the hoard were frays and plyboard could be spied beneath. “C’mon then,” said C.W.

    Bud angled into the doorway, into the space between the corpse’s feet. “I knew there’d be spikes in ‘er head, but I almost didn’t believe it.”

    C.W. sighed, “Yup.”

    The kitchen, the same as all else, had a sepia blanket of color, though the transparent blue curtains tacked over the window above the sink let in a dimness. The younger man, nearer the counter, whipped the left curtain panel open, letting in what sunlight escaped the clouds; he clicked the flashlight off then pocketed the tube. Tupperware containers with smatters of residue, stacks of boxes, and more trash bags were piled there in the kitchen too; the sink was high with bowls, plates, utensils, and a few curious cockroaches raised their antennae from the crevices therein, hesitant as cave-men looking out from their strange porcelain abodes—one even leapt from the counter to the floor making the same sound as dropping a cracker and C.W. watched it and casually planted a foot. The insect exploded; custard innards squirted from underneath the man’s boot. Shiny brown carapace flakes and twitching legs clung to the floor there.

    A decrepit gas stove sat in the far corner, grimed, each eye stacked high with used pans—some still contained the crisped edges of fried eggs or burnt spices or congealed lard; up the side of the wall adjacent the stove was a rack for hanging mitts and potholders, and the wall itself looked stained from past explosions of grease, uncleaned.

    The older gentleman hovered partly over the body, holding himself upright by a hand on the wall and shot his coworker a look. Bud shook his head. “Imagine goin’ out without a person to care. This is hell.” Examining the clutter both behind and in front, he shivered then caught C.W.’s eyes.

    “Pfft. Look around. Nasty bitch. If I had family like this, I’d leave ‘em to rot in the mess too. Makes my skin crawl. Look a’ that.” C.W. pointed to a place in front of the fridge and Bud craned forward to see. “That’s ‘er throne.”

    Angled cockeyed beside the fridge’s closed door was a medical commode resting in a frame like that of a walker; its lid refused to close entirely. Blue and white plastic checkout bags were stuffed along the toilet rim and splattered with feces and urine and dots of black mold grew up its legs and reached to the object’s armrests.

    “Bet she roosted there every night.” C.W. started to gag but refrained.

    “If you need to,” said Bud, “Go on.”

    C.W. shook his head.

    Bud searched for a place to put his thermos, shrugged, then sat it by his feet.

    “Should’a left it outside.”

    “C’mon. Gimme a hand.” Bud hunkered precariously and grabbed the dead woman’s ankles.

    C.W. reached down and helped to twist the body so it would be face up. With the corpse lying the way it was, blood pooled into the front of it to solidify, leaving behind trace outlines of purple and sickly yellow bruising; the bones had gone loose within the body. The woman’s face was terrible to behold, soft tissue of the eyes gone, and each lid torn free from scrubbing. An incredibly thin cockroach antenna protruded from her left nostril like a whisker then disappeared. The rusted railway spikes, one pushed into each of her ears, surely the thing that had killed her, oozed syrup upon her coming to rest in her new position. Her belly beneath the muumuu stood round and heavy as if with child, but she was far beyond that in years. C.W.’s eyes stuttered blinks and he let go of another dry retch; his mask had gone wet and clung to him. Bud watched him and asked again if he needed to excuse himself but was offered the same reply as before.

    “Should’ve got the fire department on this one,” said C.W.

    “We’ve got it,” Bud waved the protest away.

    Due to the shifting of jellied organs, liquid erupted from beneath the muumuu and diarrhea puddled around Bud’s feet; a mess of earwigs swam from the hem of the gown and the older man, in a panic, lifted his left foot then his right foot then his left foot again then accepted his fate. He held the wall, hat tilted to his crown, forehead lain against his raised forearms which exposed a sliver of his hairy chubby stomach. His shoulders shimmied up and down quietly.

    “You cryin’?” asked C.W.

    Bud shook his head, pulled his mask down while looking away, then vomited into the room they had come from, glazing a nearby trash bag. He pinched the collar of his shirt and popped it twice before returning the mask to his face.

    C.W. pointed to the thermos Bud left on the floor, bottom flooded with feces.

    Bud shook his head. “She can have it.”

    “Should we get the board?”

    “Aw hell—I need air. I’ll suffocate in this.”

    Bud was gone from the house in crazed, tripped strides, the door shutting from the tilt of the house before the younger man could even catch up.

    Standing on the porch, the two of them wore the cotton masks around their throats, chuffing into their fists or cupped hands; their faces were deep pink.

    “Feels like I’ve got shit all over me!” said Bud.

    “Yeah.”

    “Maybe we should’ve called the fire department anyway—goddamn you’re right. Let them deal with that!”

    “Yeah.”

    Bud leaned off the railing of the porch, putting his hands together and spat a glob he found in the back of his throat. “Ugh.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Can’t you say anything more ‘an ‘yeah’?”

    C.W. smiled and ran his fingers through his buzzed hair. “Nah.”

    “Ain’t that some shit.” Bud removed his hat and slapped it against the handrail before returning it to his head.

    “Sure was.” C.W. spat in the same general direction then lit a cigarette. “Looks like you’ve been walkin’ through mud.” There was a moment of quiet while C.W. drew off the tobacco. “Shew boy.” He shook his head.

    Arriving upon the unmarked gravel street, appearing from the tree line which obscured the road further on, and headed in the direction of the stream, came a young girl in buttoned coveralls without a shirt; beneath the straps of the jean coveralls was the dull beige color of an old bra. She was skinny and pale black and wore a domed straw hat with a frayed brim. In her left hand she carried a blue tackle box which sometimes bumped her knee and under her right armpit were stuffed two long fishing poles. As she got closer to the scene, her gaze went slow across the van then the two men on the porch there. She walked to the edge of the yard where the land rose to afford the clay cliff where the house was. “Hey!” she called.

    C.W. waved absently while Bud kept his hands interlocked on his head, elbows winged.

    She examined the scene, eyes remaining on the yellow tape more than anything else. “Bailey’s dead, yeah?”

    “Yeah,” said Bud.

    The girl looked at the sky then back at the men. “How long?”

    “Least three days. You knew her?”

    The brim of the hat came slowly up then down in a hesitant nod, but she stopped. “Well. Some. She come to church sometimes. When someone’d drive her. I ain’t seen her in weeks. She hollered to me from her porch when she was out—I live just up the way a scooch—and she’d let me come and fish over yonder. I guess it’s her land.” She pointed to Redman Branch. “Had cops come ask me and mine yesterday about if we saw anybody suspicious in the area past couple of days. Figured somebody murdered her, I guess. She go quick?”

    “Yeah,” said Bud.

    “Good.” The girl adjusted her hat with the arm carrying the fishing poles. “I’s hopin’ to catch somethin’ afore it rains—if it does. Can I fish?”

    “We ain’t the police,” said C.W.

    This seemed well enough because the girl said, “Thanks,” then continued her march.

    She traced down the way, circled the house wide then the overrun garden, then pushed on through a thicket by the stream and went out of sight of either of the men.

    Bud sighed, “You get the feet when we go back in.”

    “The hell, you say. You’re already caked in it.”

    “Exactly, I had my turn. Now it’s yours.”

    “Nah.”

    “Boy, don’t sass your elders.”

    C.W. flicked debris from the end of his cigarette where it fell to the porch, and he pushed the clump into a crack in the slits. “I ain’t doin’ it. ‘Sides, you the one that wanted to come out here just the two of us in the first place. ‘Won’t take much effort. We can do it quick—just you an’ me,’ you said.” His voice grew to a mock falsetto upon imitating the other man.

    Bud pointed an index finger close to C.W.’s face, “You get that attitude from your mama, don’tcha?”

    The young man held a wry grin. “What you know about my mama?”

    “She never mentioned me?” Bud pantomimed a vulgar thrust with his pelvis while gently pumping his fist alongside his hip.

    “Mhm. Goofy bastard.”

    The older man sighed, planting his hands into the shape of a diamond over his mouth, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fore fingers. “Fine. Let’s get it done. Suits?”

    C.W. nodded. “Should’ve from the start.”

    Bud met him with an agreeable flattish smile.

    Thunder sounded far off still and the pair froze there for a moment, each peering closely for rain, but none came and C.W. tossed the cigarette butt and they tore through the police tape, leaving it to catch on the breeze, and moved through the tall grass again, opened the rear doors of their work van completely then began removing equipment: a stiff, orange plastic board—seven feet in length—with black harness straps, a folded body bag of thick material, two yellow onesies with hoods, two pairs of glasses, and another set of masks. The two men dressed in the onesies, pulled their hoods over their heads and the elastic kept tight around their faces, framing them round; Bud tossed his hat into the back of the van and so when they each lodged the plastic frame of the protective glasses behind their ears and donned fresh masks, they seemed strange twins ready to embark across that alien landscape again, one taller with beard plume around the chin of his face hole and the other small, wiry, agile through the narrow path, body bag clamped tightly by his ribcage with a forearm and the flashlight outstretched in his other hand as he reembarked into the house. Bud lifted the board and followed, careful to slip it through the doorway longways. He stumbled through the mess, trading color on the rear edge of the board with the doorframe but found his footing and continued.

    The house groaned from the wind outside and there the body was.

    The men moved the dead woman so they could place the body bag open beside her; C.W. took her under the arms and lifted the top of the body from the floor while Bud took the ankles, and they shifted her into the bag before zipping it shut. Bud took the board from the resting spot where he’d angled it against the doorframe leading into the kitchen and laid the bag there, cinching the harnesses tightly. Neither man said a word. Only a catching of one another’s eyes and a swift nod while they lifted their respective ends of the board. They maneuvered the body through the house—Bud gently wobbled on his feet as he walked backwards while C.W. held the head-end with measured patience.

    “Hang on,” said C.W.

    “Arms gettin’ tired?” asked Bud.

    The pair stood in the living room, holding the board at chest height.

    “Nah.” There was a pause filled with the moldering house’s protests. “You hear a buzzin’?”

    “Yeah. There’s about a million flies in this bitch. What about it?”

    “Nah. It’s worse ‘an that. Like a hum.” C.W. cocked his head as though to listen. “It’s like vibratin’.”

    “Shit-fire, we can talk about all the buzzin’ and vibratin’ after we get her out of here. The hell’s a’matter with you?”

    C.W. nodded.

    They went on in their way till Bud met the front door where it had swung shut on its own again; the man palmed the bottom of the board with one hand, to refuse it shifting, then reached blindly behind himself for the knob with his other. Bud remained fumbling for the handle for moments.

    C.W. sniffled then asked, “What’s ‘at?”

    “What’s what?” asked Bud, struggling to hold the board with a single hand.

    “That buzzin’! It’s deep somewhere like hummin’—deep like a machine er something.”

    “Will you quit that? Hush.”

    “Nah, I mean it. Makin’ me lightheaded. There a gas leak?”

    “There ain’t no damn gas leak. Shut your mouth and hold her steady dammit.” Bud’s gloved fingers snagged the door open smally, and he planted a foot in the crack then shoved with his rear to widen its mouth. “C’mon.”

    The men wavered from the house then came the rain—it was an immediate wall of shower that pushed from the north and in seconds, everything on that hill by Redman Branch was drenched and with the morning dew remaining as thick as it was, visibility beyond much was impossible; the two men sighed and sat the board on the porch slats and then took up by the rail again where they swept off their hoods and wore their masks like necklaces.

    Trees far off became impressions of trees and everything was gray.

    C.W. spoke louder for the rain or something else, “You can’t hear that? It’s louder out here now. Mechanical like a engine.”

    Bud stiffened and chewed on his tongue for a quiet moment. “I hear it,” he said.

    The younger man rubbed his arms. “S’cold.”

    “Yeah.”

    The pair stood on the porch without speaking with the corpse bag lying at their feet, instead they watched the gray outskirts of the high yard, the faint outline of their work van at the edge of the road. A thing beyond the real emerged in the downpour, initially hardly a silhouette placed in the center of the road, but neither man said a word; Bud let out an audible breath and it caught as a mist before his face then was gone. They remained squinting, fists balled by their sides, neither daring a glance from that thing out there. The thing defied examination, but the men tried and although every chemical compulsion compelled them to move, to flee, they were glued there like miniature models no more than imitating life.

    “What’s ‘at?” whispered C.W.

    Bud shrugged.

    “You ever see anything like it?”

    Bud shook his head. “That engine sound’s loudest now.”

    “It’s comin’ from that?”

    “Maybe. Don’t move. Don’t call out for it.”

    “Think it sees us?” C.W. pushed a gloved pinky into his left ear and jostled the canal. “S’loud.”

    “Mm.”

    C.W.’s finger spasmed near violent in his ear while he took his other gloved hand and began massaging the soft flesh directly beneath his eyes with his forefinger and thumb.

    “Quit touching your face. You were just handling her,” Bud nodded at the corpse bag.

    The younger man stood straighter and replaced his hands to his sides; a shiver danced off his shoulders. “Look at it out there.”

    Bud already was.

    The thing was not human, was not creature, was not plant nor fungi nor anything natural of the material world, but rather an amalgam of all places through time collapsed within a single entity—hideous, vile. Dazzling multicolor lights erupted from it while objects resembling levers, unattended, rose and fell on their own, throbbing tumorous bulbs exhaled wind from pores while wild metal limbs extended then retracted in rhythm like an arachnid in pulses of death. It was there and did not speak for there was no language for it—no mouth either.

    The rain went as quickly as it had come and the sun unmasked from a cloud, sent golden refractions through droplets caught on the grass in the yard; a low faint rainbow hung across the path to the work van and the two men said nothing and went to the board with the body. In quiet, besides the overwhelming whippoorwill calls of the forest beyond, the men loaded the corpse into the rear of the van, undressed from their hazard garb then rounded the van to the cabin on their respective sides; Bud strode with a puffed chest like a cartoon pigeon, his hat returned to his head, bill cocked oddly, while C.W. pushed his pinky into his left ear again, perhaps digging for brains for the first knuckle was gone in his head and he scraped with his nail while blinking furiously.

    They sat in the van and as it came alive with Bud twisting the key, the two of them flinched, their eyes scanning the road, the thickets out by the stream, the trees of the stripping forest.

    Rubber ground against soil and gravel as the van kicked from the path onto the street and blue smoke rose from the exhaust and took the road from Redman Branch—at a pace faster than it had arrived—through a forest where houses or outbuildings stood spaced in clearings sometimes acres from another; the van turned onto Englewood Road and continued. Bud’s hands trembled whenever he relaxed them on the wheel, so he held on with both hands properly. C.W. pushed deeper into his ear canal and hissed through his teeth; upon removing his hand from the side of his face, Bud shot him a look. Thin blood collected on C.W.’s fingernail and the younger man wiped it on his jeans, down his thigh. A dribble of blood collected on the young man’s ear lobe. He pushed his fore knuckles into his closed eyes, rotating his fists on their wrists.

    “Stop,” said Bud.

    “I feel sick or somethin’.”

    “Stop.”

    “Woozy.” C.W. raked his clawed fingers down his eyes.

    Instantly, the van came to a sliding halt and its left wheels left the ground for a moment before it rocked gently on the righthand shoulder of the way where the trees had been cleared for grazing land; taut barbed fencing stretched across posts on either side of the road where cows gnawed cud and watched without fascination. Bud erupted from the carriage with it still running—the driver’s side door remained open. His hat left him so that his thin hay-textured hair stood sweaty off his round head. The man galloped from the vehicle, arms pumping madly in the dash.

    The passenger door of the van swung out and C.W. spilled on the shoulder blindly, landed knees first, and blinked his partially destroyed eyelids. He crawled on elbows, slick fingers madly entering his ears.

    Bud ran till the van was out of sight, till he caught a coughing fit; the man spat and looked back the way he’d come while wiping his mouth with a forearm then his gaze settled further up Englewood and he took a measured pace in the direction opposite where he’d left his coworker.

    The older man stopped on the side of the road after perhaps fifteen minutes and leaned against a fence post where his breathing went softer then he angled back to look at the sky; he took a palm across his head to flatten his wildered hair.

    He tilted his head like a curious dog at a noise then cupped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes closed.

    2 Comments
    2024/03/07
    11:26 UTC

    9

    I didn’t want to redecorate our dream home. I’ll be paying for that mistake for the rest of my daughter’s life

    The last owner called them his “ultra violet lights,” bathing the grounds of our dream home in an eerie shade of purple.

    I found them comforting, especially on those late summer nights when I had to rock our newborn back to sleep.

    My husband Ben wanted to replace them. The gardener who sold us the property begged us not to. “Anything that grows under their glow will be bountiful, wild and, well—a little weird. But if you take it away, they’ll wither.”

    The garden was half the reason we bought the place: endless flowering plants, trees, and leafy ferns — all in beautiful shades of pink.

    So the lights stayed.

    As the garden thrived, so did our little family. Tracie started walking at four months, running and climbing at five.

    I’d hear giggles coming from her room in the middle of the night, and find her peering out the window at the pink plants.

    I didn’t worry when her hair fell out. But when it grew back looking like matted Spanish moss, we took her to a pediatrician.

    They sent a sample to a lab, and ordered tests for Argyria. Doctor said he’d never seen skin such a sickly blue.

    By the time we started connecting the dots, it was too late.

    When Tracie’s irises turned the same color as the garden flowers, Ben taped trash bags over the nursery windows.

    When Tracie tore them to shreds with new jagged black fingernails, Ben smashed the cursed lights with a bat.

    When the garden itself shrieked in protest, and Tracie withered like a prune, I called the previous owner.

    “I told you, whatever grew in their light…” he scolded me, as he screwed in the replacement bulbs.

    Tracie lives outside now, filthy and feral. She’s the size of a gangly teenager at less than a year old, walking on inhumanly stretched limbs.

    I see her bathing in the alien glow that first reshaped her. She looks at me too, sometimes. There’s something like recognition in her eyes. Like a piece of my little girl is still there.

    My husband made the mistake of approaching her to try and bring her back inside. Almost got his eye clawed out for his trouble.

    I’ve cried until it hurts. I don’t sleep, so much as black out from exhaustion every few days. I don’t know what to do.

    How can I try to help her? How do I explain this to my parents who want to see their granddaughter?

    1 Comment
    2024/03/06
    22:41 UTC

    7

    When Shadows Pass

    Out of respect for the dead, the funeral is held indoors, in a room devoid of light.

    I don't see the other mourners; I feel and hear them: their warmth, their breathing and their sobs.

    For one symbolic moment only, the priest lights a candle—a small candle, which flickers faintly, solely for the purpose of being snuffed out—to remind us that we, too, burn but for a short time, before returning to the essence. Everything burns briefly, even love, even shadows.

    “We are gathered here today,” says the unseen priest, “to put to final rest a darkness…”

    I lost my own shadow five weeks ago.

    It fought bravely for months against the dissipating sickness, fading gradually until the day I went outside and there was nothing of it left. The sun—it shone as if fully through me.

    What does it even mean to be no barrier to light?

    Physically, it feels no different.

    Yet the psychological impact is immense.

    There is no cure. Once a shadow begins to lighten, disperse, it is merely a matter of time. That time can be extended, by the lightbox treatment, for example, but it's expensive and horrific in its own right.

    I didn't go through it.

    I chose to let my shadow die naturally.

    But I know someone who clung to hers, unable to let it go, and spent hours, naked, in the lightbox, irradiating her body with light in the hope of strengthening her shadow, darkening it, if only temporarily.

    And, temporarily, the treatment works. Shadows return briefly to their original blackness.

    Then die anyway.

    What, exactly, is a shadow?

    If it is a consequence of one's materiality, does the lack of shadow suggest immateriality?

    Everyone can see me.

    Everyone but the sun, which both sees and not sees.

    In the morning, when I sit by the window and drink my coffee, the dawn light falls on my face and behind it. I am illuminated yet I am simultaneously transparent.

    This is impossible.

    If all the light falls on the exterior of my body and all the light passes through me, I am light's doubler: amplifier of the sun.

    These are just some of the problems being posed by the new meta/physics.

    Already experiments are underway to see if the shadowless could be harnessed for energy; already, we are treated as unnatural, by doctors, by society at large. But what if the dissipating sickness spreads, what then?

    Then, the few remaining shadowed shall be hunted down and killed until only the shadowless are left, and the paradigm will be reversed.

    Is this an evolutionary process? Is it caused by man-made changes to the environment?

    Is it divine?

    Is it restricted to the Earth?

    Perhaps I would still have a shadow on the Moon.

    On Mars...

    Such thoughts flow through my mind in the dark as the priest asks us to pray:

    “Though my shadow’s passed, I am still human.”

    “Though my shadow's passed, I am still child of the Lord."

    I pray to God.

    0 Comments
    2024/03/06
    15:55 UTC

    5

    The Monster in the Mirror was Real, A Horror of the Body

    I was 7 when I first saw it. Playing in my room with my sister’s dollhouse, I saw the giant, hairy beast in my mirror. I remember jumping away from the doll house when its deep, sunken eyes made my gaze. I screamed to my mom, and even though she checked every nook and cranny of the room, I knew it was still there, waiting for me to slip up.

    As the years went on, the problem had only gotten worse. My mother finally got me in to see a therapist, thinking it was the product of an overactive imagination. Several rounds of medication later, and I could finally bear to look at myself in the mirror, knowing the vision of this beast was gone for good.

    Twenty years later, I’ve made a name for myself. I have many followers online, which is why I am being careful in posting this. I can’t keep it inside forever. I just can’t. Yesterday, I saw it again for the first time in years. I had done my makeup for a little coffee date in the city, got my outfit together, and hit the town. In retrospect, I had forgotten to take my pills. It was a quick decision, but by the time I realized, I was already downtown. I could just take them when I got back.

    The city felt overwhelming, but I had found that it was the kind of overwhelming I usually thrived in. Today, however, was different. I felt like someone was following me. In the city, you’re just a dot in the big painting, and odds are, nobody was following me, but I felt off nonetheless.

    I walked in front of an old, abandoned department store. One of the victims of the pandemic, though still standing tall in all its unflinching isolation. The windows were still a bit reflective, and I saw it behind me. I jumped back, and the pedestrians looked for a moment, only to go back to their lives, their toil. The longer fur, the bigger demeanor, and the dripping fangs caught my gaze, and I ran, stumbling over my heels, but refusing to stop for anything or anyone. I knew it was all in my head. The doctors, the therapists, the psychiatrists had convinced me of that throughout the years.

    I ran as fast as I could, until I was at the little coffee shop, barely able to catch my breath. My date was sitting there, and he was just.. Staring at me. I walked over, introduced myself. For this story, I’ll use Katy, though I have changed my name for anonymity. These kinds of breaks in reality were common, but if anyone in my life knew I was feeling it, I just know my whole life would fall apart. I caught my composure and began the date in earnest. He was nice. A career man finding time for love. He was a romantic, and I was definitely feeling it. I liked him. He made a couple odd glances at me, perhaps my mask falling momentarily, but overall it was a wonderful little date.

    Moving myself back to my little loft apartment, I saw many reflections, the beast shifting in size and shape, but textured the same. The eyes moved towards me, and the beast smiled. Or at least I thought it smiled. The thing became more humanoid the more I saw it, its eyes settling, its mouth forming, and its teeth receding until it looked almost human, but not quite. The giant feet, hands, and wide stature forced itself into the corners of my vision, and as I got out of the bus taking me home, I ditched my heels and made a run for that. I pulled my blinds, turned off all the lights, and attempted to breathe for once. I had calmed myself down a bit.

    After my long shower, I washed all the inlay sweat and dirt from the city until I felt clean. Mostly clean. As clean as I could reasonably be. As the steam washed over my bathroom mirror, I opened the door to let the cool air defog it a bit, so I could at least take my pills and do some minor skin care. I used a rag to wipe off a little square of my reflection, and began my work. Or at least I tried. I tried so hard, but my hands would not move, my body frozen, my feet planted firmly on the bath matt. I saw it, first out of the corner of my eye. The beast, oh the beast that had haunted my nightmares and taunted me on my sleepless nights. It stood behind me, embracing my shoulders and smiling. It was my height, just covered in matted fur and moisture.

    The thing smiled at me, it DARED to smile at me. With the last remaining shred of energy, I reached for my pills, downed double my daily dose. I needed to get this thing out of my head. I was feeling good about myself, and this beast was not going to ruin that. As the pills hit my stomach, the beast faded, and I took a sigh of relief. I looked at myself, fully, in the mirror, and before I knew it, I had taken a long, hard look at myself. Before my very eyes, the reflection that looked back at me and shifted, slowly at first, barely noticeable, but by the time my face donned a full beard, I was freaking out. My figure had pushed itself out and up, from an hourglass to an upside down triangle. I had seen this figure before.

    A crisis came over me, and I looked down at myself and saw the strings of fur growing. Was this some effect of a full moon? I didn’t know, but I saw clearer than day. I fell to the ground, screeching at the top of my lungs as the visual pain had suddenly become very real. Before I knew it, my upstairs neighbors were banging on my door. I donned a bath robe and a face wrap and put them at ease. To them, I had just taken a nasty fall but I was ok. I had to be ok. My phone began to ring, and I scrambled to get it. It was the man. Let’s call him David. I answered with a quick hello, but winced back when I heard the voice that came out, dark and gravely, far too masculine for the man on the other side. I coughed, tried to force my pitch back up, and talked to him for a moment. He grounded me. I told him I had an allergic reaction and apologized. He knew. Everyone knew.

    I went back to the shower, shaved every part of my body over and over again until my skin was red with a rash, nicks and cuts all over from all the times my shivering hand slipped. I had used some bandages to patch myself up, but as I looked in the mirror, I felt better. I was red, but I was hairless yet again, and I felt the rage washing away. I realized I had forgotten my other pills. I downed the first two, and slipped a couple little blue pills underneath my tongue. Back to normal. Back to normal. Back to normal. My thoughts raced. I stared at the pile of fur on my bathroom floor, irrefutable proof that this wasn’t just a vision. Is this the new me, or is this the me I have always been but too dumb to notice. My mom always told me not to play with my sister’s doll house. I shouldn’t have been playing with it anyway.

    A little boy should be playing with legos, not dolls. My mom always said that. Twenty years later, I was a girl in the city. A barrage of hormones and pills later, and I felt my body realigning with who I always was.

    Not the beast I saw in the mirror.

    0 Comments
    2024/03/06
    10:45 UTC

    5

    Scalp Cleanse

    “Basically darling ... I want those maggots out of your hair.”

    Lena hovered over the glass table, both hands flat on its surface. She stared into her daughter’s eyes, searching for the child she remembered raising: the one before the piercings, metal implants, and cobalt hair dye.

    Samantha stared back unblinkingly, her irises dark and red. “Well mom, I respectfully disagree. It’s an acceptable fashion trend, and I intend to follow it.”

    Lena’s hands smacked the glass surface, harder than she intended. The impact sent vibrations across the water jug and peanuts. “Well I don’t think it’s acceptable to turn my house into a fly-ridden dumpster. I think it’s finally time for you to grow up.”

    The counsellor sitting between them sipped from her glass. “Now Ms. Hawcroft, your daughter has already explained that her accessories will not fly about your home.”

    “They’ll only follow me,” Samantha said. “My scent.”

    “Your daughter is entitled to embrace her own personage however she wishes. Don’t you think you could make some compromises to accept her appearance?”

    Lena, who had tried to be the progressive kind of parent who would pay for this sort of counselling session, now realized her mistake. The experts promoting the emotional health of single-parent families seemed to be under the ever-expanding misconception that youth should be pardoned for anything and everything.

    Lena had to draw a line.

    “Look, I don’t care what clothes Samantha wears, what tattoos she’s got, or even what feed raves she goes to.” Lena leaned on the table again. “I think I’m being very reasonable. The only compromise I want, as a parent—as a cohabitant—is no flies in my daughter’s hair.”

    “They’re called Faunas, mom.”

    “Ms. Hawcroft.” The counsellor set down her drink. “Faunas are a cosmetic accessory. They’re a sterile, non-communicable fashion trend used across all age groups. Surely you saw our secretary with butterflies across her headband?”

    Lena rolled her eyes. “Yes.”

    “I have a friend with honeybees that follow her wherever she goes. There are children who opt for ladybugs. Not to sound like a spokesperson, but I think Faunas are a healthy way to maintain our ties to nature here in the upper cities.”

    Lena gazed at her reflection in the table. She could see the disgust in her own eyes. “Can I at least request that Samantha switches to something more presentable? I don’t want house-guests to see hairy green horse flies filtering through our flat. They’ll think something’s dead.”

    Samantha simply turned to the counsellor, who seemed unbothered by this revelation.

    “This is not a question of what animals you find repulsive,” the counsellor said. “It is a matter of you accepting your daughter. I think people are very tolerant of any variety of Fauna.”

    Lena stared blankly at the woman’s plucked eyebrows. She was such a paradox. How could such a reticent, normal-looking professional have no reservations about her vampire child. Couldn’t she see that Sam needed some pushback? Some degree of adjustment for the real world?

    “Do you know anything about the social scenes or other pressures that your daughter might be under?” the counsellor asked.

    “No.” Lena leaned back into her chair. “Clearly I don’t.”

    There was a pause where the counsellor made direct eye contact with Lena, as if imparting a counsel too profound for simple words. “If I may be blunt, Ms. Hawcroft, this all stems from a lack of interest in your daughter. Your apathy, at least up until this appointment, has driven her to make the decisions she has.”

    Samantha sat up and brushed her bangs.

    “Psychologically speaking, the gothic and dark subcultures of feed raves are born from a lack of attention. They’re a rebellion. If you want Samantha to ‘grow up,’ you need to start by opening a channel of communication, one based on support for her interests.”

    Lena took a moment to exhale. She looked at Samantha’s bangs and imagined a fat fly crawling across them. “So you say the bottom line is ... she keeps the bugs.”

    “No. The bottom line is: spend more time together. That is the compromise you must both make.”


    After an awkward shuttle back to their apartment, Lena admitted that a better connection with Sam would be a solution for many of their disputes. Anything was better than the constant silence they exchanged, the dead glances with no communication. They needed to start bonding together, however incrementally.

    Although Lena had no desire to experience the new anarchic state of music first-hand, she was starting to suspect that if she joined Sam at a feed rave, it could be the first step towards something. A conversation. A hello. Anything. If I have to do it—God help me—I will, Lena thought. I’ll go to a feed rave.

    Later that night, Lena approached the band posters that hung on her daughter’s door. She knocked on the face of a crimson-eyed vocalist. The poster proclaimed that his band was ‘All Dead, All Gone.’

    “So, what do you think Sammy ... can I join you tonight? I think that counsellor did have a point.”

    There was a pause in which the door remained closed. Very slowly the knob turned, revealing a tired-looking Samantha with wet, soapy hair. She wiped foam from under her red eyes. A few piercings had been temporarily removed, leaving empty holes. “It’s alright mom. It’s fine.”

    “What did you do?”

    “I rinsed my hair. I’m not getting the Faunas.”

    Lena instinctually lifted her hands, wanting to inspect her daughter’s head. But she resisted, forcing her palms back down. “So. What made you change your-”

    “Just please don’t come to any of my rave stuff. Okay? That’s all I ask.” Her daughter gazed imploringly, seeking some kind of acceptance.

    Lena was unsure if this counted as a victory or loss. Would the counsellor see this as progress? “Okay. Well. Just be home before morning.”

    “I’ll try.”

    The door closed, and Lena was left standing alone again. She tried, briefly, as she often did, to decipher the collage on Samantha’s door. The post-apocalyptic band names, the photos of feed cables stretched into guitarists ... was this the cause of Samantha’s acting out? Or just an expression of it?

    In Lena’s observations of the posters she came across a cadaverous singer with transparent skin, his organs fully on display. Above his head hovered a crown of thousands of gnats, fanning outward like a black flame. It must have been the look Samantha was going for.

    Lena inspected the singer’s eyes and wondered what pigment they had been before he’d dyed them so dark and red. Did his mother know he looked like this? Had she cared to stop him? Had she tried?

    0 Comments
    2024/03/05
    20:21 UTC

    8

    The Humbuzz

    I pulled off the highway, into a small town—the western half of it anyway—looking for a place to rest, trying to mend a broken heart.

    It was a clear summer afternoon.

    Hot, lazy.

    According to the town sign, its population was 38,000, but I saw barely anyone in the streets.

    The shops, banks and offices were open, but there was nobody around.

    Every once in a while, a warm breeze blew, whispering through the thick leaves of mighty trees, disturbing—if only gently—the near-otherworldly stillness of the place.

    I stopped finally at a lodging called the Fifth Inn of the Highway, walked across the freshly asphalted parking lot, which felt hot even through the soles of my shoes, and entered to the sound of bells.

    Blessed A/C.

    A woman sat behind the front counter reading a magazine. She put it down. “May I help you, traveler?” she asked.

    I explained I needed a room.

    “You must be an awful way from home,” she said, “because you don't sound much like a local highway’er.”

    I told her where I was from and why I was far away from there.

    “Romance. It sure will get you moving.”

    Even over the sound of the A/C I could hear another sound, another droning. The woman must have noticed my noticing, because she said, “You hear that, eh?”

    “Yes.”

    “We call that the Humbuzz. Or sometimes the Rumblewheeze.”

    “What is it?”

    “One of the songs of the Highway.”

    “The interstate?” I asked.

    “That's what outsiders call it, sure. The only way into town, and the only way out. You must have come that way yourself.”

    I admitted I did.

    I noticed that the magazine she'd been reading, the one she'd put down when I'd entered, was from 1957. “You come at a good time,” she continued. “When even outsiders hear the Humbuzz it means the day is close.”

    “What day?” I asked. “And what did you mean by one of the songs of the highway? And is there really no other way out of here?”

    “You sure ask a lot of questions,” she said, and for a moment I thought I had offended her. Her eyes thinned; then bloomed open, accompanied by a smile. “That's good. Very, very good.”

    “Sorry. I didn't mean to interrogate…”

    “Let me start with the last. There are no other roads into and out of town. So no other way by car. There were, of course, before the Highway, but they’ve been let to settle into a state of utter disrepair.

    “As for what I meant by songs, I meant it the way it's meant. Just as a bird sings, the Highway sings. Each song, saying a different thing, marking a different occasion. The Humbuzz, for example, is a hunger song.

    “So when I say the day, I mean the Feast Day.”

    She smiled again.

    I wasn't sure how to respond. She had answered my questions without helping me understand. Indeed, what she was saying sounded crazy.

    “It helps to understand the history of this place,” she said to break my silence. “Every place has its experiences from which its traditions are born. Before the Highway, this town wasn't much of anything. An outpost. Then the Highway came. First just two lanes, but even those helped the town grow. Traders stopped by. Travelers such as yourself. Some passed through, leaving only their money. Others stayed, contributing lifeblood to the community. Over time the Highway expanded, from two lanes to four, to the sixteen you see today. Eight lanes each way,” she said, her voice inflected with emotion, “my god, how it's grown.”

    “Is there—a museum, or perhaps somewhere I could learn more about… this history?” I asked. I was feeling a distinct urge to back away, out the front door of the Inn, to my car.

    “No real museum. Our history is more of what they call oral history. Passed down from generation to generation, you understand. But if you want to see the real heart of the town—where all the great things happen—I would suggest the Overpass.”

    The overpass?”

    “There's only one, spanning the glorious width of the Highway and connecting this, here, western half of town with the eastern half.”

    “That does sound interesting,” I said. “I think I will go see it. Thank you.”

    With that I turned and walked toward the exit.

    My heart was beating incongruously quickly, as if it knew somehow more deeply than even my mind that there was a wrongness to this place.

    “If you still want a room, there are plenty available. Come back soon!” she yelled after me.

    The bells bid me goodbye and I returned to the blistering heat of the outside.

    Once safely in my car, I exhaled, started the engine and retraced my route, heading back to the highway on-ramp—only to find that it had been closed. Construction pylons blocked the way, and a teenager in a reflective vest, holding a stop sign loitered off to the side. I rolled down my window. “Hey,” I yelled.

    He ambled over. “Yo.”

    The Humbuzz was almost overbearing this close to the highway.

    Cars sped past unceasingly.

    “How long is the ramp closed for?” I asked.

    “Oh, dunno. Until the other end of the Feast Day, I guess. That's how it usually goes.”

    “So it's not closed for repairs?”

    He took this as an affront. “My guy,” he sputtered. “Like don't even say that outloud, OK? Like wipe it from your mind. Repairs? We keep the Highway, every little part of it, feeling good all the time.”

    “So you could let me through,” I said.

    He stood, leaning on his stop sign.

    I rephrased. “Will you please let me through? No one has to know.” When he still didn't react, I added: “I could make it worth your while.”

    “Listen, guy. I would know, OK? Me and the Highway, and that's enough. I suggest you, like, find a bed and wait it out or something. And—and… count yourself lucky I don't turn you in to the Highway Patrol.”

    “Turn me in for what?”

    “For trying to circumvert traditions,” he said. “Trying to pay me off. Trying to make use of the Highway during non-use times…”

    “Fine,” I said.

    I turned the car around, drove aimlessly for half an hour, taking in the empty streets and highway-themed businesses: Bank of the Big Road, Median Mart, a pub called The Unpaved Shoulder: before deciding to park in a small lot outside a grocery store (“Blacktop’s Vitals”) and try to get some sleep…

    I was startled awake by a flashlight to the face!

    I jumped.

    Two faces were peering in through my driver's side window. The one belonging to the Highway Patrolman not holding the flashlight banged on the glass with his fist.

    “Get out of the vehicle, sir.”

    I was groggy.

    “There's no loitering here and no vehicular shut-eye. Get out of the vehicle and show me your ID.”

    A cop is a cop, I figured. I did as told.

    “How long you been here?” one of the cops asked, after scrutinizing my driver's license.

    “Do you mean parked here, or here in town?”

    “In town.”

    “I guess maybe eight hours.”

    “You sure about that? Think hard, sir. You sure it's less than twenty-four hours?”

    “I'm sure,” I said.

    The Highway Patrolmen grinned at one another.

    I noticed, then, that even though it was now late in the evening, the streets were filled with people. Men, women, children. All speaking and laughing and going generally in one direction.

    “Here's what's gonna happen,” said the Patrolman who'd banged on my window. “It's a Feast Day so we're not going to cite you today. But you're not gonna get back in your vehicle. You're gonna come with us. In fact, see those people over there?” He pointed at a disparate group of about a dozen people, being propelled forward by the rest of the crowd. “I want you to join up with them, do what they do. Enjoy yourself.”

    Preferring not to get on the bad side of local law enforcement, I obliged.

    Whereas before the fact there was no one outside had seemed eerie, the sheer number of people out-and-about now seemed impossible. It was as if all 38,000 of the townspeople had left their homes.

    The Humbuzz was deafening.

    When I neared the group I was supposed to join up with, one of them—a young woman—caught my attention, asked me, “Are you a tourist?”

    “I guess you could say that,” I yelled over the noise.

    “I'm a student. Anthropology major,” she yelled back. “Isn’t it amazing, being able to experience something like this?”

    “Something like what?”

    “I told you the day was at hand, my dear,” said a familiar voice.

    It was the woman from the Fifth Inn of the Highway.

    “That's Salma,” said the student. “She's one of the Initiates this year. She's letting me witness so that I can describe it all in a paper I'm writing.”

    Salma took my hand in hers. “Yes,” she said. “We absolutely love when outsiders take an interest in our little town.”

    “And where exactly are we going?” I asked.

    “To the Overpass.”

    It soon loomed into view, a long, dark structure across the endless motion of the Highway, painted luminescently at night by the blurring red-and-white lights of the cars passing north and south, going from somewhere to somewhere.

    The crowd organized itself into several groups.

    One, the largest, remained at a distance from the Overpass, observing.

    Another became a line that ascended the steps of the Overpass one-by-one like marching ants. Salma belonged to this one.

    I was part of the third group, by far the smallest; my group waited.

    “What's going on?” I asked the student.

    “The people inside, they're preparing for the ritual. The observers are praying, summoning the Spirit of the Highway.”

    “And us—what are we doing?”

    “Waiting,” she said. “When the Spirit has been summoned and the Overpass purified and prepared, we'll be let in to witness.”

    Cars roared on the Highway. “I don't think I can stand the Humbuzz getting any louder. I can barely hear anything.”

    She laughed. “Humbuzz? This isn't the Humbuzz anymore. It's the Bloodthunder.”

    My pulse quickened.

    I could barely repeat the words: “Bloodthunder?”

    “The Song of the Feasting.”

    Then—just like that:

    Silence. All the din and noise gone; sliced away. I could hear my own breathing. Heavy, unsettled. How I longed to be back in my car. My city. My life. I had broken up with her—but I would have done anything to have her back, to feel her body against mine. I would have forgiven her for everything.

    A voice that sounded like bones dragged across cracked asphalt commanded us to enter.

    And so we did.

    Single file up the stairs and into the Overpass.

    It would have been entirely dark inside if not for the glass floor—below which, cars and trucks and RVs thundered silently by, illuminating the interior in wisps of ghostly whites and bloody, vivid red. Walking on the floor felt like floating above the world.

    I was ninth in line.

    When the first person had reached the middle of the Overpass, we stopped.

    A word was said (a vile, inhuman word):

    A hole in the floor uncovered.

    Wind rushed in. Wind and the smell of car exhaust, burning gasoline and oil.

    And the hole screamed—

    I swear it screamed like a man dying from hunger screams for food!

    “From the Highway I came, and to the Highway I shall return,” a voice said, and the first person in line repeated.

    Ahead of me, I saw the student shift uncomfortably.

    Then two figures grabbed the first person in line and thrust him head-first into the hole.

    I shut my eyes—

    I merely heard the impact.

    (Below, the traffic did not cease. It did not pause or stutter. It just flowed on, having absorbed the sacrificial body of the man thrown down the hole. It had obliterated him—atomized him into a million particles of flesh, each of which ended up on a windshield of a vehicle, to be wiped away by wipers no differently than a splattered insect or a drop of rain.)

    This was followed by the almost miraculous change of the hole’s scream into a beautiful song.

    Temporarily.

    When the scream became again, the next-in-line repeated the ritual words (“From the Highway I came, and to the Highway I shall return.”) and was fed to the Spirit of the Highway.

    It is difficult for me to explain how I felt then, as the line shortened, scream became song became scream again, and I stepped ever closer to the hole. I didn't want to die; but neither did I yearn to live.

    I kept picturing her face.

    Why had I left her?

    When came the student’s turn, she resisted.

    She resisted to the very brutal end, yelling about how they had tricked her, how she was here only to learn, to observe and analyse. How they were all monsters, savages, no better than the godless tribes who'd welcomed guests into their camps and flayed and cooked and eaten them!

    And :

    Drop—Smash—A human mist sprayed across speeding cars…

    I was ready. I truly was ready.

    Listening to the beautiful song, waiting for it to end: for the scream to return: scared horribly of death but accepting of it.

    But the song didn't end. On and on it continued, until the hole was shut, the wind receded to a breeze—a warm, summer breeze whispering through leaves; and a voice said, “Let us now rejoice! For It is satiated!” (and outside, beyond the Overpass, 38,000 people in unison chanted: “Long may It nurture and bisect us!)

    Who remained of us were then led out of the Overpass and down the stairs.

    The inhabitants of the town celebrated long into the dawn, but I made my way promptly to my car. The on-ramp was still closed and I didn't want to risk sleeping in my car, so I drove to the Fifth Inn of the Highway, where I waited for Salma. When she arrived, still under the ecstatic influence of that night's events, I paid for a room.

    In the morning, when I returned my key, she asked me if I had given any thought to staying in town. I said No, and sensed the pylons blocking the on-ramp being taken away. Sure enough, the ramp was clear and I merged onto the highway and drove away. In the rearview, I saw the town—both halves of it—disappear into the indistinguishable distance.

    That was all many years ago now.

    Since then, I have driven across the country many times. Never have I found that town again. I've also been unable to locate it on a map. But every once in a while, when I'm on a highway and the sun goes down, I hear, faintly, as if from behind a concrete wall (or, perhaps, the wooden sides of a coffin) the Humbuzz. At those times, I stay on the highway, press the accelerator and drive away, switching on the wipers even on clear summer days. Just in case.

    0 Comments
    2024/03/05
    15:22 UTC

    4

    L'amour Looks Something Like You

    L'amour Looks Something Like You by Al Bruno III

    The bed was too small, the room was too warm and her clothes were too tight but in a matter of moments one of those problems would be solved for her. Kate felt his hands snake up along her back and take hold of the zipper on the back of her black dress.

    She couldn’t believe she was doing this! He was half her age, half her age and beautiful. He still lived with his parents but he was undressing her like an old pro.

    The dress fell away and Kate felt a flush of uncertainty, these weren’t the perky breasts of a college hottie, these weren’t the hips of a girl flush with the promise of youth. Her shape was still lovely enough to catch a man’s eye but she knew her body had been marked by the passage of time; there were stretch marks and a tattoo that had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

    What would she do if he flinched away from the sight of her? She would die, she would just die.

    He didn’t look away and a little smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, an appreciative smile. Then he was pulling her close and closer still.

    There was stubble on his chin, his breath smelled like gum and his kisses were like candy. His name was

    Robbie. He was a valet and he had flirted with her as she dropped off her car and headed into the grand old hotel for the wedding reception. She was sure he gave the eye to all the middle aged broads that crossed his path, but he’d walked off the job to be with her hadn't he? Walked off the job with a breezy laugh of “They won't fire me.”

    What was it her old friend Debbie had said about cougars and cubs? Debbie was always one for smutty little remarks. She’d even made them when she was in hospice, trying to make the orderlies blush while she’s still had the strength to speak.

    What would Debbie say if she could see her now?

    Robbie had stripped Kate down to her plain cotton underwear. The panties of a woman with no expectations. His touch skirted the old scar that marked the place where the doctors had gone in to remove her cancerous womb. Did he know what that scar meant? Or was he too busy kissing just below her navel and working his way down?

    In spite of everything Kate giggled when those kisses reached their goal and he made himself busy. No one had done that in a while!

    Or with such thoroughness.

    It had been the wedding of a daughter of an old acquaintance, someone she had lost touch with since college and then found again thanks to the dubious miracle of Facebook. Kate decided to go on a whim, thinking it might be fun to see her old home town again. To see what had changed and what hadn’t. Maybe she would even rekindle an old friendship or two.

    She had avoided the actual ceremony however, wedding ceremonies left a bad taste in her mouth. She had been burned twice and that was enough, the only thing more expensive than her weddings had been her divorces.

    Now it was her turn to undress him. The terrain of his body was familiar but there were surprises. A pierced nipple, washboard abs and he was more than a handful in all the right places; and he was ready to go! No purple pills and pregnant pauses here.

    Pregnant.

    There was a word she didn’t like crossing her mind. Especially considering what she had lost at such a young age, even more so when she realized who else was at the reception.

    Of course she should have guessed. Hadn’t the invitation come from an old and mutual friend? Kate was civil enough when Scott her old fiancee called out her name and told her it was long time no see. He hugged her in a way that showed he still didn’t have the slightest idea how much he had hurt her way back when.

    He had smiled and told her she hadn’t changed a bit. He bragged that he was the manager of this hotel and he had charged the bride’s family half price for the affair. Then he had introduced his wife and offered to show her his wallet full of kids. The need for those kids was the reason he had left her within months after the hysterectomy.

    It was a clumsy move but she had excused herself by pretending her cell phone was on vibrate and there was an important call coming in. She made a show of talking

    to someone that wasn't there and made as dignified a run for the exit as she could.

    She hadn’t even known that she was crying until the handsome valet had asked her if she was all right. This was not the distracted concern of a well- trained employee but the tentative reaching out of a would-be friend. Ordinarily she would never have gone off with some stranger but Kate already felt like she knew him.

    It had been good to have someone to talk to, better than good, they found a booth in a little diner and talked for hours.

    Then he brought her home sneaking her into the house like they were a pair of horny teenagers. With the door closed behind them there hadn’t been the need for small talk.

    And now here she was holding him while he made love to her, running her nails along his wide back until he shivered. When she climaxed she cried out blissfully, carelessly.

    That cry brought Robbie's parents running into the room. Covering herself quickly Kate said the only thing she could think of, “Hi Scott, long time no see!"

    1 Comment
    2024/03/01
    17:25 UTC

    27

    I deserved the divorce. But no one deserves what happens to me at 3AM...

    Alimony bleeds me dry every paycheck, but that’s nothing compared to what I have to do each night.

    Last week, I came home to an intruder in my crappy studio apartment. He sat on the edge of my sagging Murphy bed, strangely out of place with his tailored suit and briefcase. His hawkish face was overshadowed by all-black eyes, staring at me behind silver spectacles.

    “Don’t be alarmed Mister Hinkle. I am Grk-Krk-hck—“ his name came out like a guttural coughing fit, “—but you may call me G. I’m here to discuss a settlement.”

    I wanted to run from the intruder. But the name… I actually knew it. “You sent me a letter a few weeks back. Big wax seal. You’re a lawyer?”

    He nodded.

    “Sorry, I read ‘Temporal Tribunal,’ and thought it was a prank.”

    “Afraid not.”

    I didn’t understand. “If she wants more money, I’ve got nothing else.”

    G laughed. A wheezing, sickly laugh. “I’m not here to collect your money. I’m here to collect time.”

    “Time?”

    “The Temporal Tribunal collects stolen, wasted time, and restores it to the rightful owner,” G said. “My, how you robbed your wife of her formative years.”

    I hung my head.

    “Before we take you to court, she asked to try a settlement. We’re proposing you repay her 5 years, a few hours at a time, over the next decade.”

    “And if I refuse?”

    G shrugged. “The Tribunal despises adulterers. You’d probably owe double.“

    I was going to wake up. This was a booze-fueled nightmare. “Deal.”

    G licked his pale lips.

    “Shake on it.” He held out his hand.

    His skin felt fibrous and coarse, like cheap sheets at a seedy motel. There was no border between the edge of his sleeve, and the beginning of his flesh. His suit WAS his skin.

    An impossible smile crossed his face, parting the skin of his cheeks all the way to his ears, revealing far too many teeth.

    “You’ll be seeing me again.” He vanished into coils of black smoke.

    True to his word, I see him every night at 3AM, leering at me from the foot of the bed with that hideous smile. When I blink, the clock jumps to 6– just minutes before my alarm.

    Figured it was a recurring nightmare, until last Friday night. I turned off my alarm, planning to sleep as late as my body allowed. I blinked away an entire weekend, walking at 6, Monday morning.

    I caught on slower than I’d care to admit: That thing my wife loosed on me was collecting my debt every night. A few hours each day, a few days each week.

    I have no idea what happens during those missing hours, but I suppose I'll have a long while to figure it out...

    10 years to go.

    3 Comments
    2024/03/01
    15:58 UTC

    10

    I have come into possession of a disturbing U-Matic format videotape

    A couple of days ago I scored a contract job to strip an old TV studio that’s been closed since the mid 1980’s. I’d like to be vague here, it was in a small mid-western city. The studio had been through the hands of at least two major owners, you could still see the outlines where the old network logos used to adorn the walls. The place was small, a tiny studio room, an equipment room and a relay antenna. I guess back in the 70’s and 80’s everywhere had to have a broadcast centre. Whatever network owned it last must have forgotten all about the place. According to some paperwork I found inside it seems to have been sitting empty since 1986. Mostly I was looking to strip the copper wiring and sort any equipment that might be worth selling on ebay. Normally I hired two guys who worked with me, but the place was so small I didn’t need any help on this job. I’d save money and do it myself.

    I started early, had all my tools and a small diesel generator to power them.

    There was a good haul of copper but most of the equipment was junk, apart from some proprietary video playing equipment. Nerds on ebay went crazy for stuff like that. It was dark when I finished clearing out the equipment room, a metal equipment cabinet was all that was left, it was locked. I used a crowbar to open it. Inside I found it completely bare, not even any shelves. The steel back of the cabinet was warped and bulging toward the wall. But the wall was flat, how was that possible? I shone my work light into the cabinet and saw a locking pin up in the corner. Pulling the pin released the rear of the cabinet with a pop and it swung open.

    I shone my light and revealed a tiny room. There was a small metal desk and chair with a phone. There was also an old U-Matic video editing and playing unit with a built-in monitor. On the desk was a briefcase. I was deeply unnerved by the room but too curious to leave well enough alone.

    The case was locked with a simple combination lock, but the case was so old and degraded I was able to easily pop it open with the crowbar.

    Inside were two video cassette tapes. They were U-Matic format, an antiquated tape format TV studios used to use. The first tape was labelled ‘Whistleblower’ and the second ‘Home Protection’. I was relieved, the room was clearly some kind of room to store pilot tapes or something. The networks hottest new property of 1982 or whatever. Was Whistleblower a show? It sure sounded like one, but it would have been way before my time.

    Well curiosity killed the cat, I wanted to see the pilots and I was pretty much done for the day. I ran a cable from my diesel genny into the room and powered up the player unit and slotted in the tape. It took some fiddling, but the unit came to life and started to play.

    I turned off my work light and sat at the desk as the blue glow of the screen lit the tiny room.

    A test card appeared and then video began rolling. There was no intro or titles, just raw footage, the monitor didn’t seem to have any audio output. A massive pit of some kind was shown. Men in strange hazard suits were milling around the pit, the kind of suits scientists wore when they were taking samples from a volcano. The picture was a little fuzzy and the colors faded. The pit was filled with large white satchels. Dozens of them, maybe more. There was a sudden flurry of activity. One of the men was gesticulating wildly at the pit. One of the satchels was moving, thrashing around. Many of the men fled from the pit area. The writhing satchel disappeared for a split-second and reappeared nearer the edge of the pit. Had the tape skipped? It happened again, the satchel seemed to move several feet in a single frame, it had moved right to the edge of the pit. The few men that remained were panicking. One of the hazmat men came into shot with a flamethrower. A huge stream of fire jetted out of the flamethrower into the pit, he focused the stream of flame on the writhing sack. Other hazmat-clad men returned, they seem to have rallied behind the guy with the flamethrower. They threw some kind of grenades into the pit that burst into intensely bright glowing light, some kind of incendiary grenades or flares. The whole pit was ablaze. Some of the other satchels started writhing in the flames. The men kept attacking the pit. The video cut off.

    What the hell did I watch? Was it news footage, what the hell was in the bags. It certainly wasn’t some unused TV pilot. My hands were shaking. Could it be some early found footage movie. Why was it stashed back here. I had to watch the second video. I ejected the first tape and put in the second.

    A title card appeared, ‘Emergency Broadcast Tape 4: Emergency Home Protection, again it had no sound. The picture was even more degraded than the first tape. Some graphics appeared showing a rifle and a shotgun with a big red ‘X’ through them, another graphic showed a combat knife and a machete, again they had red X’s through them. To the right a graphic of some road flares and a jerry can appeared with a big green tick beside each. Another graphic showed a Molotov cocktail with a large green tick. A warning appeared at the bottom of the screen. ‘Never use indoors’.

    You don’t say.

    The graphic disappeared and another appeared, it had a title ‘Sealing your home: The best defence’. Items on the graphic slowly appeared, there was clearly supposed to be a voiceover. Rolls of duct tape, caulk in a caulk gun and black plastic garbage bags appeared, all had green check marks. Another graphic appeared with a title ‘Critical’, below a container of household table salt was shown taking up the full screen with a large green checkmark, it was clearly important.

    What the hell was this?

    The video cut to the exterior of a typical suburban home, then it cut to the interior. A middle-aged couple were stood at their kitchen table. The man had a large handlebar moustache, the woman had thick glasses with big frames. It looked to be very late 70’s or possibly early 80’s.

    They had garbage bags, tape, a caulk gun and two containers of salt. The video cut to the pair near a window with the garbage bags and tape. They seemed to be sealing the window. The quality of the tape became worse and the U-Matic player gave out a nasty mechanical clunking, and the picture shut off.

    The tape was wedged in the machine, I couldn’t get it out. It might have been destroyed.

    What the hell were these tapes? What should I do with the one that was still working? I had a minor freakout there in the tiny room, but knew I wanted to get out of there. I stuck the ‘Whistleblower’ tape in my backpack, then disconnected the U-Matic unit from the generator. I sealed the cabinet entrance behind me with the locking pin. Quickly I got all my tools into the truck and got the hell out of there. I’d tell them the job was done, the place was ready for demolition.

    Driving home I couldn’t stop thinking about the first tape. The way the satchels just disappeared and reappeared frame to frame. I’ve stashed the tape somewhere safe. A buddy of mine went to film school, knows about editing. Might show him the tape, see if he thinks it’s genuine. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep right until I know the things I saw on the tape weren’t real.

    x

    2 Comments
    2024/02/27
    10:47 UTC

    2

    Stop-Motion Nightmare

    He found his old setup in his parent's attic. CRT television with built-in VCR, set atop a wooden table with dusty tapes underneath. The red light was on; it had stayed plugged in all these years. The remote left a clear rectangular space as he plucked it off the TV. 'No doubt the batteries are dead,' he thought, rubbing the buttons clean with the hip of his jeans. He pressed the power button, and it clicked on, static hissing on channel three.

    "Well, now," he whispered pleasantly to himself. "Isn't this nice?"

    He looked down beneath the table and began reading off the spines. Disney cartoons in their original cases, Independence Day, Star Wars Special Edition Trilogy, Pokémon volumes, and finally Fellowship of the Ring. After that followed the Black spines of movies recorded off cable, family get-togethers, birthdays, Superman...and his Goopy Friends!

    "Oh man!" He exclaimed as he dug out the tape and frantically wiped it off. He opened the top and blew softly into it, then gently pushed it into the VCR. He stopped and rewind it to the beginning, praying the strip wouldn't break, then hit play. Tracking ripples appeared on a black screen for a few moments, then a plain brown table with a dingy beige wall behind it. A multi-jointed Superman action figure walks in from the right side of the screen in basic stop-motion strides. Playdough was used to keep him standing up for each frame, and it was clear this was his first try at such animation. Superman stopped in the middle of the screen, turned toward the camera, and waved.

    "Hello." Said a little boy's voice off-screen, which sent his grown self into a laughing fit. He could not contain his joy as the variety show played before him. Through the years, his talent for stop motion grew more and more polished as Superman made friends and enemies with Play-Dough creatures. The shapes started primitive, but over time, their detail became more distinct with personality. Superman's friends were Danny, the mailman; Sally, the housewife; Lawnmower Doug; and Roofus, the mutt. His villains were the League of GROSS, with archvillain Grimer, Rela the seductress, Oson the Filthy, Slicker the Shadowy, and Seb, the moon tiger.

    Every episode usually began with GROSS capturing Sally and Superman and his friends coming to her rescue. The stories always varied, though, with Sally scolding Doug for always mowing in one episode, leading to him finally getting off his lawn mower and walking away in the same squat position. Daniel always chased Roofus, hurling letters at him, until one day, he accidentally threw a newspaper into Seb's mouth and had to perform the Heimlich maneuver on the panther. The final episode ended with Superman, the Goods, and GROSS dealing with a giant reeking havoc on their world. He saw the hands of his preteen self breaking down the buildings with his fists while the folks were cleverly animated to run away. The scene was harrowing, and as the giant arm lay defeated with the characters gathered around in celebration, he began thinking about the paths he had taken in life. How he could have done more if he hadn't...

    The screen flashed into static for a few seconds, and then he watched as Superman sat in an amazingly detailed room of clutter. A voice was scolding him off-screen. Superman just sat there staring at the camera till he finally got up and made sluggish steps toward the voice. The screams were familiar. The screen cut to an image of dark red clay without form. Then Sally was on screen, watching Doug mow once more when Superman came into view covered in the red clay. The screen cut to the mower riding over what might have been the couple.

    Now, another image of the red clay with elements of the members of GROSS mingled inside. Now Daniel and Roofus have letters in their throats.

    He sat in horror, watching the scenes he knew he had never animated, yet he molded them all the same. Superman was sitting in an attic, watching an old TV screen, when something crept behind him. Undulating crimson that contained images of his imagination that once showed great promise but now spelled doom. He watched the mass arch itself over Superman and felt a drop of liquid fall on his right hand.

    2 Comments
    2024/02/24
    10:46 UTC

    7

    The Hag Knocks Twice

    It was a quiet day in the abbey, the morning sun shone cooly on the dark flagstones and overgrown husks and thorns of the garden in winter. Brother Marcus sung as he tested the soil, as sighing in resignation as the frost held fast. He bundled his plain woolen robe around his thin body as he plodded up the staircase to the chapel.

    Marcus entered the small chapel, it was covered in stained glass depictions of the saints and a small cushion lay on bare stone past the half dozen pews. He lit a candle and began to chant his prayers when a cold wind blew out his candle, leaving him alone in the dark, save for the soft glow of the saints and angels in the stained glass. A sharp knock broke him from his trance.

    Ah, fie this for a lark, he thought, before quickly crossing himself for the sinful thought of being annoyed. Marcus walked to the gate to find a haggard old woman about to knock a second time. She gazed at him with a weary expression, she was dressed in rags and behind her sat an old mule. For a second, her gaze turned cold enough to chill him to the bone.

    “What brings ya here, Mam?” he asked politely.

    “Sir, my village has been pillaged and I only seek refuge,” she said. Her voice sounded cracked and she let off a racking cough.

    “Well, then come in. Yea look like something the cat dragged in if yea don’t mind me sayin’,” said Marcus. Truth be told, the abbey was closed to women, however, the hag was so old and feeble he severely doubted the Abbot would mind. He lead her into the kitchen and gave her some simple porridge with a hunk of bread.

    “I hope this suites you , Man, we live a humble life here.”

    The old lady trembled, tears in her eyes. “It is more kindness than any other place I have tried. I’ve tried stopping at Inns and they turned me away at the mere sight of me.”

    “We’re God’s house, we don’t turn away the sick, the poor or the stranger, you are welcome here as long as yea like. I do have to speak to the Abbot, but I’m sure he won’t mind.”

    “Thank you so very much Brother-”

    “Marcus,” he nodded as he gave the old woman another bowl of porridge and bread, which she ate hungrily.

    After she supped they went down to the Abbot, the stern old man looked at the Hag in her robes. After hearing her story he polished his glasses and gave her a kindly smile.

    “Whilst this abbey is sanctioned for Monks and our Brotherhood, I see no harm in you staying for a bit. Though, if you wish, our Sisters assist with the Cathedral and collect alms, you may be more comfortable with them.”

    “No, thank you sir, I only need a few days to rest and to heal, and I will trouble you no longer,” the old woman said in a weary voice.

    “As you wish. Marcus will show you where the spare room is. Keep note that our life is but a humble one, and we ask for silence during the day.”

    “Thank you so much for your kindness sir.” The old woman was once again near tears.

    “We are all welcome in God’s eyes, we are here to feed the sick and take in the worn. I am but his messenger,” said the Abbot as gathered up his keys and left the room.

    Marcus showed the old woman to her room, it was simple with a straw bed and a crucifix and a tiny window.

    “The Abbot has called for a physician, that shall attend to your wounds, M’am,” said Marcus as he left the old woman in her room. As he did, a cold wind passed him chilling him to the bone.

    The following week went by uneventfully, the Hag ate her humble meals silently. She did sit and listen to them chant, saying their voices soothed her rattled nerves. But other than her cold stare during choir practice, none of the monks noticed her. However, Brother Marcus could always feel her cold eyes on him, even when she was nowhere to be seen. The mule grew restless and nearly kicked him when he tried to feed the beast.

    The physician came and mended her wounds and at the end the week she packed up her things. The Abbot offered to find her a paladin to safeguard her journey, but the old woman stated that would not be necessary and thanked them for thier kindness.

    “You will be rewarded tenfold for what you have given me, sir,” said the Hag, her cold eyes piercing through Marcus and the Abbot as she left the abbey. Her walk was much stronger and she appeared to be in good health. The Abbot only wished she would have stayed with the Sisters or took his offer of protection, but if the old lady thought it was fair for her to travel, who was he to argue. As she road her mule into the village, large, swirling storm clouds lay overhead.

    Half a fortnight passed and the Black Death gripped the village below. The plague started with the Innkeepers and grew to the great Cathedral. The stench permiated the air and villagers prayed and moaned for thier suffering to end as thier bodies blackened with sores.

    The abbey, however, remained untouched. Even as pilgrims sought refuge and were treated by the physician, not one of the brother’s fell ill. In fact, their physician managed to heal a few of the stricken with frequent baths and packs of herbs. Brother Marcus was healthy but exhausted as his days were filled with finding fresh beds and medicines for the sick that sought refuge.

    As he was gathering wool blankets, Brother Marcus felt tice shoot through his blood. He wrapped one of the blankets around him as a loud knock sounded at the gate. He ran toward the gate to see the Hag standing on the other side, her icy glare cut straight through him.

    “I said I would grant you a gift tenfold, you have the gift of a humble life when the world around you is stricken,” she said.

    “I was only doing God’s work, as we do for all the sick and the weary,” said Marcus.

    “You have done more of God’s work than the Cathedral down below, they turned me away as did all of the Inns.”

    Fear pierced Marcus’ heart as the old woman’s icy stare turned toward him. “ But you, you followed God’s plan and get to live.”

    “I.. I only answered the door when you knocked,” stammered Marcu.

    “Exactly.” The old woman cracked her knuckles. “I only knock twice.”

    Fear froze the Monk’s heart as he turned away from the Abby’s door, finding it completely empty.

    0 Comments
    2024/02/24
    08:23 UTC

    0

    My Daughter is Acting Weird

    I felt someone watching me all the time in my house, for the past few days. My teenage daughter also been acting weird around the same time.

    "She is a teenager", said I to my wife, who raised similar concerns.

    "I can't bear with her, I am going to my parents house for a few days, you take care of her", said my wife as she was leaving.

    One day as I was combing her hair, felt something large against comb at the back of her head. Peered through her hair, I jumped back in terror, for a large eye was staring back at me.

    0 Comments
    2024/02/24
    08:18 UTC

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