First/Previous

She stood there in the doorway, a woman with cream colored hair which reached her shoulders; Andrew gathered a lantern, and her face was caught in the light of the thing and even with its glow, her pallor was unmistakable—the woman was thin, gaunt, and wore ragged clothing. Her body didn’t fill the frame and so she was small there in the negative blackness of the stairwell and she did not rush in, nor did she say a word upon seeing us. Trouble growled by our feet and the mutt exposed its teeth while lowering its head as though it was ready to pounce. Whatever fright was in the air, it was contagious, and I wanted to reach out and comfort the dog, but I caught the eyes of the woman as she placed a long hand by the hinge of the door. It flinched away so that she held her hands before her chest, clasped like in fists of prayer. Her expression softened and her eyes seemed to round in the glow of Andrew’s light—he held it high over his head to bathe the room in it.

Thank you, said the woman, finally, Can I please come in? I think something was chasing me.

“Come on,” said Andrew, waving the woman in.

She entered and we locked the handle while she stepped past us, and I could not help but notice her shadow grew long against the wall where my goods were stacked high—it was certainly a trick of tired eyes.

Gemma patted Trouble’s head while the dog shivered and even the woman stopped to hunker by the dog and when her hand touched the animal’s snout, the whimpers and growls were gone; Trouble blinked then leaned into the woman’s hand for a greater pet, pleased. The dog craned back so the woman’s fingers might itch her chin. A sigh escaped the animal.

In their petting, Gemma’s fingers glanced the woman’s and the girl recoiled.

“You’re cold,” said Gemma.

It’s cold outside. The woman maintained her attention with the dog. It’s been ages since I’ve seen a dog. Such a rarity. Loyal creatures. The woman’s eyes went unfocused and seemed to long for a place or a time. Then she snapped to attention once more and removed her hand; the dog, satisfied, moved across the room then fell onto its side where it curled onto my bedroll. I had one once. That was a long time ago. I miss him often.

“What’s your name? What were you doing out there? What was chasing you?” asked Gemma—the girl moved to flank me while Andrew sat the lantern on a nearby box.

The woman asked for drink and then asked pardon to sit among us in a circle by our bedrolls. She watched Trouble and when the question of her name came again, she answered, hand still holding the cup of water she’d been given with it resting partially against her crisscross sitting legs. Miriam. I watched her there and stood while the others gathered by her and she watched me back, but our flurry of stares were inconsequential as they drifted into mere glances which might hold a greater truth.

An uneasiness overcame me and coming fully awake as I did, I took by the window to smoke stale tobacco, to quell my nerves and I watch the blackness through the glass and the woman in tandem while conversation grew.

Gemma, keeping a skeptical space between herself and this new interloper, asked on, “Where did you come from?”

Westward. I saw a beast in the sky that way and it was heading over. There were these ruins and I fled to them. That was days ago. Surely, I thought, there should be place for cover here. The woman patted her hair down, but it remained untamed, and she sat the cup of water fully on the floor between her crossed legs. Cover there was, but more nasties hide in the dark here. So, I slept in the day and in the night, I felt a thing lurking after me.

Andrew angled the lantern so that it sat in their circle like a campfire, and I remained in shadow by the window, watching the wavers of smoke from the end of my cigarette.

The woman continued, I’m nearly starved. Something, she put up her hands as though defeated, Something followed me in the dark. I thought I’d found a place to hide, but it seems it wasn’t enough. She put on a gentle smile, cool, human. It’s a miracle I found you here. I thought I’d die without food.

I put the cigarette out against the glass and stepped over so that I hovered near Andrew’s shoulder where he sat on the floor. “Eat something then,” I said, “We’ve plenty. Drink too.” I nodded at the cup she’d ignored in her legs. “Go on. It’s safe.”

She blinked slowly then put the cup to her mouth after nodding in thanks. The woman could not drink, and water gushed from her chin then spilled down her chest.

“Oh no!” Andrew rushed for a rag for her to wipe herself dry and she thanked him, and she curiously sat the emptied cup to the side—her glances to the vessel forgave her confusion, her ignorance.

“Are you religious?” I asked her.

She dabbed the rag which Andrew had given her down her wet chest. In a world like this, who couldn’t be?

“Not everyone is. You well read on the books? The Ibrahim ones, I mean.”

No more than any other person. She sat the rag to the side and gave her attention to me fully.

“I have some scripture you might enjoy. It’s something I’ve thought of just now. It’s a proverb, actually—I haven’t thought about it for some time—you’ve reminded me of it.” I asked Gemma to retrieve more water. “Would you like to hear it? It’s only part of it. It’s not very long.”

I’m weakly read and worse on interpretations. If you insist, then I’ll listen. You’ve offered a roof to me—how could I deny your request?

“Good,” I said; Gemma refilled the cup and I motioned for Miriam to take it. She did. “It goes a bit like, ‘There are those that curse their fathers and don’t bless their mothers; they’re pure in their eyes and are not cleaned of filth; those eyes are ever so haughty, whose glances are disdainful; their teeth are swords and their jaws are set with knives and they devour the poor and the needy.’ Have you ever heard it?” I raised a questioning brow.

I haven’t. It’s strange for a proverb.

I nodded. “Drink. Try at least.”

Gemma placed her hands together in a ball and rested her chin against the mass, “What’s this? What’s going on?” she asked.

“Yeah,” added Andrew, “I’ve never heard that one.”

“Shh,” I said to them, then to Miriam I added, “Go on. Let’s see how you drink.”

It makes me feel weird—you looking at me like that. Are my eyes haughty?

“You can’t drink it.” I shook my head.

She held the quivering cup in front of her and frowned then steadied her hand. Why can’t I? Why? As though in protest at herself, she lifted the cup again to her mouth and again it spilled down her chin and wetted her chest—tears welled in her eyes (more from confusion than anything else I surmised).

“You’re dead,” I informed her directly; my words were harsh, but I did not intend on prolonging the guessing. Scratching my cheek, I examined her face more thoroughly, “Although I ain’t an expert on it, I’d imagine you’ve been that way for maybe five days or more.” I paused and took the cup from her slender fingers. “You said you were hunted, but you were caught long ago. How’s the feebleness? Lethargy?” Then I thought to add, “Hunger? Worst hunger you’ve ever felt—like there’s fire that won’t go out in your belly.”

Andrew took a step into our conversation and leaned in closer to me, “What are you talking about, Harlan? She’s dead? What does that even mean?”

I displayed my forearm where Baphomet had opened my skin and took the thumbnail of my other finger and slid it beneath the scab then ran it the length of my arm to let the blood wet down my arm. Miriam first looked in my the eyes, charming they were in the lantern light, and then she blinked and swallowed hard and watched my blood; her nostrils flared, and the pits of her eyes looked more sunken than ever as they stared on with the hunger of a leech woman.

Why? asked Miriam, Why am I feeling this way?

I covered my forearm and forgot whatever pain was there. “You’ve been turned. You are no longer human.” I shook my head and chewed on my tongue for a moment before continuing. “Put your hand to your heart there,” I pointed, “Tell me if you feel it beat. Is it there?”

Miriam did as she was told and as her hand crept to her breast to check if there was still a pulse in her body—once she’d checked over her clothes, she tucked a hand beneath her shirt. It must be faint is all. She insisted. But as she held her hand there where the drum of life should be, her shoulders went soft and she put the hand in her crossed legged lap, staring somewhere I couldn’t see.

“Where’ve you come from, leech woman?” I asked her.

Leech woman? What? The question was a mess, a scramble for an answer. Her last word hung in the empty air.

I shot a glance around the room and my two travelling companions had gathered on the wall which my back faced; Trouble kicked a sleeping leg on the spot she lay.

Gemma’s voice gave, “She’s one of those things? A demon?”

I shook my head then examined Miriam more fully—surely such news would give anyone pause. Her eyes still had that hungry quality, that envy for warm blood, but those eyes danced across the room. She glossed over us, across the shadows on the wall, then they fell back to her hands in her lap and that is when I felt a pang of guilt.

Without worry or assumption, I reached out a hand and touched her face to nudge her chin up so that she might look at me fully.

I’m dead? she asked.

“Don’t worry,” I offered, “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out, alright? There’s a possible cure.” Still holding her chin there in my forefinger and thumb, I moved to crouch then maneuvered so that her face was upturned, and her throat was caught fully in the light. I smiled.

It's fixable?

I nodded. “Of course.” Then I spoke to Gemma or Andrew; it didn’t matter who. “Hold her arms down!”

What?

With my free hand I launched my knife into her neck and black ooze erupted from the spot. I twisted around her so that I could get leverage with my arm beneath the skull and in a moment, she was in a headlock. The things eyes went white, and a hiss came from her open maw, exposing the wild fangs there. I stabbed again around the thing’s neck and kept going. “Grab her arms!” She flailed them madly, pallid fingers searching for my face in swipes—then she began to squeeze those long fingers onto my bicep and forearm which held her in a lock. “Hold her goddamn arms down!” I screamed.

Gemma and Andrew each fought with an arm on either of her sides while pain surged through me, and my hand pumped with the knife in pure animal rage and then I felt a give and I yanked on her head till I felt her spinal cord come loose. And I sawed with the knife.

Trouble had come awake and started a fit of barking.

Miriam’s expression was blank, and her arms stopped in their fight, and I lifted hard one last time, snipping whatever kept the head on her shoulders. The head fell away and her blood—if it could be called that—spat out from the neck in stuttered spouts.

My chest heaving, I looked upon the work, and felt the ick of the black substance—I dropped the knife and steadied my shaking hands.

“Why didn’t you get her arms when I said to?” I asked the children.

They sat on either side of the corpse, Gemma with a flat expression, and Andrew in a flurry of blinks. The boy looked at his hand and the girl rose to grab a linen piece so that she might clean herself of the muck; Trouble followed her—the dog’s tail remained beneath itself while it let out low whines like it tried soothing itself.

The last bits of adrenaline spasmed through me and I was sent to my bottom on the floor, and I stared at the head which had rolled away in the darkness to become a vague shape in the corner of the room.

“She’s dead,” said Andrew.

“Yeah,” said Gemma.

“So?” The boy posed it as a question like he intended to ask something greater, like he wanted all the answers, but all that could come to him was that solitary word.

The girl took the cloth she’d cleaned herself with and tossed it to Andrew. “You’re covered,” she said.

“She’s fucking dead,” repeated Andrew.

“Yeah. She hasn’t a head,” she said.

I merely watched them, catching my breath.

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“She was a demon,” said Gemma, “She would’ve done worse to us.” Then she offered a shrug as if to emphasize how she felt.

“Not a demon,” I corrected, “A mutant.”

They looked at me while Trouble scuttled over to the place where the dead woman’s head laid—the dog sniffed the unmoving object.

Gemma shrugged again, “Demon. Mutant. Doesn’t matter.” Her eyes fell to the corpse; it still sat upright like a person. “How’d you do that? How’d her head come off so easy?”

“It wasn’t easy,” I said.

Andrew moved from the gore and shooed Trouble from the decapitated head—upon catching a glimpse of whatever the dog had taken from the dead thing, the boy doubled over and spat a neat puddle of vomit directly in front of himself before choking on a few lingering gags.

Upon awakening from bad sleep, we hoisted the corpse outside into direct sunlight and watched as it blew away in flakes like hot ash. The stink of the creature remained, and we pushed forward on our journey just as it began to rain and in the slant of the downpour, we moved quietly and there was no sound save that falling water. The push from the ruins became a chore as overhangs became absent, as it was just the sky, and as we came to chain-link fences with markings half gone in corrosion which indicated: ianapolis International Air.

We passed by crumbled high streets that once sat atop concrete stilts and risen grounds of asphalt with patch rock for sides and spindly trash wood grew from places treacherously and we passed through that rain like it was a trial and when it ceased, we were dripping, and Trouble shivered at the touch of afternoon’s breeze. Eisenhower Highway took us on, and we went with it and there was little speaking; sometimes the children asked if it was good to be in the open, in the center of a road as we were, but I remarked that it was fine—it wasn’t, I only wanted to linger in the illusion of safety, remain ignorant—I was tired. The stink of the slain creature was gone from us, and little had been said about it.

The cramp of Golgotha and the high corridors manifested by the buildings of the ruins was a different thing entirely than that dual highway, that road I hadn’t walked in ages. Gemma and Andrew each took their surroundings with curiosity, though neither shared a method; the girl kept an expression of somberness, of suspicion while the boy looked on with wonder and dearly reached out with his hand to touch the ground or that sick looking trash wood or maybe he’d take his palm over his brow to gather what was offered on the sky or horizon. Whether it be the rain or the tiredness in us, each of their paths staggered further so that they might each be on either side of the path and I told them to keep in a clump for danger. My mind was gone from the night prior, from the days prior.

“There’s a station up ahead,” I said; Trouble came to my side and brushed my leg, panting, “We’ll rest soon.”

“There’s daylight still,” said Gemma, sweeping her fingers through her newly sheared hair. “Isn’t there somewhere further on?”

I shook my head, “I’m tired,” I said honestly, “Aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Andrew; he stretched and again took in the sky within his step.

“Why?” asked the girl, “We should put more space between us and home.” Though she used the word home, she said it as though it was anything but. “Space more between us and everything.” This came as a mutter.

“Shh.” I wanted to say shut up but couldn’t bother. Then I thought better and said it anyway.

Her trot was with new enthusiasm, “I could keep walking for miles longer than either of you.” She pushed ahead of our group and took to walking backwards so that she faced us to say, “Maybe more than both combined.” It was not offered in play, but as a boast.

“There’s something coming after us,” I said.

She froze and fell in alongside the merry band once more, “What’s following us?”

“It’s after the boy.”

“Me?” Andrew sputtered, “What’s after me?”

I readjusted the straps of my pack and shotgun and fell into the next step, “I thought that it’d lost your taste for all that time you spent in Golgotha’s walls, but it seems that thing from the night we met is after you. Maybe it just liked the way your blood tasted, maybe it’s just pissed off because of how I set it on fire.” I shook my head. “I don’t know, but I don’t intend on asking it anytime soon, you understand?”

Andrew squirmed. “You mean the thing that took my hand?”

“How can you be so sure it’s after him?” asked Gemma, “How can you be so sure that it’s after any one of us?”

“That thing—Miriam. She was a thrall to it. An Alukah. They’re nasty things.” A sigh left me; it was only a guess, but saying it aloud made it true. “Alukah. They hunt at night and devour men. Typically, virile men.”

There was a moment of silence as we plodded down the asphalt, splashing puddles of rain which had collected in depressions. Then the girl piped up, “Guess you’ve nothing to worry about then, huh, Harlan?”

I offered her to shut up again.

“Why me?” asked Andrew.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It must like you. Or something.”

Gemma, ever the chatterbox, posed, “Well if that thing’s after him then what was that lady? Miriam—what was she? An Alukah?”

“No. A thrall, a mutant, a lesser thing—most people I knew called them leech women. You could always tell the way they can’t drink water. Most of them don’t even know they are one till a hunger sets in, but they’re not very dangerous. They got soft flesh—maybe from rot. Worst they do is take a little blood in your sleep. An Alukah though? They pick your bones.” Then I thought to add, “Sometimes worse.”

“Worse?” asked Andrew.

I nodded ahead, “I see the station, it’s up ahead. Let’s all pick up the pace. There’s not a reason to be out in the dark.”

The place rose on the left where there was an arrangement of vehicles old and left haphazard on concrete curbs; dead wood angled from the grounds, twisted, and far along the back of the station were lines of old trailers, each rusted and latched to the great trucks that had once pulled them. Signs dotted the perimeter to inform travelers the place was a Plainefield rest area and a few worn words on metal staves said: FASTEN YOUR SAFETY BELT IT’S THE LAW.

We rounded the curve which took us to the station and though the sun shone well in the sky, I felt a giddiness in knowing I could soon lie down and worry less; traveling with a tired mind, though I’d done it many times before, was never a thing I enjoyed because of the way that things went unnoticed. I rubbed my eyes and Trouble brushed my leg again and the children spoke quietly.

“Hot out,” said Andrew.

A sigh escaped the girl, “I guess it should be nice to get out of the sun.”

They were right; with the passing of the rain, heat had come and baked the moisture off us; I felt chaffing in places and assumed the others in my company could do for a proper scrub too. Trouble panted more and we took to the station, passed a sun-bleached pile of bones long picked and empty and as we moved to the station’s innards, a mustiness encompassed us, and we were in the dark save the brief glances of light which angled through high thin windows in the main chamber of the place. I led us on to a windowless office near the rear of the structure and immediately refamiliarized myself with the room. It had been more than three years since I’d last looked on it—perhaps more—and it seemed it had been picked over by other humans in my absence; whenever I noticed that someone else had taken refuge in one of my safehouses, I never took too much gripe with it. Surely, I would have done the same. I only wished they’d kept it tidier on their leave.

Sheets were strung out or clumped in corners and part-empty tins sat on the ground where flies had gathered to nest in what was left and although there was a stink, a breathy wet in the air of the small room, I took up a low table that’d been left, knocked off the legs then hammered it across the only doorway with a few nails to seal us in; it wouldn’t do much good if something wanted at us, but it did make me feel better.

Steadily, with some hope, I angled myself in the hole of a cabinet and pried up the hollowed out place I’d created last I was there and to little surprise, I found a dusty bottle alongside a box of shells. Unstopping the bottle, I took a swig, and the children watched me while they unpacked their things, Andrew holding an unmarked can and Gemma with a camping stove in her hands; the girl sat the stove to the floor then hunkered there, and the boy handed off the can to her. The mutt watched them. “What’s that?” asked the boy, nodding to the bottle in my possession.

Not answering, I took another quick drink and returned the cap and tossed it to Andrew; he caught it in a fumble then struggled with the thing in his singular right hand till Gemma reached to him and took the cap. The boy sniffed the open neck and shrank from it then shrugged and took a sip; he passed the thing to Gemma, and she did much the same.

Tired, I took to the ground and put my back to the cabinet there, door closed, and began to roll a cigarette, but sleep came on me quick and when I awoke uncomfortable in the dark, the tobacco was strewn across my lap. The smell of warm indiscernible food permeated the room and I saw the children each around the camping stove, the empty bottle sitting between them, and I was there on the recesses of the glow of their lantern with Trouble lying with her head across my legs. The dog looked from the corners of its eyes at me, briefly raised its head to lick my hand, then returned its head to rest. For a moment, serenity overtook me while looking at their silhouettes, but it was gone just as quickly as it arrived, and I salvaged what I could of the tobacco and lit a smoke.

“Awake then?” asked the boy; his voice slurred, and his head swiveled lazily on his neck so that he might catch me in the lantern.

“Smells good,” I said. Oh, how things might be different in a different world. How might things be if I were a different person?

The girl twisted around fully while she sat to face me, and the boy put his attention back on the stove. “Something’s knocked on the door a few times. It asks to be let in,” she said, “We’ve been ignoring it.” She reported the words like she was a guard coming off watch. Then she added, her voice betraying some amount of unease as she whispered it, “It can’t get in here, right?”

I nodded, “That’s right. If it could’ve, it already would’ve.”

“Why not?” she asked, “I mean, why can’t it?”

“It needs our permission.”

“Are all the monsters like that?”

“No. Just the thing that hunts the boy—well, that and its thralls.” Something in her eyes surprised me—it was in the wideness or the shine of them. “Don’t worry, Gemma.”

She twisted away from me again and stirred whatever strange stew they’d devised then offered a whisper of admonishment to Andrew for not keeping the bottom from burning.

A gunshot, singular, powerful, rang out in the night and forced me to straighten; Trouble left me entirely and pinned its ears back, searching for the source of the noise. The children heard it too, for they cocked their heads to listen just as I had, but no more came through the night and we ate and ignored the knocks and the whispers the creature used to deceive us through our door.

After good rest, we set out again and they asked me what Babylon was like and I told them in greater detail and as time went on, they asked me of what brought me to where I was and I told them that too and when they asked me why it was that I hadn’t killed Boss Maron long ago, I told them it was because I didn’t have the heart—it was hard to fathom it. No matter the treachery I’d seen that man commit for the years since I’d brought him to Golgotha, I could not take his life. I hoped to, wanted to, but I was weak in the face of it all.

I told them about the Rednecks, about how things were different back then, about nights of sleeping among a family militia under open stars. They took a liking to the stories; though they may have been humoring me for there wasn’t much else to do as we took the highway.

Travelling with folks does that to a person; a familiarity forms. Or maybe it was because I’d gone soft and aged and didn’t want my story forgot—whatever the reason is I spilled it to them, I can’t say, but upon learning of my interaction with Mephisto—which I saved as nearly last—they seemed to understand more fully than ever why it was that the Bosses of Golgotha kept me so close.

A handful of days came and went as we moved with suspicions cast in all directions—the night creature would not come in the day, but it could track at night and the knocks which indicated its presence outside whatever place we holed up in did not waver.

We skirted off the shoulder of Eisenhower Highway then entered the wastelands proper, cutting south through expanses of flat grayed, plantless farmland and forests which had gone wrong, yellowed, and sickly around their risen roots and black on the brittle branch ends. I thought of the books I’d read, of the stories passed down from person to person, from age to age, and thought of children that must’ve played among the trees, of the workers which toiled laboriously beneath a soft blue sky.

There were no more stocked places on our path that I’d set up prior. Upon leaving the station, we packed heavy, even manufacturing a poor sling for Trouble so that the dog might help with the burden of our supplies; though I knew the roads well enough, memory couldn’t be trusted alone, so it would be that we would periodically stop midday at a home or a station and search the place for whatever might be left and then bunk down for the remainder of the daylight. As nice as it was to look at those naked stars, it was nicer to not be confronted with monstrosities midsleep. We took camp where we could find it.

It was slow-going and ever present in my mind were the thoughts of reaching Suzanne, pulling them into my arms, holding them dearly. Could I live among the wizards and forget my sins?

Upon examining the ammunition I’d retrieved, I tried a slug in an open field at daybreak—though it was risky, I had to be sure that everything was in order if likely trouble found us.

I aimed the barrel at open nothingness and squeezed the trigger; the smell of burnt gunpowder clung on the air. I watched the horizons and waited for some creatures to show, but when none showed, I inspected the gun. It felt like a waste, but I wanted to be sure everything was in working order—it was imperative my weapon would not fail me if it was necessary. The shells in the box numbered four after my test.

Reentering the building we’d locked down—it was a single-story home, half caved on its northern face from poor age—I was greeted by the children’s bewildered faces, each of them puffed, tired from waking. Trouble barked and barked and scurried to and fro, leaping across the structure’s slanted floor.

“Did you kill something?” hushed Gemma.

I shook my head, “Just practicing. Wanted to make sure it still works alright.”

“You could’ve warned us you were going out to shoot that thing.”

“You’re right,” I said, then moved across the room to quell the dog’s fears by rubbing its face.

Though it would be faster to traverse a main road, we would have little recourse when meeting violent strangers. My thinking was also in prudence for the sake of those we might meet on the road—the thing which followed us might have been on the hunt for Andrew, but it may snack upon any unaware soul in reach.

Our roundabout journey took us through desolate country, through a town with signs that were easy to miss, signs which read: Farmersburg—a guidepost where no one lived. The place, like most places, was a smear, a marker for perhaps an alien race which might one day catalogue the world. There, on the outskirts of Farmersburg, upon reaching the fields without fences—either long disposed or taken in storms—I looked out on the fields and imagined myself an ancient worker, putting a horse to till, and I caught the glint of the sun and the sky seemed blue enough that I could nearly believe I was one of those old kin; I thought of the sweat they might produce and beneath that swelter, I swiped sweat from my own face. Further on, where the fields were not, there were more dead forests and I thought more of the children which had once played there, and if I squinted and believed hard enough, I could almost wish the world green again and I could almost see the figures that might rush across that dead farmland at the call of their parents; I could wish all day.

“Where does it go in the daylight?” asked Andrew.

The clustered box buildings of Farmersburg’s meager downtown had only just come into view as we met it from the east on a half-gone avenue without a name, “What?” I asked.

“Where does that monster go when it’s daytime?” repeated Andrew.

“Some hole or another.” I shrugged.

“Hey,” the boy peered ahead, craning his neck forward; he knelt and tugged on Trouble’s leash to stop her from going on, “I see people ahead, I think. Do you see those people?”

Taking notice of the specks he indicated far ahead on the road, I too knelt, and Gemma quickly fell in alongside us so that we were a line, shoulder to shoulder, across the broken road.

“That’s people,” nodded Gemma, “Bad news, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Maybe,” I said, “Can’t be more than three.” Without thought, I slung my pack from my shoulders and withdrew a pair of binoculars then pulled them to my face and looked again. I shook my head. “Three. No. Four.”

“Friendly?” asked Andrew.

“Probably not,” said Gemma.

First/Previous

College. Some called it a waste of money, a way to open new doors; some even called it the best way to date! It was just a means to an end, a way to get a fancy piece of paper that enabled me to enter the business world. But, maybe, just maybe, I should have paid some more attention in my classes and less attention to the clock on the wall that counted down when I'd be free to run to the meal hall. But here I am, 4 years later, a bachelor's in psychology and no want, or way, to continue into a master's program, barely paying the monthly bills in my dead-end job as a grocer. Or at least that was the case until a few days ago.

Let me give you a quick breakdown of how I ended up in my current predicament. It was a typical Tuesday. I was checking customers out and having friendly, small conversations! "Hello, how are you?"

They would respond, "Oh, that's fine. I'm just buying some groceries for the week! You know how it goes."

The conversation would end as I handed them their receipt, only to see them throw it in the garbage. (So that you know, you're always welcome to decline it; most don't mind.)

But anyway, I'm wandering. Probably cause of how strange the whole damn thing was. The weirdest part was the temperature. Our store is typically kept at a pleasant 75℉, but as the customer walked up, I just felt the temperature drop; it wasn't noticeable at first, maybe a degree or two, then 3, 4, 5, it just kept slipping as he approached, this tall man, about 6'6", giant of a dude, in a long black trenchcoat, and a black fedora, completely covering him.

The temp had to be in the low 50s by the time he walked up! I was shivering to high hell, wrapping my arms around me. Hell, the dude in front of me (if I can even call him that; it was kinda tricky to make out his gender, was breathing out a visible cloud of hot air. The strange thing is no one noticed. Not even my coworker at the next stand; they didn't even look cold. No, it was just me, shivering away like a fucking maniac, teeth chattering. I'm sure most people would call that weird, but it gets stranger, I swear.

I decided against commenting on the noticeable temperature drop (I'm just praying to God it was a weird malfunction of the A.C.!) and instead asked, "Uhh, sir? Do you have any goods that you're buying today?"

And in the graveliest voice I've heard, like a Batman impression done shittily, I listen to him respond, "Yes… Just… This… Piece… Of… Fruit….", and in that same bizarrely delayed tone, he sets down a rotten, moldly, apple, that looks to have expired last year. Hell, I couldn't see a sticker on it anywhere!

I respond, "Uhhh, sir? That apple seems to have gone bad; would you prefer another?" I shoot him a polite smile, chock-full of all the nervousness of a kid about to be beaten!

"No… Thank… You… And… What… Do… You… Mean… Expired…?" God, you could feel the air drop another 10 degrees in that instance, hell it felt like time was slowing down with it, and I could feel my heart being gripped in my chest as he looked down at me… and Oh god, I shouldn't have made eye contact with him, god, fuck, it was like looking into the sky on a pitch black night, knowing damn well that if you died, you wouldn't be found… God, I regretted everything I'd done up to that point… I felt like death was just around the corner.

"Sorry, sir! I must be seeing things. This apple is excellent! That'll be $4.50!" I chipped out, desperate to have him forget my comment. But I saw that he didn't believe me. I needed a different solution now, so I tried something else.

"Uhhh, sorry, sir! I'm just tired from searching for work. It must be causing me to hallucinate." I felt him look confused for a second, and I could feel my heart unclench. At that moment, I knew I wouldn't be dying today, at least not from that giant of a human. Thankfully, I wouldn't be dying from that giant of a human.

"Work… You… Say…? What… Kind… Of… Work…?” I watched, in great relief, as his hand scratched his chin.

"Just work as a therapist, sir! I've been looking, but no one seems to be looking for an untested bachelor's degree holder." I watched then as he slowly reached into his pocket, that same damn slowness. Also, I should note that the store was dead quiet at this point. I didn't dare to look away from him, but I could see, just barely, out of the corner of my eye, my coworker, doing the most perfect impression of a statue.

"I… Have… Work…, I… Run… A… Clinic…. I… Need… Labor… Would… You… Like… To… Be… Our… In… House… Therapist…?” As he set down a piece of paper in front of me, I watched as his glove brushed against the table, and I saw, cold… just… cold… as his glove stroked across the plastic belt of the table, this ice, spread, like an effect from an anime, just this circular sprout of ice!

"I…. I'll need to consider it! Thank you for the offer, though, sir!" I'd had the feeling that if I turned him down there, he'd turn me into a fucking ice sculpture!

"Your… Ability… To… See… Me… Impresses… Me… I… Hope… You'll… Consider… Correctly…” And with those words, without even purchasing his apple. He left…, and as he left, I watched as time began to speed back up, and things went back to normal… from sound… to my coworkers… to my own body… hell… even the table looked normal again. As soon as I felt safe, I had a weird compulsion to analyze this… flyer? Ticket? Pamphlet? It's a little hard to tell because it was almost crumbling in my hands as I read it… “******** Sanatorium” it read. Contact at the bottom, and nothing else really out of the ordinary with it? God, I'm pretty sure I must be crazy or just dead tired. There is no way in hell that time could freeze like that. Right?

Anyway, I got off work a few hours later, and nothing of note happened after; if anything, people seemed to avoid my aisle with a grimace after he left. And that leads me to send this off to you, weird internet folks! I'm genuinely considering this job; I feel it'll be exciting, right? Anyways, what do you all think?

I’ve made a few mistakes in my life. Hell, maybe more than a few. Somewhere between a handful and a fuck-ton is probably a good estimation. I think the issue is I put my trust in the wrong places, but I’m just trying to navigate the world as best I can - same as everyone else. I’ve been told I’m gullible, but I like the word “suggestible”. Let me put it this way: my beliefs and convictions can be like loose flower petals on a blustery day - they drift in whatever way the wind pushes them. One moment I’m floating east, the wind changes direction, and now I’m floating west. One day, I’ll believe in climate change, then I listen to a certain popular podcast, and now I think it’s a hoax. I know that it’s pathetic. If I can just make it through this year, I swear I’ll change, but my savings are depleted, and the pills are running out. I can hear them all skittering and slamming all around me, just out of sight, biding their time until the effects of the medication to wear off.

This all began a few weeks back. My life was unremarkable then, but at least it was normal. I had a cushy job at a local tech company, the same one I’ve had for the last five years. Reasonable hours, good benefits plan, 6 weeks of paid time off - I lived comfortably but noticeably alone. No wife, no girlfriend. I wasn’t born with a lot of charm. I was never very proficient at initiating pleasantries, and even if I did manage to start a conversation with a lady, I couldn’t find the words to maintain it. Of course, that would all be one thing if I was some hulking adonis, smooth and chiseled and all that - maybe then I could have compensated for my lack of a silver tongue. But I could never grow any muscle despite my efforts. I bought and tried a lot of different supplements that were supposed to help stimulate growth. Powders with names like “Muscle Matrix” and “Crazy Muscle”. They never did a damn thing, even put me in the hospital one time for kidney damage.

Retrospectively, I should have also been working out while on those supplements. I wanted to wait until the supplements started having an effect before I began really working out.

Terrible cystic acne was the icing on top. Red, painful craters had littered my face since I turned 16. Tried everything for that too - bee venom, reiki, power juicing. None of the online recommendations produced the desired effect. And it all gave me the impression that I was utterly unworthy compared to other guys my age. I could feel myself giving up on a life that was more fulfilling than the one I already had, and on companionship. Then, I saw the ad pop on my Facebook page. It promised to fix me, and I fell for it. Hook, line, and sinker. 

It read something like this:

Do you have trouble attracting women? Unable to catch a vixen’s eye from all the way at the other end of the bar? Does your mere presence in a room inspire overwhelming, knee-buckling repulsion from any potential mates? Before the modern age, there were no solutions. Lonely devils would go to their doctors, looking for salvation, only instead to be told there was nothing else to be done - Western Medicine cursing them to die alone. But we don’t live in the past, do we, dear friends? With major advancements in natural attraction technology, L. Bartleby, Ph.D., is proud to announce: Zygentra Ultimate, the miracle medication for the misbegotten common man. With Zygentra Ultimate, even the lowliest bachelor has hope for a happy ending. One pill is all it takes to change everything about you. 

In big, confident words, the bottom said:

One payment, one pill - one solution to the problem of you.

Even though the advertisement omitted what it would improve about me, I was intrigued. The ad had all the buzz words - “miracle”, “technology”, “happy ending”. Their distrust of Western Medicine hit close to home, too. As far as I was concerned, doctors were pill pushers controlled by pharmaceutical companies that pulled their marionette strings from the shadows. I mean, what was in the pills they recommended, anyway? And for that matter, why can’t I pronounce half the compounds that make up vaccines? Thiomersal, Polysorbate 80 - I mean formaldehyde, for Christ’s sake. It all felt so artificial and unsafe. But this advertisement seemed to promote something more “of the earth” and “organic”, the so-called “natural attraction technology”. Tired of being lonely and unworthy, I emailed the company. 

Like I said, hook, line, and sinker. Biggest mistake of my life.

In my message to the company, I tried to perform my due diligence in vetting the supplement. What was in it? How much was the supplement? Would it interact with the Chinese muscle-enhancing herbs I ordered the week before? 

This was their response, copy-pasted from my Gmail:

Greetings Zach,

Thank you for your interest in Zygentra Ultimate. One pill, one payment, one solution to the problem of you. 

To clarify, Zygentra is a medication, not a supplement - though no matter what you call it, it is a miracle. Through a proprietary mechanism of action that utilizes the wonders of CRISPR technology, Zygentra enables the human body to naturally self-regulate the hormonal disequilibriums that are to blame for a variety of male inequities: it can resolve poor muscle growth, weak libidos, erectile dysfunction, and a bevy of disfiguring skin conditions including but not limited to: seborrheic dermatitis, psoriasis, lichen planus simplex, and cystic acne. 

Unfortunately, the future is not always affordable, and it is rarely covered by insurance. Thankfully, this onetime cost can last upwards of a year, if not much longer. Zygentra teaches your body to produce life-changing pheromones that are genetically transplanted from the naturally occurring Lepisma saccharium species. In short, one pill is all you need. 

Zygentra Ultimate can solve the problem of you with a onetime payment of 30,000 US dollars. We do not accept payment plans. Also, for obvious reasons, we recommend all of our clients relocate prior to taking their dose; Antarctica is preferable, but Northern Canada is a reasonable alternative. 

Please let us know if you are planning to pursue a happy ending. If so, we can help set up a wire transfer. 

Amy,

Senior Sales Associate and Miracleworker at Delfoy Pharmaceuticals 

I had to pick my jaw off the floor after I finished quickly scanning the email, skipping the scientific mumbo-jumbo to find the price point. They seriously wanted me to pay 30,000 dollars, one lump sum, for this supplement. Not that I couldn’t afford the payment - I could, but barely, using a nest egg my mom left for me after she passed. It was just an obscene amount of money. But it was alluring - one pill that would fix my body, or I guess teach it to fix itself, naturally? Was that even possible? When I thought about it more, the exorbitant fee made it feel more legitimate, like I was paying for cutting-edge technology that actually could work. Wouldn’t the Better Business Bureau prevent a company from selling a product for much more than it was worth? Wasn’t that illegal? 

To speed things up, I’ll skip the part where I contemplated my options, did a lot of online research, and signed a waiver that Amy mailed to me. Two weeks later, the singular pill arrived in an icebox as an overnight shipment from the Delfoy Pharmaceuticals headquarters. Amy told me they needed to keep it cold. 

It wasn’t like any pill I had taken before. The supplement more resembled an extra-large piece of caviar - gelatinous and orb-shaped. The box had no instructions, so I shrugged my shoulders and ingested it, using a swig of the nearest open Mountain Dew to wash it down.

I was ready not to be alone anymore. 

No big change the first few days. Maybe I really was a sap, I thought. But one morning, while looking in the mirror, I noticed it - my skin was clearing up like it never had before. More than that, I felt virile and confident, out of the blue. My muscles even looked more toned. It was a state of being entirely new to me, and at first, it was incredible. For the first time, I felt deserving of love and happiness. Riding that sensation for all it was worth, I asked Stacy, an attractive coworker, on a dinner date. I had fantasized about asking her out for what seemed like my entire life. She said yes. The ecstasy I experienced after that moment was unparalleled. It was like some heavy, invisible weights had been taken off my shoulders. We planned a dinner date at a local Italian place later that week. With the supplement coursing through my veins, I felt unstoppable and was pleasantly surprised by the lack of side effects. I had experienced some new floaters in my peripheral vision and mild armpit pain, but that was it.

At first, the date was everything I could have hoped for. Stacy always had an aura of kindness about her - she was angelic, honestly. It’s what drew me towards her. Even though I secured the date, I was still nervous about my ability to keep up a conversation through the meal. To my surprise, it wasn’t difficult. Because I was different, improved by the supplement, I guess I just wasn’t as fearful of rejection anymore. I was stunned to discover Stacy had been secretly planning to ask me out too.

“Over the last week? Since I started my new skin regimen, I mean.” I said, choking on the last few words because I was never very good at lying. I didn’t want to scare Stacy off by volunteering the information that I had recently purged my bank accounts to pay for Zygentra. 

She giggled, a cute and tiny laugh that made my heart swell with affection.

“No, nothing to do with whatever new moisturizer you invested in. And a lot longer than just this week. For at least a year, I think. I always found you handsome, and you were always polite to me and everyone else in the office - a good sign of character. You were just quiet and reserved. I couldn’t tell if you’d say yes if I asked, so I never did. A bit childish and cowardly, I know, but sometimes I just feel small and out of place in the world, if that makes any sense,” remarked Stacy, eyes diverting from mine while she made this confession.  

Her words felt familiar - or maybe not her words; it was the way she put the words together. The underlying self-deprecation, I mean. She had some venomous monologue playing on a loop in her head, just like I did. Broke my heart at first, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. But I noticed at that moment that I felt a little less lonely for the first time in my adult life. I smiled, met her eyes, and came up with the most ornate, reverent statement I could to comfort her and let her know I understood.

“You’re an absolute vision, Stacy. Like, you’re radiant. I’m sorry it’s hard for you to see it sometimes, but I really get that pain.”

Her expression changed, now warm and relaxed, and I could tell I actually managed to console her. I got lost in that moment then, in the beautiful comfort of it. Even as I type it up, I find myself getting lost in the memory of it. But something hoicked me out of the moment then, and it’s the same thing that’s pulling me out of its memory now: terrible, skittering things on the outskirts of my vision. 

In the restaurant, I was experiencing worsening floaters in my periphery, but I was too transfixed on Stacy to notice something was off - that maybe they weren’t just floaters. As our dessert arrived, I felt something vibrating in the sole of my dress shoe. It really gave me a start, and I reflexively stomped my right foot onto the floor, surprising Stacy in turn. I took off my shoe to examine its contents, only to find the crushed body of a silverfish. Its greyish carapace was split into three asymmetric pieces from the force of my stomp. Each piece was still wriggling a little bit, and I felt nausea rise in my stomach. 

It was bigger than any silverfish I’d ever seen before, too. In my experience, they never grew larger than an inch. This silverfish was easily 5 inches long, if not more. I could count at least 20 other, equally large silverfish crawling around in a wobbly circle, with me as the center. Before I killed the insect in my shoe, the other dinner goers had noticed the bugs and were flagging down restaurant staff to complain. At first, I was with them - what kind of restaurant serves food with this type of infestation? It took the tickling, wriggling feeling of something crawling up my left pant leg to cause me to re-evaluate the situation. 

Wildly, I made a circle with my thumb and index finger and tightened it around my knee, pushing down the length of my calf in an attempt to expel what I knew were more silverfish before they found their way higher into my pants. When my palm first connected with my knee, I felt a sickening crunch under the tip of my index finger. The maneuver pushed out three silverfish - one headless from being caught in the crossfire of my hand meeting my knee. When I looked up, the restaurant was in a state of pandemonium. At that point, there were definitely over 20, maybe 100 or 200, silverfish radiating in a circle around me. It finally registered - whatever was happening, I was the cause, and I hadn’t been experiencing floaters before - I was seeing silverfish skittering around in my peripheral vision. 

I shot up from my chair, frightening Stacy again, accompanied by the sensation of another crunch in the shoe I hadn’t yet taken off. I said something to my date, couldn’t tell you what, and I excused myself from the table while moving towards the door. Outside in the parking lot, I began sprinting to my car with only one shoe on; but then I remembered I had driven Stacy here. I briefly turned around to get her, but I could see gleaming silver little bullets racing to catch up to me on the asphalt, lit up by the sparkle of parking lot lights. I U-turned and sprinted even faster to my car, got in, and just started driving. After 15 minutes, I pulled over and urgently emailed Delfoy Pharmaceuticals from my phone. I wanted to know how to reverse the effects of Zygentra Ultimate.

Not long after I parked, I saw silverfish on the front windshield, leaking into the car through whatever cracks they could find. I floored it, but it was in a park, so I went nowhere. For the third time that night, I again felt the snap of their brittle bodies against my foot, having just crushed another two silverfish. A moment later, I felt one making its way up my left earlobe. I whipped my head to the right so hard that my neck would later be painfully sore, but the force launched a silverfish off my ear to somewhere in the back of my sedan. Putting the car in drive, I exploded down the country road I had parked on. I kept driving, killing silverfish as I went, till I heard an inbox notification come from my iphone, which was about two hours after I had sent the email:

Hello Zach,

I am sorry to hear you are disappointed with our product. Unfortunately, there is no reversal agent for Zygentra Ultimate. I thought I made this very clear in our introductory email, and you did sign a release saying you understood the risk-benefit profile of the medication. 

To re-explain, Zygentra Ultimate utilizes CRISPR technology to give the human body the ability to produce pheromones from Lepisma saccharium, the most common species of silverfish in America. Laboratory studies have shown that these pheromones can help with male sexual dysfunction and certain skin conditions due to an anti-inflammatory effect. As you must know, pheromones are designed to attract members of the opposite sex of the species producing them. It is basically a big sign around an animal’s neck saying: “I am ready to mate”. Therefore, we recommend relocation to Northern Canada or Antarctica in conjunction with Zygentra Ultimate - these are some of the few areas in the world that Lepisma saccharium does not naturally inhabit. 

The medication is not reversible, however, because CRISPR is gene-editing technology - the reason your body “learns” to create the foreign hormones is because Zygentra Ultimate inserts the pheromone-producing silverfish DNA into your genetic code. How else would one pill cause an effect lasting a year or more? Additionally, the armpit pain you are experiencing is most likely the rapid growth of modified glandular tissue responsible for producing the silverfish pheromones. 

I still recommend considering physical relocation. I hear the Yukon is wonderful this time of year! The alternate solution would be to invest in Zygentra Plus, which can help mitigate some of the silverfish-attracting side effects of Zygentra Ultimate. We recognize that this is an emergency situation, and Defloy Pharmaceuticals is always willing to help where we can! We have shipped a 48-hour trial supply of Zygentra Plus to your home, for free. 

Please consider your options and get back to us. If you would like to purchase additional Zygentra Plus, a week’s supply costs $750, with a 5 percent discount if you purchase the medication in bulk.

Amy,

Senior Sales Associate and Miracleworker at Delfoy Pharmaceuticals 

When I received this email, I had a grand total of 3,500 dollars to my name. Desperation hit me like an avalanche. A little under 4 grand was nowhere near the funds I would need to move from Miami to Northern Canada. Moving would also force me to quit my job, and I didn’t want to leave Stacy behind. Retrospectively, I should have just used that money to move myself and my shitty car as far north as it would take me. 

When Zygentra Plus arrived five days later, I was beyond sleep-deprived. I had called out of work that week, as I certainly couldn’t come in and work on code as the fucking pied piper of silverfish. I spent that time driving around, stopping only when I felt myself drifting into sleep at the wheel. Pulled over to wherever I could and close my eyes, but before long, the sensation of silverfish crawling into my mouth or between my armpits would wake me up with a start, like I had jabbed myself with an adrenaline shot - at which point I would resume driving. No amount of insect repellant spray or mouse traps seemed to prevent the legion from getting to me. 

I hastily unpackaged the box containing the pro bono Zygentra Plus. The instructions on the supplement were: take four pills by mouth every two hours. Every two fucking hours. It did work at keeping the bugs away, but only if I religiously took the medication as instructed, which only served to minimally improve my sleep deprivation. I needed to return to work, but that ended up being a mistake, too. I had ditched Stacy on our first date without explanation and then proceeded not to talk to her for a week while I was driving around in circles, waiting for the Zygentra Plus to arrive. When she saw me again at work, I had dark circles around my bloodshot eyes the size of trash bags, and I nervously scanned my surroundings for silverfish. She said hello to me, and I don’t think I said hello back. Instead, I opted to launch into a minute-by-minute retelling of my last week. What I told her was an incoherent mess. Stacy nodded along politely to my tale, but I could see fear and concern rising in her eyes. Eventually, I gave her mercy, excused myself in the middle of a sentence, and pitifully returned to my desk. I dragged my body through about half of a workday before the side effects of Zygentra Plus started.

Out of nowhere, I felt my mouth fill uncomfortably with saliva. When I tried to sip my morning coffee, dribble would involuntarily spill out of my mouth, down my chin and onto my shirt collar. Before long, I had a half-crescent of soaked fabric around my neck despite my efforts to keep my mouth closed. Next, my eyes began watering uncontrollably, making it look like I was quietly sobbing all morning. The final straw was when I took my hand off my coffee cup, only to have a thin layer of palm skin remain stuck to the grip, peeling from my hand and causing immense and immediate pain. I screamed. And then, of course, there was a lot of bleeding. In a panic, I hastily left my desk without saying a word, no doubt leaving behind plenty of tears, saliva, skin and blood. My boss caught up and confronted me about my behavior before I could leave the building. I tried to say something, but saliva just erupted from my mouth instead. I probably looked rabid.

I didn’t come back to work the next day, or the following day. A few days after that, a message on my cellphone answering machine told me I was fired.

Amy, resident miracle worker at Defloy Pharmaceuticals, wasn’t much help with the situation. I let her know that, although Zygentra Plus was helping keep the insects away, the side effects from it weren’t much more bearable. The excess saliva and tears were one thing, but pieces of my skin were sloughing off with the slightest manipulation, like I was some human danish. And I still wasn’t sleeping - I needed to set multiple alarms to get myself up every two hours to take the new medication; otherwise, the silverfish would be back. She explained to me that this was expected, as Zygentra Plus acted as a low-dose insecticide I was digesting and releasing into the surrounding air from my pores or what was left of them. At the brink of insanity, I demanded to speak with “Mr. Bartleby”, the supposed genius creator and mind behind the Zygentra line of products mentioned in the original advertisement. I thought maybe he would have an elegant solution to all of this. In response, Amy said, and I quote:

“Well, that will be impossible. Mr. Bartleby is more of an idea than a person. Here at Delfoy Pharmaceuticals, we all aspire to achieve the goals that Dr. Bartleby represents. Also, it seems to help with sales.”

But don’t worry, she said, there was still something to be done - Amy theorized that drastically increasing my zinc levels might mitigate some symptoms from Zygentra Plus. I spent my last 500 dollars on that supplement, unsure of what I would do next, even if it helped. But I needed relief. Moreover, I needed to keep taking the pills because I was terrified of what would happen to me when I ran out, and the silverfish came back. My car was out of gas, my skin was breaking down, I was jobless and nearly out of money. If they returned, I would have limited defenses and nowhere to hide. I’m not particularly eager to think about what would happen to me.

The zinc supplement was a purple-reddish liquid that I was instructed to drink once a day. I voraciously gulped it down, immediately experiencing excruciating pain from my lips to deep in my chest. I would come to learn that the compound I drank, Zinc Hydrosulfide, is a very strong acid. I stared at the words “strong acid” in the email, dumbfounded, with blood and saliva dripping from my scalded mouth onto the screen. Amy then offered a subdermal injection to help me tolerate the Zinc Hydrosulfide, and I just started laughing. Must have been laughing for a while, because when my laughing slowed down, I saw silver floaters in my periphery again, meaning I was due for my next dose of Zygentra Plus.

I could barely swallow the pills after what the liquid had done to my mouth and esophagus, almost passing out from the pain. Even if I had the money to pay for the 2,000-dollar subdermal injection, which I do not, I have no idea where I would even inject it into. Didn’t have much of a “dermis” left after the effects of Zygentra Plus, which had liberated me from a good portion of my skin.

Effectively, I am now stuck. The acidic liquid that was supposed to help with the side effects from the pills has now prevented me from taking any pills, or at least has made it a great deal harder and more painful. The medication that would help me tolerate the acidic liquid was no good either - the pills had dissolved the skin that it was supposed to be injected under. Perhaps most critically of all, I am now broke.

Thought about going to the hospital - some combination of fear and shame prevented me from doing that. Calling an ambulance may be my next move, but I’m not sure they can do anything for me now. The silverfish will find me no matter where I am. I’m sure there are plenty lurking unseen in the cracks and crevices of the hospital.

Plus, who knows if the medications they’d give me would interact with the supplements.

So, with about 12 hours of my oral insecticide left, I have decided to throw a bit of a Hail Mary. Has anyone else taken Zygentra Ultimate before and knows how to reverse it?

Alternatively, anyone have a good way to kill thousands of silverfish at a time without hurting yourself?

I know this sounds totally insane, but I swear something is off with my new neighbor. I am honestly feeling so on edge every single night, like I cannot even sleep or think straight. I figured maybe sharing it here might help, because I need someone to tell me I am not losing it, or at least give me some idea of what I should do next. I know this might be long, but please bear with me.

I have lived in this same old house for years, and yeah, it has its creaks and weird sounds, but I have never felt like this before, not even when I had that creepy landlord a few years back. That guy was weird, always watching from his window at odd hours. This new neighbor is different, and I mean that in the worst possible way. For the past two weeks, I have noticed that no matter what time I wake up at night, there is a faint light behind my curtains, shining at a low angle like it is coming from a flashlight or maybe a phone.

The first night I assumed it was nothing, maybe a passing car or a cat. Then it happened again and again. Now I am sure that someone, I am almost certain it is my neighbor, is actually standing outside my window in the middle of the night, never making a sound, just standing there. I tried to catch them, but any time I rush to the window or fling open the blinds there is just darkness.

Let me tell you, that kind of silent persistence really does something to your head, you know, makes you question every thought you have. I started staying awake longer, pretending to sleep but with one eye half open, waiting for that faint glow. Sure enough, it is always there.

When I try to tell my friends, they say I am paranoid, stressed out from work, that I need a break. How can I take a break when I have this feeling that I am being watched, like studied, like maybe someone is waiting for me to slip up or drop my guard? It is not just the light either.

During the day, I have caught him staring at me from behind his curtains next door, just standing still. He never waves, never looks away like a normal person would when caught, just stares like I am some sort of animal he is analyzing. If that does not scream messed up I do not know what does.

I would call the cops, but what would I say? That I think my neighbor watches me at night because I see a weird light outside my window, that during the day he stares at me through his curtains? I have no proof. I worry that if I confront him it might escalate, like maybe he has been trying to work up the nerve to do something worse. I am just here waiting, feeling that clock tick in my skull.

It has gotten to the point that when the sun goes down I start shaking a little, and I lie in bed watching the walls, the door, the window, imagining that faint glow coming closer. Maybe pressing against the glass. Maybe one night I will wake and he will be inside, standing in the corner of my bedroom, silent and still.

I do not want to live like this, but I am too scared to do anything, too scared to even tell my family. They would just say I am too old to be afraid of the dark, that I am letting my imagination go wild. Maybe I am. Maybe it is all in my head.

But I can feel it, I can feel those eyes on me. I wonder how long he will wait before making a move, how long until something finally gives, because I cannot see a way out. I cannot rest. I cannot bring myself to just pull the trigger and call the cops.

I am stuck in a messed up state right now, waiting every night for that light to appear. It always does. I have no clue how the hell this will ever end.

[Part 1]

In front of us, just off the road, was huge glowing yellow square sitting atop the tallest truck-stop sign-post I had ever seen:

E6

Travel plaza

Kevin piloted the sports car into the travel plaza like it was a star-fighter returning to its glowing mothership. Two dozen yellow gas pumps sat under ten-thousand watts of fluorescent illumination from the weather canopy. Another ten thousand watts of illumination lit up the yellow band that wrapped the perimeter of the canopy. The wavy and distorted mirror of the structure was reflected in the wet asphalt.

There were no cars at the pumps. We circled the canopy and pulled into a parking space in front of the Travel-Mart building. There were no cars anywhere. Tonight at the E6 travel plaza the lights were on but nobody was home.

Kevin shut the car off and we climbed out of the low bucket seats. The powerful rumble of the Maserati engine was replaced with the faint buzz from the lights. A chime sounded as the sliding glass doors opened for Kevin. A second chime sounded as I followed him into the Travel Mart.

For a rest-stop convenience store, the place was enormous. Fifteen aisles of surgery and fried crap formulated to keep your eyes open and your right foot on the gas. In the rear, a whole section of the store was devoted to travel accessories and trucker stuff. Guitar riffs from Santana emanated from the overhead speakers.

Kevin uttered a whispered “yeah…” and wandered out of sight into the dietary wasteland. I glanced at the cash registers. Nobody was there. If anyone was tending the shop tonight, they weren’t out front where I could see them.

I made a hard right into the potato-chip aisle and fell into a trance-like state in front of the Pringles section. I heard a truck pull to a stop in front of the store. I didn’t think anything of it – of course trucks pull into travel plazas – totally normal.

I grabbed a tube of Pringles and turned to walk to the registers. I glanced out the window and saw the logo on the trailer of the truck that just pulled in: Castle Trucking

The truck driver, a tall, brutish-looking guy wearing a baseball cap and a jacket climbed out of the cab and walked purposefully into the travel plaza shop. He didn’t break stride at the sliding glass doors and they parted just as he was about to collide with them. He looked like the kind of guy who was used to things getting out of his way: sliding doors, people, vehicles. Grizzly bears, probably.

Because of his neanderthal vibe, he was probably used to people assuming he was unintelligent. But I saw something different. I saw a clever man who simply had an extremely straightforward approach to problem solving. Elegant and smart solutions to problems aren’t needed when you can just plow straight through whatever is in your way – physically or metaphorically. Want to get into a room but don’t have the key? Just bust straight through the wall. See someone you don’t like driving their Maserati on the highway? Just ram them with your truck.

He stopped just inside the doors and methodically scanned the travel mart. He made a little disappointed frown when he saw me standing by the chips display.

“Where’s Kevin?”

“Who are you?”

His shoulders slumped when I responded to his question with my own. Like just the idea of conversation was exhausting to him. Talking wasn’t part of his preference for straightforward motion.

Then he gave me a “what are you, stupid?” look, and gestured with both hands at the Castle logo on his hat. Then he pointed at the Castle logo on the breast of his jacket. Then he opened his jacket enough for me to see that the “astl” printed on his T-shirt was part of the word Castle and not Coastline or something.

“Your name is Castle?”

“Where’s Kevin?”

“My name is Pauline, by the way.”

He sighed, resigning himself to the cumbersome task of conversing with me. “So, you’re the latest one of his sacrificial lambs?”

I was about to ask what he meant by sacrificial lamb, but was interrupted by Kevin shouting from the far end of the potato-chip aisle.

“Hey Pauline! If you still want to steal something, how about some Funyions and Pop Tarts?”

The trucker named Castle and I both turned to look at Kevin. Dad-Bod had emerged from the end cap of the aisle near the wall of refrigerators holding an armful of bags of puffed onion rings and strawberry Pop Tart boxes. His smile vanished the instant he saw Castle. He dropped the junk food and ducked out of sight behind the endcap.

What happened next was the dumbest chase I have ever seen outside of an episode of The Three Stooges. Kevin sprinted away next to the refrigerator lane at the end of the rows of shelves. Castle ran down the lane at the cash-register side of the aisles, trying to match Kevin’s escape attempt, aisle-for-aisle.

Kevin reached the end and darted back the other way. Castle saw Kevin’s turn-around at the end of the far aisle and spun around himself, slipping and barely catching himself on the shiny tile floor. Kevin made it back to my end of the store and tried hiding behind the potato-chip aisle end cap.

“I can see you in the security mirror, dumb ass!” Castle shouted.

Kevin feigned another run to the far end of the store. Castle was momentarily fooled and started running towards the far aisles.

Kevin spun around, tripped on the pile of Pop Tart boxes, somehow recovered without falling, rotated around the endcap and ran towards me. Castle, meanwhile, realizing that Kevin had fooled him, flung himself around, glanced at the security mirror in the corner, and ran back to Pringles territory.

That’s how we ended up in a bizarro standoff with Kevin hiding behind me and Castle looming in front of me, breathing like an angry bull.

“Guys, what the fu-“

“Don’t move!” Kevin interrupted. “He can’t get me if you’re in the way.”

I saw absolutely nothing that would prevent the enormous trucker from flinging me aside and pummeling Kevin into a pulp. But he didn’t. Castle just stood in front of me, fists clenched like he was ready for action, but somehow deactivated because I was standing between him and his potential beating victim.

Castle finally spoke. “Just give it up, Kevin. You lost.”

“Not. A. Chance!”

Ten awkward seconds passed. Then ten more that were even more awkward.

“Can someone explain to me just what the hell is going on here?”

“Yeah, Kevin,” Castle taunted. “Explain yourself to little miss pawny-pants here.”

Pawny-pants? How is that even a real insult?

“My dear friend Pauline,” Kevin answered, “is an upstanding young lady who does not need to be subjected to your insults. Right Pauline?”

“I guess….”

“Furthermore, Castle, Pauline is one hundred percent capable of taking you out. Permanently. Right Pauline?”

“I don’t think-“

Kevin kept talking to Castle, not interested in hearing my opinion about the scenario where I somehow take-out the giant truck driver. “You’re going to end up just like your brother. And I’m going to be fine.”

At the mention of a brother, Castle’s face transitioned from anger to rage. His attempt to murder us with his truck, and the dumb chase through the Travel Mart was just ordinary, run-of-the-mill violence to him. Like it was his day job. But now the conversation had veered into personal territory. I was not happy with this escalation.

“Ready, Pauline! Let’s do it.”

I was not ready. Kevin didn’t care. He took a large step sideways, out from behind the protective cover that I was somehow providing him. Castle followed with his own sideways step. The three of us now formed a triangle: Kevin facing Castle, with me off to the side between them.

“Your move, Pauline,” Kevin shouted. “Take him out!”

Castle turned to face me. “Don’t take me out Pauline. Why make things harder for everyone? Just let nature take its course.” A moment ago, Castle burned with sarcasm and rage. Now he was polite. Contrite, even.

“Take him out! Take him out! Take him out!” Kevin started chanting like he was at a rally.

I tried to work through the social calculus of my situation. Kevin wasn’t exactly my friend – we’d only known each other for about thirty minutes. And in that short half of an hour, he had lied to me about stealing the Maserati. On the other hand, the thuggish Castle did try to kill us with his truck. Kevin and Castle obviously had a long and complicated history. There was no way for me to know who was in the right. Who was on my side. The whole situation was just messed-up.

Fortunately, navigating messed-up, dramatic situations is one of my strengths. Okay, sure, the messed-up and dramatic situations I find myself in are often the result of my own poor decision-making. But still, as unique as this Kevin-vs-Castle-in-the-travel-mart situation was, it was “in my wheelhouse” as they say.

A new song came on the store’s sound system: Axl Rose welcomed me to the jungle. Thanks Axl – that’s exactly what I needed to hear! I let my instincts take over. I decided I would try to take out Castle.

The trucker was well over six feet tall and had a jaw that was about the same size and shape as the front bumper of my Corolla. Even if I could reach his face with my fist, I’d likely just break a knuckle. It’d be like punching the stone Abe Lincoln head on Mount Rushmore. Why then, was Kevin so sure I could “take him out?” Heck, even Castle himself seemed nervous at the idea of me assaulting him.

It was time to stop thinking. I acted. I punched Castle in the shoulder. I didn’t hit him hard – it was just an angry “hey, I’m pissed at you” kind-of punch.

Castle looked at his arm where I punched him. Then looked back at me. Then back to his arm. For an instant, I was sure he was going to clobber me. But instead, he fell to his knees. He held his head in his hands and started moaning “No! No no no! No! Whyyyyyyy?”

I looked at my hand, still balled into a fist. How the hell did my punch – and let’s get real here, it was a lame girly punch – totally ruin this huge guy?

“What is happening!?” I screamed. Castle moved into the next phase of his emotional breakdown by falling into the fetal position and moaning incoherently.

Kevin yelled “Yes! Yes yes yes!” and held his hand up for a high-five.

I stared at his palm for a moment. “Nope,” I said. “I’m noping out. Gimme your keys.”

“Why? You just took him out!”

I screamed “Give me your keys!” and thrust my hand into his jacket pocket. “Where are they? Give them to me!” I didn’t feel anything in his pocket. I shoved him using about a million times as much force as I used to punch Castle. “Give me your keys!” I felt the key fob in his other pocket. “Give it! Give it!”

“Fine! Okay. Just take it. Jeez!”

I pulled the Maserati fob out of his pocket. “Now it’s a stolen car, Kevin!” I stormed out of the travel mart.

* * *

Nobody knows that I’m a rageful driver. I don’t have road rage all the time, of course. Not with groceries in the trunk or if I’m in a school zone. But sometimes, like in the immediate post-argument-stomping-away phase of a relationship, I really want to lay a patch of rubber on the ground and squeal away like I’m drag racing.

Unfortunately, I drive a fifteen-year-old Toyota Corolla. Even if I stand on the gas pedal, the Corolla pulls away like I’m 90-year-old farmer Mac Gilucutty driving his Model-A to the grange hall. That’s why nobody knows I like to indulge in the occasional rage-induced burn-out. Because my car sucks. The Maserati does not suck.

I settled into the Maserati and glanced back at the travel-mart. Kevin forlornly watched me out the front window. Castle, I assumed, was still crying and squirming on the floor. I turned the car on and smiled at the sound it made – like the God of Internal Combustion was snoring under my seat.

I gave Kevin a sarcastic little salute and exploded out of the parking lot in a cloud of vaporized Italian rubber. I turned left out of the parking lot, violently drifting and fishtailing onto the southbound lane of the highway. I accelerated until the giant yellow E6 sign was no longer visible in the rear-view, then eased the car back to a more reasonable 120. Even though I didn’t touch the sound system, AC/DC’s Highway to Hell started playing at a volume loud enough to obscure the not-insignificant road noise.

I flew down the road, back to the hotel where, I assumed, the mandatory-fun corporate event was starting to get into drunken “don’t tell HR about this” mode. With the E6 travel plaza falling two miles behind every minute, I could comfortably think about my next move. I’d drive back to the company party and talk to the C-suite guy. What the heck did Kevin say to him earlier, before he pretended to steal his keys?

I’m embarrassed to say that the first time I passed the E6 again, it didn’t register that something was wrong. “Oh look,” I thought absently. “Another E6 travel plaza. They’re popping up all over the place.”

I burned south for another five minutes. Another yellow E6 Travel Plaza sign came into view. This time, my spider sense started to tingle, as they say. I slowed down as I drove past. The lights were on, but the parking lot was empty. Almost empty – one vehicle was parked by the pumps: an 18-wheeler with a Castle Trucking logo painted on the side of the trailer.

I accelerated back to Italian race-car-driver speeds, mistakenly thinking I could out-drive the situation I was in. All this did was reduce the time until I passed the E6 again. And again. And again.

Now I was scared. Why was I scared now and not when I figured out that Kevin tricked me into his car? Why didn’t I panic when Castle tried to ram us with his magical truck? Why didn’t I experience crippling terror during Kevin and Castle’s strange standoff in the travel mart? I don’t know. It takes me a while to get with the program sometimes. But by the seventh or eighth time the E6 flew past on the opposite side of the road, I was crying tears of terror.

“Get me out of here!” I screamed at nobody.

AC/DC blasted out of the speakers:

I'm on the highway to hell

Highway to hell

I pounded on the stereo controls and eventually got the music to stop. Now I was alone with the scream of the engine. The E6 sign came into view again, peeking over the trees a half-mile ahead. I slammed on the brakes and came to a stop in the middle of the lonely highway.

I stayed in the road for twenty minutes, listening to the wipers squeak away the drizzle. I desperately scanned the road ahead and behind for signs of other cars. There were none.

I screamed and repeatedly punched the top of the dashboard. I accidentally hit the rearview mirror, rotating it so it reflected my lap instead of the rear window. I stopped punching the car and took a few breaths to regain some form of composure. Then I grasped the mirror and turned to fix the alignment. As I turned it from my lap to the window, I saw the same eight-face version of myself that I saw when I climbed into the car in the hotel parking lot. Eight faces – eight copies of my face – were gruesomely arranged on my head, simultaneously laughing, crying, screaming, glaring, and shouting.

I put my hands over my eyes and waited for my heartbeat to slow. With my eyes still closed, I reached out with shaking hands and found the mirror. I rotated it all the way to the right, so there would be no way I could see myself in it. Then I cried for a little while.

“I shouldn’t have gotten in the car,” I told myself out loud. The space-loop-truck-attack-Castle-weirdness-eight-face-jump-scare thing wouldn’t be happening if I had just managed to avoid making another bad friggin’ decision. If I didn’t get into the car with Kevin. Just one moment of wisdom - Is it too much to ask my brain to give me that?

I can’t just sit here in the road forever, I thought.

I put the car in drive and rolled ahead slowly. At thirty miles an hour, I perceived things that I missed when I was speeding: A graffiti tag on a speed limit sign. A dent in the guard rail where a vehicle had drifted into it. A hubcap propped up against a tree. Then – a side road.

The side road was unpaved. Just a narrow country lane that ran into the highway at a right angle. I cautiously turned onto the road, then stopped. My headlights barely cut through the gloom. Even with the high-beams on, I could only see a hundred feet or so before the road vanished into a tunnel-like canopy of trees.

At that point, anything was better than driving past the E6 again. I made a decision and hoped, for once, it would turn out to be a good one. I took my foot off the brake and slowly rolled into the darkness.

It was never meant to be this way, not at first. The winters were gentle in the beginning. Soft winds, faint chill—enough to remind you that time moved on, but not enough to punish you. You huddled together, warm by the fire, knowing that even the night could be as tender as the dawn. You called it The Gift, the flame that kept you alive, that kept you whole. But even your earliest warmth could not shield you from what was to come.

Long before Cryophobia became what you feared most, winter was nothing. Its touch was so mild, so easily forgotten, that you barely noticed it. It would come, and it would pass. There was no sharp edge to the season, no biting wind or endless frost. It was just another part of your cycle—like spring or autumn.

Then, Cryophobia came to be.

Ah, Cryophobia... you may have not yet realized the cost of that name, the depth of its meaning. It was born from a momentary lapse, from a Creation too subtle and too full of bitterness, and it changed everything. You do not know this, because you were never meant to see the world as I do, but I will tell you of the ancient tarn and the lost tribe that first felt Cryophobia’s cold touch.

You were not the first to receive this curse of fear. Before you, long before your stories and your fires, there were others. A forgotten tribe, cloaked in shadow and lost to time. They lived at the edge of the world, at the place where the land meets the ice and the sky. They worshipped the Cailleach, that frozen matron of winter, the embodiment of everything that would come to haunt you. She, whose hands turned water to ice and whose breath sculpted mountains from frost and stone.

In those days, the Cailleach was a beautiful maiden. She was once mortal, but the shifting winds of those days brought the first deadly chill. In the white that sprang from her laughter, as an infant, swirling snowflakes to match her innocence and beauty, an evil thing sprang up, jealous and vengeful. It warped her, transformed her, into the old hag that wanders the mountains even to this day. But her cycle of rebirth is eternal, and she spends a season as a lost and crying babe, another as a fawn-like girl, and then she reaches her prime, a woman of ravishing beauty, and then she grows old and decrepit, and winter comes.

Cryophobia was her child, an avatar born from the ancient fear of the cold, a manifestation of the terror that the Cailleach held for what winter could become. But her curse was not just fear. It was the true terror of being encased, suffocated by the cold, by the very things that once nurtured you: wind and water—this was the work of Cryophobia. And as I watched over you, as I felt the shadows creep over your fires, I knew that winter was no longer gentle. It was becoming something else. It was becoming a thing that cannot be ignored.

There is a place called the Grenlock, a hollow deep in the mountains where even the bravest of your kind dare not tread. It is where Cryophobia’s influence reigns most fiercely. The ground there is frozen and unyielding, the air thick with ice. You would never see it in full daylight, for the hollow only reveals itself when night falls, and the frost thickens enough to mask its true shape. The cold air becomes heavy and pools there, unmixed and as cold as air can be, so cold it becomes more of a liquid than gaseous.

Long ago, when the first frost gathered, the people of that tribe thought the Grenlock was a place of beauty, a hollow blessed by the Cailleach herself. But as the seasons grew colder, as Cryophobia twisted through the land, they began to feel it—a creeping terror, a weight that none could see but all could feel. They knew, at last, that winter had a face. The trees stopped growing halfway up the mountain, but in that hollow of the Grenlock, they died. It was a wasteland, a place of stone and foolhardy scrub.

But Cryophobia’s reach extended further than they could imagine. As it froze their bodies, it froze their minds too. And in the depths of the Grenlock, where no fire could warm them, they spoke of their Creator—not in reverence, but with fear. They became like the others, but they were different. They became a warning.

A warning set in stone.

Perhaps the bargain from so long ago lingers yet in your blood. Perhaps if the statues stand where they should, put in their proper place beneath the shelter, Cailleach will spare your life. You have forgotten this deal, and winter prevails without mercy. The people who knew this way, they are long gone.

You—the ones I watch now, sitting around the fire—have no memory of them. You have no knowledge of the ancient tribe that worshipped the Cailleach. But in your bones, you feel the change. The cold creeps further, beyond the winter, beyond the wind. It is the frost of Cryophobia, and I see it in your eyes.

I would never wish for you to know the full weight of Cryophobia’s power, for you have been so very good to me. I love you, despite the shadows that now follow in the wake of the frost. But you must know, this: Cryophobia will not be satisfied until winter consumes everything—until the coldness of the Grenlock stretches out to you. The first fear, the one that began with the ancient tarn, will return. It will return, not as something from outside, but as something from within. It will come when the fire grows dim.

I am Phobiaphobia, and I have seen all of this before. I have seen what happens when you cannot keep the warmth. I know the creatures born from your fears, and I know the terror that lies in the cold.

But do not fear the cold, not yet. You are not yet lost, not yet frozen.

Perhaps, in the end, it will be the warmth you carry that will save you. Or perhaps, it will be something else. Perhaps your memory will return, thawed from the icy embrace of a lost time, perhaps from a visit to where time is without meaning, a place that had never changed.

You do not know me, you do not see me.

But I am here, by your fire. I have always been here. And you are loved, even as the world grows colder.

You do not remember it clearly, but I remember it for you.

The Grenlock, that place where the winds do not whisper, but scream—where the cold does not creep, but strikes. You thought it was a safe haven when you first arrived, a place to rest, to find shelter from the world above. You thought the day’s warmth would carry through the night, as it had once done for your ancestors. But this was a mistake. A mistake you could not undo.

By day, the hollow seemed inviting. The sun’s rays slipped through the cliffs, casting long shadows that made the world seem softer, gentler. You stood there, in the midst of it, gazing at the stones, the six children of the Cailleach, scattered across the land like forgotten relics, waiting to be returned to their rightful place. They were nothing more than cold stones to you at first—though you, too, knew that they had meaning, that they had once been part of a treaty, an ancient pact forged with the goddess of winter. Without thoughts, you remembered it in your final instincts.

But you didn’t know what you were walking into, did you? Not really.

As the sun began to dip, the air grew thicker, heavier. A change came over the landscape, and you felt it like a weight pressing down on your chest. By the time the wind began to howl, you had already moved too far into the hollow. You could feel the air shifting around you, colder than it had been even on the peaks above. It wrapped itself around you, curling like tendrils of ice, slipping beneath your skin, invading your very bones.

Your tent, sleeping bag, those could not protect you from the temperatures far below freezing. You left their safety, because I told you to, and you listened to my whisper. Was I not a voice of reason, a hallucination perhaps? Hypothermia was already setting in, and your mind was playing tricks on you.

You didn’t know it yet, but you were no longer just walking through the land of the living. You were standing in the space between life and death, caught in the place where the cold reigns, where the frost moves with a will of its own.

The stones, the children, were calling you now. But the cold had started to claim you.

Your fingers—those fingers you would use to return the stones—began to stiffen, then freeze. You could feel the frostbite creeping, inch by inch, up your hands. You should have turned back then, should have known better, but something inside you—the old memory, that ancient pact, the treaty your ancestors had made—drove you forward. I was fascinated, for I had hoped you would walk out from the lake of freezing air, but instead you acted on some older instinct, something I didn't even understand. Yet you persisted, and had you kept walking you might have survived—or you might not have. It was your only chance, but you did your own thing.

You knew, somewhere deep in your mind, that you had to complete this task. There was no turning back now. But the cold, it whispered to you, coaxing you, beckoning you to give in. To strip off your layers, to feel the false warmth that only comes when the cold has fully taken hold.

But you resisted. You kept your coat on, despite the heat that was beginning to spread through you—heat that wasn’t real. The capillaries in your skin were expanding, reacting to the frost inside, and the warmth you felt was only a trick of the cold. You knew this, but the heat felt so real, so intense. Your body wanted to shed its layers, to feel the air on your skin.

You didn’t listen.

But I know. I remember what happened next.

A visual pain—the kind you could never have prepared for, seeing but not feeling the numb digit. One of your fingers, frozen solid, snapped off in a grotesque, silent break. You should have felt it, but you didn’t. The numbness had already spread too far. Your body, your mind—everything was betraying you.

But you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t turn away from the stones. They were still there, waiting for you to return them. Each movement felt like a battle against your very self. The hallucinations began then, didn’t they? You saw things that weren’t there, things you couldn’t explain.

You thought you saw me, didn’t you? The towering figure in the distance, standing in the shadow of the mountain. The Cailleach herself, perhaps.

It wasn’t real. But to you, it was. The terror was real.

For a moment, you thought you were safe. You thought the danger had passed. But you were still caught in the grip of that ancient place. Still trapped in the frost hollow of the Grenlock.

But I know—because I was there, watching from the shadows. You were not lost. Not yet.

When you opened your eyes again, the world was changing. The sun was rising, slow and pale over the horizon, casting the frost in a light that softened the edges of your nightmare. The pooling, sinking air, the breath of the mountain Cailleach had stopped. The cold was no longer a weapon.

You had survived.

And then, in the distance, you saw them. The figures above—the rescuers who had spotted you. They were coming, they were going to pull you from the hollow and bring you back to safety.

But you had already known the cold, hadn't you? You had felt its power, its weight. You were on the edge of something ancient, something vast, something that could not be contained by the sun or the wind. You had felt the Cailleach's reach, even if you couldn’t fully remember it.

You would never forget what you saw in the Grenlock.

But I will never forget what you were meant to do, either. I will never forget the stones, or the promise your people made.

You’ve walked through the cold. You’ve seen the frostbite and the terror, the hallucinations that twist your mind. And you’ve survived. But there is always more to remember, always more to understand about the cold.

This is only part of the story.

The next time you feel the chill, remember the stones. Remember the promise.

Remember the Cailleach.

I hate people especially kids my age. Human beings are unpredictable creatures more so when they are teenagers. All the backstabbing and lying and gossiping. Even just thinking about it makes me border line furious. It broke my heart that we took pleasure in the destruction of our comrades. I even felt great sadness whenever i thought about my existence. Why am i doomed to a life that ends the same way as every other piece of shit on earth. This feeling would be the strongest before and after school. I had one more week left starting this Monday. I was almost excited to be done with it until i remembered i still had high school and maybe college.

I lived in a close knit community but I wouldn’t exactly call it small. Almost all the kids my ages went to the same school so seeing a new face was extremely rare. So when I saw a new kid sitting alone at his own table my kid brain was overwhelmed with curiosity and for the first time in a while, excitement. Why is there a new kid during the last week of school? I walked across the lunchroom and sat myself down across from the boy.

“ I’ve never seen you here before did you just move?” I said to him wonder seeping into my voice.

“I’ve lived here all my life. I know who everyone here is including you, Derek.” I didn’t quite hear him though, I was more fixated on his face.

“Hey how come you look like me?” I said harshly. The kid just smiled at me.

“That’s for you to figure out”

“Uh okay dude” I said picking up my lunch and going to my own table of isolation. I barely touched my food. All I could think about was how that boy looked exactly like me. Did I have a twin no one told me about? My mom is definitely answering some questions when I get home. My mother was a hard working woman. She always offered her unbiased opinion which means her sugar coating skills were non existent. She was a tall woman with beautiful black hair that touched her shoulder blades and jade eyes that sparkled when the sun caught them just right.

“Mom, do I have a twin brother?” I said from the kitchen table. She stopped putting dishes away and turned to face me. She had a very solid look of confusion on her face before it turned to what I’d call judgmental.

“Aren’t you to old for imaginary friends?” She said poking fun at me. I was not amused. I fake laughed it off as convincingly as I could and retreated back to my room. I became increasingly worried that I’d gone crazy but the more I thought about him the more relaxed I became. I checked the clock on my bedside table before crawling into bed for my afternoon nap. The next time I checked my clock it was 545 am the next morning. I had slept damn near 15 hours and I felt great.

The next day at school was terrible. Although it had gotten better this last week, I had a bullying problem. This wasn’t your typical movie bully’s though. They were vicious for 8th graders. Like little piranhas that fed off of shame and insecurity instead of meat. By the time end of day came around I’d been missing a shoe and a shiny swollen eye. On my way out the doors I saw that boy again, or I guess in better words, the other me. He was standing around the corner of the building waving me over. I looked around and pointed to myself just to make sure he was talking to me. He nodded and beckoned again.

“What do you want dude.” I said annoyed and hostile already over this shit hole of a school.

“Soon my friend. You will be lifted up and your sorrows stomped beneath your feet.” He said as he pulled me in to a firm embrace. Usually I’d freak out and run away but this time was different. I stayed in that embrace for what felt like hours. It’s the safest I’d ever felt. He walked me home that day. We didn’t speak a word the whole way there. When we got to my house he simply patted my back, gave a short nod and walked away.

“Hey kiddo how was school?” My mom said oddly cheerful. She’s a defense attorney so her leaving work in a good mood is always a shock. Before I could answer she stormed over to me and crouched down until she was face level.

“What happened to my baby’s face?!” She said almost shaking with sadness and rage.

“Don’t worry mom it’s nothing I promise” I said with a smile on my face. After about a 30 minute window of straight prying she finally dropped it. As I walked up to my room I felt nothing but security. For some reason my usual feelings of disdain and annoyance weren’t there. I felt happy. Excited. So excited in fact I didn’t sleep a wink that night.

The next day was awful. I didn’t see the strange boy at school today and a wave of sadness covered my body as I left the building. My tormentors were rather relentless today. When I got home I realized my mom wasn’t there. I raced to my room, seizing the opportunity to cry unbothered and undetected. I cried and cried clutching my privates. They made me expose myself to them while they recorded. At the time my brain thought that was a better alternative then getting my face beat in but now I’d rather have the latter. The tears kept coming until no more water left my eyes and I fell asleep.

I woke up to the sound of a knock on my bedroom door. I sat there frozen in fear until I heard a voice, my voice, coming from the other side. It said to me-

“Don’t be scared Derek. You’ve been waiting for tomorrow your whole life. It’s time to get ready.” I had no idea what he was talking about but for some reason I understood him completely. Tomorrow is the day. It’s finally time.

Im writing this last segment before I execute my plan. Im so excited I can barely contain myself. I felt the urge to document my experience of this past week not from confusion but out of pride. After today all I will know is peace. Thank you guys for reading and I’ll talk to you all soon. ❤️

UPDATE PLEASE READ

im sorry it took me so long to address the post but the grieving process has been extremely difficult for me. After reading my son’s blog I feel so stupid I didn’t see it sooner. I can’t sleep or even clothes my eyes without hearing that phone call. I’ve never felt so much pain and fear until I pressed that phone to my ear. It was my son and he said-

“Hey mom it’s Derek! Im not gonna be home in time for dinner I got some stuff to take care of at school. I love you and I’ll see you later.”

The phone fell from my hand in shock. My son is 27. He’s been out of school for at least 9 years. But it’s almost because of what I heard. In the background of the call I heard something that will haunt me as a mother the rest of my life. I heard the blaring of fire alarms blended with screams as doors slammed in the background. I ran to my son’s room and searched around when I found something that solidified my realization. My son’s medication. He hadn’t taken it in 7 months.

23 lives were lost today including my sons. I wish I could have seen the signs. I could have saved them. I could have saved my son. please pay close attention to your loved ones. you never know what they are going through. To all the families of the victims I understand my words mean nothing but im truly sorry and destroyed by your loss. and to my son wherever he was sent after this life- why?

If anyone missed last week, catch up here :

https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/w797EarlMr

Leo works diligently at the locks holding the 5 prisoners. Thankfully no wards or runes are inscribed on them. That being said, the bit of wire he stripped with his teeth, makes a poor lockpick.

The entity dragging itself down the hall takes it’s time, taunting Leo. Timbers creak as the massive thing spews threats and vitriol.

Leo is starting to scare me. It isn’t just the look on his face as the thing beyond the door gets closer, it’s everything about him.

If I had a pulse to race, it would be. Being okay with dying for a cause is one thing, but staring down a violent death, miles away from making any kind of difference, that’s scary as hell.

More so if I’m the only person with their wits about them.

One lock pops open, the chained victim has no idea what to make of the situation. Simply dashing toward the window.

“Don’t “ Leo says, I’m given the tiniest sliver of hope by his commanding tone, “There are at least 3 armed lunatics down there with itchy trigger fingers. You’ll be dead before you hit the ground. “

“ What’s the matter Leonard? Things not going according to plan? You started this little ruse off by shitting your pants, now it looks like you’re shitting the bed.” The entity taunts with an obnoxiously long, phlegmatic laugh.

Leo has to close his eyes. He takes a deep breath, putting enough effort into keeping his cool veins start to rise on his neck.

His voice doesn’t waver, his shaking stops. If it wasn’t for the fact his heart rate and pulse were displayed in my vision, I’d assume he actually pulled himself together.

He’s not okay, but he’s doing a damn fine impression.

The second lock pops open quicker than the first, releasing a middle aged woman with large, green eyes that seem out of place in this ugly situation.

“A sin eater is a person or thing that through a ritual takes away bad shit you’ve done. “ Leo begins, opening the third lock nearly instantly, “ Don’t ask me why it has to eat them, but it is what it is.

That thing out there, it’s the opposite of that. It spews out your hidden shit, flesh and blood consequences of every mistake you’ve made. “

The fourth lock opens, the small crowd listens raptly to Leo, who looks to them, picking the last lock without looking.

I understand something then. (I know , it’s cheating when I can see what’s going on via arcane technology, but it still requires interpretation.).

People like Leo, they aren’t just stronger, faster, or more capable of wielding the occult. It isn’t just the physical battle, or even the mystical one.

Both Leo’s kind and the Malignant wield influence. They have a nuanced way of controlling emotion and faith.

“ And this isn’t taking into account it’s a massive bastard, like a mini-bus with a torture kink. I’m not going to sugar-coat things, if it gets in we’re fucked.

We have backup but at this point I don’t know if they’re coming.

I can’t promise you a happy ending, put once it works up the balls to stick it’s face in , me and Teddy Ruxpin here will buy you every second we can. “ As Leo talks, the air is charged. It’s a small, pale thing compared to the overwhelming dark energy of the bishop’s house, but it’s something.

“I don’t even have to mock that sad little war cry.

I wager if I offer a softer fate, I get at least one of your little band to come out of their own free will.

I know what you’re doing Leonard, it won’t work. “ The Vomitorium (Okay, I think I might be getting good at naming things now. ) says, inching closer.

Leo looks out the window, when he mumbles “Fuck” I assume Flapp is still MIA.

The tension is thick, the victims keep looking at me, I can tell they think I’m just another random horror here to kill them. I can feel how that’s making them distrust Leo.

“Leonard, If you don’t come out here, I’m going to show you something new. “ The Vomitorium says, almost crooning.

The door suddenly tears itself free from the hinges. The victims scream, Leo is startled, but stands firm.

“It’s not the door holding him back it’s the ward. He’s just trying to get in your heads.

We know it’s going to get bad you dick-shaped asshole. Let’s get on with things. “ Leo taunts.

None of the sensors I’ve been equipped with can quite measure it, but whatever battle of will is going on between the entity and the Hero starts to intensify.

“ They’re both part of it. This is just some kind of way to fuck with us. Look at that thing, you idiots are playing right into their hands. “ A ginger man with one eye swollen nearly shut says.

I can almost visibly see the impact the statement has on Leo. His mojo begins to wane.

Leo stumbles on how to reply, the other four victims become unsure.

I stomp over to the man, letting all of the lethal blades and spines on my body whirr, and rattle. I’ve deflated ( for lack of a better term) back to the height of a toddler, but I have the man’s attention.

JP be damned, if I ever meet my creator I’m calling out the fact the sole form of communication she gave this proxy is creepy repetition. What I say next would have sounded a lot more convincing without all of the Max Headroom meets deepfake crap.

“I was made to kill children. I’ve done some awful things so far, but haven’t crossed that particular bridge yet.

If I don’t, it will be because of Leo.

If you five get out of here, it will be because of him.

I get it, you were thrown face first into horror. Never given time to understand or adapt, and now you need to try and figure things out.

But, the really scary shit, you can’t predict. Coming up with a random conspiracy about the only person between you and, whatever is in the hallway? That’s just being human.

But it’s also going to get all of us killed. “ As I talk , I see a lot of confusion but no disbelief.

The Vomitorium laughs.

“Good save, thought things were going to get interesting there for a minute.

Guess I’ll have to make my own fun. “ the creature says before making a horrendous gagging noise.

I can see the terror hidden behind Leo’s hardened demeanor. He checks the window and curses again.

With an amniotic-like burst of disgusting, flotsam ridden fluid, two human forms slide across the floor. At first I think they’re corpses, judging by the fact everyone with a nose in the room is gagging, the smell is about right.

But slowly the two begin to rise. At first indistinct, filth ridden human shaped things, but quickly they turn into a woman in her 50’s, and a boy of about 12, both sharing a strong family resemblance with Leo.

“Your brother left, Lenny. Off with that uncle of our’s, and you went chasing after the priest.

We were strong as a family. That’s how Heroes work. Your brother hurt the family but, you killed it. “ Her voice hits Leo like a sledgehammer.

From the outside, what she’s saying seems trite, especially coming from something Leo knows damn well is some kind of projection, or mimic.

But there are forces at play no sensor can gauge. To Leo, despite all evidence to the contrary, the woman standing in front of him, is his mother.

The crowd’s flickering flame of hope begins to falter. The shell-shocked look and fresh tears on Leo’s face not exactly inspiring confidence.

Horror doesn’t have to be blood and guts. I know it’s a tired old cliché, but I’ll be honest. Seeing Leo broken to this point, is as terrifying as anything I’ve seen. If it’s a cliché, so be it.

“Our death isn’t peaceful Lenny. You’ve made so many enemies, we just want rest. “ Leo’s mother wails, her tone dripping accusation.

My mind races, sensors throw indecipherable data at me as I try and do something to try and stop this.

“ I, it’s that…” Leo stutters.

Whatever mojo the Hero had is nearly spent. The situation becomes grim. Leo himself is near his breaking point.

My vision stutters, erratic random noises come from the speaker within the proxy. For a brief second I feel whatever powers this abomination I’m trapped in shut down.

When my sight returns, I see text flashing across it. Guess I was wrong about no sensor being able to detect things.

‘Anomaly Detected.’

I can’t help but think “No shit” as the red text starts to flash, then fade, then change.

‘Anomalous Energy Analyzed.’

The understanding hits me like a wave, almost too much to absorb on a conscious level. But two things are clear.

1. We are not killing the Vomitorium.
2. I can help Leo.

I see the battle of will as clear as day. In a black void of hatred and evil, small silver strands are being torn apart like spider webs in a hurricane.

I walk forward, putting myself between Leo and the Vomitorium’s creations.

I put my faith in the woman who made me, and whatever combination of programming and rituals is guiding me toward this insane plan.

“You’ve been going at that ward for about ten minutes now. Jesus Christ, it took the catatonic guy two.

I get that you’re coming in, but fuck me, getting killed by someone this bad at their job. That’s just undignified. “ As I spout this taunt, I’m glad for the speaker. The tone is harsh and confidant. A brutal combination of the speech the proxy has recorded.

The mimics stop their mental torture, the room goes silent. I feel like every set of eyes in the world is on me.

Those silver threads then hold still for a moment in the gale of evil.

“Can you do anything else? Honestly curious.

See, I’m basically a Swiss Army knife, and from what I’ve been told I’m a hunk of shit made by an idiot.

So, don’t tell me with how hard you’re trying to seem like some kind of Lovecraft god, all you have is bulk and guilt. “ There’s silence for a moment, then, a laugh.

It's small, quick, and comes from a man so badly beaten he’s going to need reconstructive surgery.

The threads stop dissolving.

“I could show you sights that would rust your steel as well as your mind little toy. “ The Vomitorium says, dragging itself close enough to the doorway I can see claws, and the barest suggestions of a form.

With every new piece of data our situation seems worse, that thing seems more powerful. But I don’t stop, and as I talk, I notice something.

A buried piece of programming starts to release the smallest amount of vapor from one of the tubes. A tiny, scentless puff of vapor wafts through the room.

In quantity it’d likely put someone out, maybe even a room full of people. But the nearly homeopathic amount the proxy dispenses makes the victims calm and suggestable.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time. Have fun explaining to me whoever the hell it is you puke up though. Fractured memories are where I live. “ As I try and buy us some time I see a tiny bit of focus return to Leo.

He looks to me and smirks, mixed with his fear and pain is a look of curiousity.

“Start trying bedsheets, curtains, cords, anything. Worst comes to worst, take your chances down there. If backup comes, it’ll be easier to get out without broken ankles. “ the Hero whispers.

When Leo talks next I see those strands start to grow slightly.

From here on out I’m not going to keep giving the play by play on the new sensor, just the highlights, I think you guys get the gist.

“You know what this guy really is, Punch?

He’s not a demon, hell, he’s not even a malignant.

We are looking at a legitimate closet monster.

Most entities are known for their cunning, or their power, these fuckin’ things though, let me tell you.

If you wrote short-man syndrome into something’s DNA, that’d be a closet monster. It’s why so many of them get killed before they are any bigger than a loaf of bread. Last time I checked the numbers, one in ten kids has actually killed one. They can be anywhere, but honestly, who cares?

It’s why when, by some god-damned miracle, one actually makes it long enough to be a threat they get so mean.

I almost get it. Big fella, how many cousins of yours died before you failed upwards? “

The rage from the closet monster ( thanks for ruining my branding Leo) is a tangible thing. Paint peels, wood splinters and it throws itself face first into the ward.

Grey flesh and dead, doll like eyes, a mouth big enough to swallow a grown man in the rough shape of a doorway.

The creature drools foul liquid from it’s square toothed maw. The victims scream, their resolve almost broken by the sight of things to come.

“That hit a nerve, didn’t it.

You were talking about how you could get one of these people to walk out on their own?

Or as I like to call it, ‘ The played-out villain special. ‘ .

Lets flip that around. I say one of these fine folks would sacrifice themselves for the good of the rest of us.

See, I burn souls like nitrous, Night-slug. And maybe that’s all we need to get out of here. “ I lie.

That part of me full of evil intent is still on the other end of the city. I have no urge to hurt any of these people, and if I did, I’d get nothing out of it than more horrifying memories.

I bank on the Closet Monster not knowing this, and the gamble works. His focus is on Leo and myself, he doesn’t notice the victims tossing a homemade rope anchored to a dresser out of the window.

The creature mutters curses in a dozen different languages as it redoubles its efforts on the ward.

The energy of the barrier begins to flicker and fade. The closet monster grins.

Leo looks to the window, his face brightens.

“ Go, Go, Go!” he screams to the victims.

“No way, look at that thing out there!” The green eyed woman says.

The ward is seconds away from failing, but I take a moment to look out of the window.

The thing in question, is Flapp, each hand buried deep in a severed head of a cult member. He waves the grim trophies like air traffic control torches.

“Do you want an explanation, or do you want to leave, fuckin’ move!” Leo screams, the words have a commanding force that has nothing to do with their volume.

Mountain climbers the victims are not, but they are more than willing to get a sprained ankle or blood dripping ropeburn to make sure they all get down as quickly as possible.

They are still climbing when the ward fails.

The Closet monster’s seeming endless bulk snakes its way slowly into the room. As if to make it clear that the victims were never the concern.

Leo is trying his damnedest to keep things together, but cracks show in his stone-faced demeanor.

He draws the pistol from before, it looks like a paltry toy when faced with the horror dragging itself closer to us.

We back toward the window, still two victims left. The last man is in horrible shape, I don’t like our chances.

As I think this, I realize accepting your fate isn’t the panacea for fear it’s made out to be.

If I can get these people out of this slice of hell, whatever happens to me is worth it. At least in some sense I’ve balanced out the karmic scales, a little.

But that doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to how that fate plays out.

“ What Leo failed to mention, my foul mouthed little novelty is that my kind are excellent fleshsmiths.

I will make you two, one creature that begs for death but is terrified of the release. You will be an abomination, my plaything for longer than you could possibly understand. “ There isn’t a hint of exaggeration in the threat.

The last victim hits the ground running.

Leo could take the rope down, but even dropping half way, this thing would have me by then.

“Go.” Leo says, pointing the cheap pistol at the thing.

He’s already had to have the ‘And I mean, go. ‘ conversation once tonight, I don’t make him have it again.

The proxy wasn’t made for acrobatics, and this rope wasn’t made to last. But I won’t let Leo’s sacrifice be in vain.

I give the man one last look before I take the straining rope.

The sound is like a thunderclap. And in instantly think to hearing Leo in the bathroom, the strange prayer, the smell of fresh blood.

That pistol, the cheap, likely stolen and misused machine fires much faster than it was ever made to. The projectiles hit with more force than is possible, blowing dinner plate sized chunks out of the Monster. And Leo has fired well over 30 shots from the 8 round clip before he slams another one home.

The entity is hurt, enraged, and stunned. Leo throws the pistol, out the window, it’s white hot barrel instantly igniting a patch of grass.

He's running full force, clearly expecting me to already be down the rope.

Our descent is a tangled, painful thing, the rope slowing it just enough to escape broken legs and servos.

“That won’t be anything more than a distraction. “ Leo says, panting as we both begin a limping jog away from the Bishop’s house.

The creature stares at us from behind a half curtained window. At first I question why it’s not just coming after us, but I think back to JP explaining how hard it gets covering up very obvious things.

“Aren’t you coming?” I ask Flapp, the massive bird-like thing standing in shadows gnawing on a leg.

“Got some unfinished business here, tell Hyve I’ll catch up.” Flapp answers.

We make it to JP, waiting a couple of blocks away. There hasn’t been many upbeat moments since I started this, but relaying our escape, and getting those people out, it felt, good.

“Where’s Flapp?” Hyve asks a few hours later.

I’ve put myself back into what I sadly think of as my real body. The dark thoughts are an unwelcome guest.

“ I told you, he said he had some things to take care of. “ Leo says, impatiently, clearly being uncomfortable around Hyve.

“Thank you for making sure we were all so well informed. “ The small, toy-like malignant says, sarcastically.

Leo has been arguing with JP and Sveta about leaving. Kaz and I, on the other hand want to be on the first plane out.

“For Christ’s sake Leo, it’s not just you. If you stay, sooner or later things are going to be traced back here, then it’s my ass.

This isn’t a request. “ JP says, tone giving no room for debate.

The conversation devolves into the kind of vulgar that can only be achieved by friends who have known each other for much too long.

Right about as things were getting to people’s mothers, JP’s phone begins to ring.

He angrily puts up a finger to silence Leo, “Shut the fuck up, this is probably a paying customer.

Hello?”

JP’s face drops, he puts down the phone, and hits speaker.

“Hyve, you there?” I hear Flapp say, the line is distorted, I can hear light traffic in the background.

“Yes, of course I am, you should be too. “ Hyve responds.

“That’s the thing, I shouldn’t be, and neither should you.

We’ve spent so long pissing about with mortals, and things that vainly call themselves horrors.

I get it, our kind has been anything but welcoming, but look at yourself.

You are siding with a hunter, and a Greysmith.

I’m done with this Hyve, and with every bit of my will, I hope you are as well.” The sinister but heartfelt words coming in Flapp’s grating, comical tone makes the implication all the more terrifying.

“Fuck! I told you, we don’t go working with the god damn malignant!” Leo screams at JP.

“I have nothing to do with this betrayal!” Hyve says defensively.

“The hell you didn’t!” JP accuses.

The argument turns to chaos, Flapp’s laughter cuts through the din.

“Oh well, I tried. We’ve grown to close to the meat Hyve, we’ve began to feel like them. Tonight is my first step toward purging that weakness.

It’s been a slice.” Hyve says.

Words become exhausted, every insult has been thrown, every accusation laid bare. All the while Flapp taunts us with threats of the Bishop’s power, and promises of his mercy.

A few seconds of silence is broken by Leo throwing a vase in a fit of impotent rage. Injury and mental fatigue make his aim poor, instead of exploding against a wall, it shatters a livingroom window.

The noise of the splintering glass is a cacophony. A signal flare of a person who refuses to accept his fate.

Everyone’s blood runs cold, when we hear it again, a fraction of a second later through JP’s phone speaker.

The six of us walk over to the now shattered bay window, and we see it.

Nothing that would stand out at first, just average cars parked on an average street. Maybe at worst it’d seem like a handful of relatives visiting a dozen homes.

But then, many of the cars start to flick their lights on and off. Slowly, perfectly in unison.

“We’re going to get to know each other very closely over the next few weeks, Kinder. Hope your comfy.” The Bishop’s voice says through the phone before the line disconnects.

“What’s going on?” I ask, understanding the basics but nothing more.

“It’s going to be a siege. They are likely tapping into my wards as we speak.

It’s the smartest move, make things slow, low and quiet. Starve us out, this is what I was afraid of, this is what you can do with numbers.

Can’t call the cops, they can cause all kinds of shit, and it’s not illegal to sit in your car with some rock salt and silver shavings.

Can’t just get the cops called here, because as you may have noticed this place basically made of ATF and FDA felonies.

If they catch us trying to go get food, they have plenty of psychopaths willing to go to prison.

Fuck me, fuck us.” JP says, barely above a whisper.

And that’s where things stand. Staring down a supernatural siege, with nothing but my friends and you guys. I don’t know what we can do to pull through this time, but at least all of us are here, right?

Let me know your ideas in the comments.

Punch.

I knew it was coming.

After building an empire, climbing the ranks of power and influence, you’d think you’d be safe. Untouchable. However, there is always a price. The higher you climb, the closer you are to the brink.

I saw it in their eyes. Those beneath me, watching from the shadows. Every decision I made, every deal I brokered, every move I made—there was always someone ready to take it from me. They knew my weaknesses before I did. They watched from the periphery, waiting, calculating. I always felt someone, somewhere, was out there—waiting for the right moment to strike.

But it wasn’t until the first sign appeared that I understood.

It wasn’t a threat at first. No, it was subtle. A small misstep in my day. A missed meeting. A lingering glance from a stranger. I dismissed it. I should’ve known better. Power clouds your senses, makes you believe you’re invincible.

The first message was simple: “I know your secrets.”

A warning, maybe, but not enough to scare me. Not yet. After all, I built this company with blood and sweat, played the game in ways most couldn’t even imagine. My secrets weren’t to be feared. They were weapons—tools to keep me ahead. But when the messages became more direct, more calculated, I started to feel it. A shift. A presence always just out of reach, behind me.

I didn’t know who they were. I didn’t know if they were inside my circle or watching from the outside, blending in with the faceless masses. But I felt them. Watching. Waiting.

The power I’d amassed, the influence I held—it wasn’t enough anymore. I had become a target, not just by the usual enemies wanting a piece of my empire. No, this was different.

The CEO Killer, they called them. A name floating through rumors, carrying terror. The first victim was someone I knew well. A fellow executive. At first, his death seemed an accident. But the details didn’t add up. A fatal fall. A random tragedy. Then it happened again. Another colleague. Another accident. The same pattern. The same calm, methodical precision.

It wasn’t until the third time that I understood. The CEO Killer wasn’t after the weak. They weren’t looking for an easy target. They were coming for the strong. They were coming for me.

I tried to prepare, to protect myself with security, surveillance, and deception. But they were always one step ahead. How could I have underestimated them? The one thing I hadn't considered was my own hubris, which I'd always taken for granted.

The CEO Killer is not just a murderer. They are a master of perception. They enter your mind and distort reality to the point that you can no longer trust your senses. It is too late to know you are in danger. You’re the hunted. You’ve already lost.

Although this is how it ends.

It's the Fourth of July, and the streets are lined with fireworks and flags. The air smells like gunpowder and joy. In the middle of the city, I stood on my balcony, viewing the throng below, ignorant of the shadow cast over me. They are celebrating their independence, their country, and their past. But I know the truth—this is my last moment.

The CEO Killer has come for me. The silence before the end is deafening, but the world below doesn’t notice. They’re too busy celebrating, too busy reveling in their illusions of safety. But I see it now. The killer’s hand, the one I never saw coming. I feel the cold steel, sharp and precise. And as I fall, the world spins, blurring into red, white, and blue.

It’s fitting, I suppose. The day the nation celebrates independence, it loses me—the one who thought he could never be brought down. But in the end, none of us are untouchable. None of us are free.

As the fireworks explode in the sky, I breathe my last. And the nation carries on, unaware that the man they once revered has become another casualty in the game of power.

I’ve had two nightmares about him. And now, I feel like I’m out of time. I know if I fall asleep again, he’ll take me with him. Every time I close my eyes, I see him grinning at me with those black pits he has for eyes.

It always starts the same way:

I’m walking down a dodgy street, trying to find my way back home. The only light comes from a few dim, yellow street lamps. Then, a taxi appears out of nowhere, and I flag it down. The moment I step inside, something feels wrong. The air in the car is heavy, suffocating, like I’m trapped in a box with no escape.

The driver is an older man. He is extremely skinny, with sickly yellow skin, sunken eyes, and a terrifying gaze. He has a creepy, unnatural grin plastered across his face. His hair, or what’s left of it, is thin, white, and uneven, hanging in messy clumps around his head.

When he asks, “Where are we going?” chills run down my spine. His voice is disgusting, almost inhuman. I give him my address, but instead of taking the normal route, he turns down strange streets, speeding up as he drives. I start panicking and try to open the doors, but he has locked them all. I start screaming: “Let me out, this is where I should be getting off, my family’s waiting for me, please!” But he just stares at me through the rearview mirror with a terrifying face, grinning at me with a smile that makes me want to vomit.

Eventually, the car stops. We are in an empty parking lot, surrounded by nothing. This creature doesn’t say a word. Somehow, I manage to free myself, bursting out of the taxi and running as fast as I can.

But then, I see him running behind me, though he isn’t human anymore. His body has transformed into a 10-foot-tall, emaciated creature with the skin color of rotten flesh. His grin stretches too wide, splitting his face unnaturally. All his limbs are grotesquely broken and twisted, with raw muscles and pieces of skin exposed. He is crawling toward me at an inhuman speed, faster than I can run. His eyes… God, his eyes… those deep, dark pits are locked on me. Then he catches me, his claw-like hands gripping me so hard as he rises into the air, flying with me into the sky. I can feel my body going limp.

I can’t move, can’t scream, can’t do anything but stare as he leans close to my face and whispers:

“You’ll never escape me. This is the second time you’ve dreamed of me. The third time… you won’t wake up.”

That’s when it hits me. I have dreamt of this terrifying man before. It isn’t just a nightmare. This is the same creature, and I hadn’t remembered until now.

And then, as I’m lying in bed I realize this is a dream but I feel his breath on my face. It’s hot and rancid, like he’s inches away. I know it’s a dream, but it feels so real. I can’t open my eyes. I can’t move. I’m trapped in this horrible limbo, stuck between waking up or falling deeper into the nightmare. Both feel equally terrifying.

I fight with everything I have to wake up, struggling against the invisible weight pinning me down. Finally, I break free and sit bolt upright in bed, thinking of this man, or this creature the whole entire night.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of then night covered in sweat to his repugnant voice whispering my name.

I can’t sleep. Not now. Not ever. Not anymore. Because if I do… he’ll come back.

[Part 11]

I slipped on a patch of mud and cursed under my breath. It wasn’t far to where my platoon had pitched their tents, but on my aching feet it seemed like miles.

“Ohio, make up your freaking mind.” I growled as I wiped a splatter of reddish-brown muck from my pants. “Either it’s winter, or it’s not. Freeze the mud solid, or warm up so we don’t need coats, just pick one.”

My day hadn’t ended the moment we evacuated from the captured depot. I’d spent hours getting wounded to the nearest medic station, helping apply first aid in some cases, and setting my platoon up in our next patrol base. On top of transporting, sorting, and storing the captured enemy supplies, I had to restock my own troops, check on ammunition, water, medical gear, and food. Our old trucks needed refueled before they were sent back to the rear units, as Chris decided to give all the armory-made pickup trucks to the recon platoons, now that the frontline units had captured enemy vehicles to use. As a result, Ethan had gone to great lengths to ensure each platoon leader knew the ins and outs of the coalition-built machines so that we could identify mechanical issues before they arose, while the militia men trained the Rhino units on the captured M1117 Armored Security Vehicles.

Compared to our simple pickup trucks, the ASV’s were futuristic spaceships, with enough buttons, toggle switches, and levers to make my head spin, not counting the 90mm gun turret that made them look like miniature tanks with wheels. While I envied their thicker armor, I didn’t mind sticking with the easy-to-use pickups I was familiar with, and the rest of 4^(th) platoon was simply overjoyed to finally have some protection between themselves and the enemy’s bullets. In the end, I counted nearly 18 hours since I’d last slept, and with only a few hours left until the next sunrise, I doubted I would get enough rest to make up for it.

And somehow I have to be cognizant enough to navigate by map and protractor tomorrow. Man, that’s gonna suck. I would sell my left hand for a cup of expresso.

Staggering toward my tent, I passed a line of kids with blaze orange armbands, a few sleepy-eyed guards with them as they unloaded the last of our trucks. They’d exchanged some of their old garb for whatever new clothing we could give them, but many stubbornly clung to their pirate roots, and sported a mix of 18^(th) century attire and 21^(st). Bandanas and tricorn hats, long coats with tails and knee-high boots, all of it looked comical if you didn’t know why on earth they dressed that way.

I did, however, and it left a melancholy feeling in my chest for the reminder of how dire the situation had become for little Barron County.

Peter caught my eye as I strode past, and he hefted the ammunition crate in his arms to throw me a courteous nod. “Evenin’ lass. A word?”

Wishing I could find a cot to collapse into, I forced myself to stop anyway. As first mate of the Harper’s Vengeance, Peter had played a key role in saving my life when the child-pirate crew ambushed Chris, Jamie, and I during our journey in the southlands. The forgotten children of Sunbright Orphanage had taken the replica schooner for themselves after mutants attacked their home and turned to a life of vicious crime on Maple Lake in order to survive. Led by the ruthless Captain Grapeshot Roberts, the crew had split when Peter convinced half of them to follow him northward in hopes of contacting New Wilderness to enlist our help in tracking down some of their lost crewmates. The offensive had put such efforts on the backburner, and as they were still criminals, Peter’s followers were put to work in non-combat roles. While many others were distrustful, or even downright hateful of the pirates, Peter and I shared something of a fraternal respect, as he’d been the one to help me in some of the darkest moments of my life. For my part, I had been the one to get him pardoned from his death sentence, and even if his faux Caribbean accent could be a bit much at times, I’d come to appreciate the self-made buccaneer.

“Care for a drop?” He produced a stainless-steel flask from the pockets of his double-buttoned Renafair coat and offered it to me.

As if I need something else to knock me out.

I shook my head at the strong scent of our home-brewed corn whiskey, likely bartered or pilfered from the market back in Ark River. “No thanks.”

He shrugged and downed a few gulps. Despite the majority of the pirates being shockingly young, their chosen lifestyle had enabled them to take on habits fit for older men, and they were some of the biggest purchasers of alcohol or tobacco products in our miniature economy. A few had been hooked on harder stuff before the mutiny, and these poor souls had to be kept at the fort due to the intensity of their withdrawal symptoms. One eleven-year-old girl had even died from it, and the Ark River women spent hours praying for her soul in the church. The kids of Sunbright had lived awful lives, both before and after the Breach, and seeing twelve-year-olds smoking while their older leaders drank themselves to death hurt my soul in ways I didn’t know possible. Peter himself was fifteen, but from how indifferently he reacted to violence or death, and how much he drank, anyone would have thought the boy was in his mid-twenties.

“Was wanting to talk to you.” He grunted and returned the flask to his pockets. “I know you’ve got a lot on yer plate, what with the war an all, but my boys didn’t get full rations the past few nights. Guards claimed the truck didn’t bring enough in for everyone. Now I’m seeing a lot of food coming off these rigs, so I’m hoping you’ll make sure we get our due, yeah?”

Glad to be presented with something simple, I rubbed at my eyes and nodded. “I’ll see to it first thing, and let Chris know so it doesn’t happen again. If they try to pull anything tonight, you come get me. There’s more than enough, so there should be no reason not to feed you guys.”

His face brightened, and Peter slapped me on the arm with pleased comradery. “Knew I could count on ya. Sure you don’t want any grog? You look like shit.”

Nothing like an honest pirate to keep you humble.

I couldn’t help but let slide a grin at the mischievous glint in his eye. “I feel like it. But I’ll pass. Unless you’ve got a magic potion that can grant me eight hours of sleep somewhere in that overcoat.”

“If only.” Peter’s face took on a more serious contemplation, and he made a sad nod at the hills to our rear. “Heard it was bad out there today. You lose many boys?”

My chest tightened, and the memory of the machine guns mowing down two of my platoon flashed through my mind as fresh as if I were living it all over again. “A few.”

Our eyes met, and in Peter’s dark irises, I saw his sympathy. “Well, I know what the big shots say, but if you ever need any strong lads who know their way around a gun . . .”

“Not my call, unfortunately. But I appreciate it. I’ll check by in the morning, okay?” With that, I gave him a parting wave and slogged onward.

I found my tent at last and ducked inside the canvas flap with a sigh of relief. The square metal stove emitted faint orange-red light from the ventilation slits in its tiny door, the fire reduced to coals after Lucille had started it for me some time ago. Outside, the wind rustled the rubber-coated canvas with moderate force and howled in the trees to beckon the approach of a cold front. Hushed patters on the sloped roof told me a light snowfall followed on the breeze, one that wouldn’t stick past the morning sunlight, but an ominous sign nonetheless.

Plunking down on a stool next to the stove, I sucked in another breath to taste salty woodsmoke, and the cold humidity that put a bite to the air. My wristwatch said it was 3:30 in the morning, and a scratched plastic thermometer I’d bartered for in the market showed the room to be a crisp 32 degrees. My chest seemed heavy, the weight of sleep deprivation like an elephant on my ribcage and moving took more effort than usual. I hadn’t stayed up this long ever before in my life, with so little rest that my vision sometimes blurred, and I wondered if a person could die from such things.

Bracing myself against the rush of cold air that threatened to break in from outside, I unbuckled my war belt and set my Type 9 against my cot. Three more of the split chunks of hickory that sat in a pile went into the firebox, and I stirred the throbbing red coals with a poker made from welded rebar. Yellow flames came to life over the dried wood, licked their way across the bark, and glorious heat swelled around the sheet steel box.

All those years just turning up the thermostat at home whenever I wanted . . . I had no idea how good I had it.

Doing my best not to think about Louisville, I wound a wool blanket around myself, and an object on the small folding desk caught my eye.

Like a herald of death, the book waited for me, ugly and rough in the dancing shadows of the firelight, right where I’d left it atop the uneven pine grain. I hated to look at it, despised how the thing made my skin wriggle in foreign ways, but at this point I had nothing else to do. With Jamie’s fate sealed, and Vecitorak still outside my grasp, this was the closest I could get in terms of making a difference.

Pushing my exhaustion away, I shuffled over to the desk and peeled open the musty pages. I suppressed a shudder at the odd way they crackled under my fingertips and squinted at the bloody inscriptions.

At first, they seemed only a jumbled mess, but as I let the focus slide into place over my senses, the scribbling unraveled in front of me like a pile of crimson snakes.

She resists me, but her strength is failing. I will break her as a twig in the wind and unshackle the Master from her spirit so that our glorious conquest may begin. I will scrape clean her mind, cut open her heart, and devour her soul. She begs me to let her go, but there is no escape. She is one with our Master. She is bound to our fate.

My skin prickled with the sensation of a thousand invisible insect legs, the blood ran cold in my veins, and I fought a wave of nausea. What was this? Vecitorak wrote of someone in his keeping, and from the sounds of it, he was torturing her. Could this have been written about me, when I lay dying from his stab wound in New Wilderness?

Unsettled, but too curious to stop, I turned the page and read on.

The vines grow, the roots burrow, but still, her spirit persists. I admire her struggle, though it is futile. She cannot move now, cannot scream, yet her cries continue in my mind. I hear her soul pleading for an end, but the time is not yet come. I must detach the Nameless One from her, before I can rend her soul from the weak body this world has made.

The contents of my stomach turned over in horror, but I furrowed my brow at the odd passage. It certainly sounded like what I’d endured in the ELSAR laboratory during my healing, but what was this about the ‘Nameless One’ being connected to me? What did that mean?

I tugged the book closer and flipped the next mold-crusted page.

Her spirit lingers, even as the branches pry from her sockets, sprouts from her mouth, the bark covering her skin. She shrieks a name, over and over, one from memories I’ve used to break her time and again, but now it seems her shattered mind is using it as a shield. The Master grows impatient, our hour grows near, yet I cannot loose the Nameless One from this rotted husk. She will not hinder me from my destiny. I will drown her spirit with an ocean of blood if I must.

In my throat, a sour lump rose, and I hugged the gray surplus blanket closer around both shoulders as the wind whipped the tent anew. This didn’t seem right. My infection had been bad, but never to the point that branches came out of both eyes, or sprouts from my mouth. I couldn’t remember screaming any name, either in my head or otherwise during the ordeal. Could he be speaking about someone else?

I scratched at the silver tattoos on my arm and read on.

I see it all now. I cracked open her memories like a rotted egg, dug through the shattered remnants of her thoughts, and found the truth. An ancient power protects her soul, guards her from the call of the void, even though her body and mind are beyond repair. Somehow, this power burns inside her, like a flame I cannot snuff out, one that even drowns out the voice of the Nameless One at times. In the few instances I’ve tried to challenge it, such painful light clouds my mind’s eye that I fear I might perish altogether. She knows not of this; always the girl weeps in my own mind, screams, shouts the name of the one who dared stand against our Master, as if he will rise from death to save her. This too is not by accident; her soul longs for a kindred spirit, another who can release her from the embrace of the Sacred Grove. If I can find this spirit, then I can banish the girl’s soul from the Master’s form, and my service will at last be complete. This ancient power will not stand in my way . . . nothing will.

The next page over contained not letters but a series of drawings, inked in bold, thick strokes. One of the pictures I recognized as the jagged wooden dagger Vecitorak had stabbed me with, black as night, its handle wrapped in some kind of rotted cordage. Something about the way the knife stood central on the page, ringed by strange runes and symbols, caught my interest. It almost seemed to be given a reverent aura all its own, as if the crude weapon was the only thing in Vecitorak’s existence that he truly cherished. Considering its use in turning men to mutants, I couldn’t argue his devotion but given all the talk of resurrecting some dark entity, it occurred to me that the knife was more than a tool to recruit mutants; it was key to Vecitorak’s mission.

As my hand flipped the next page, I noticed the image sketched there in hazy red ink, and my heart failed to beat for a few horrid moments.

Mother of God.

Scrawled in the same rusty-red ‘ink’ as the rest of the diary, a dark forest opened up to a marshy area, with tall grass across the cleared section. Dark clouds were interlaced with streaks of lightning, and even though the picture didn’t move, I could almost hear the thunder in the back of my mind. A lone building stood in the center of the picture, some kind of half-destroyed industrial tower with gaping holes in its cement sides, a mound of broken logs piled almost three-quarters of the way up the right side of it.

No, not logs.

A body.

Gargantuan in size, it could have stood twice as tall as the nearby pines if it were upright, with a strange, jagged head in the shape of an upside-down triangle. Twigs grew from the top of it like a crown, and the hands on each of its long arms bore only four fingers that ended in similar leafless sprouts. The feet of the being were rounded like an elephant’s, with short roots that extended outward similar to toes, but the skin seemed to be made of a multitude of interwoven roots that had a drab pallor. It had no facial features, the slumped head merely a vast plain of intwined vines, roots, and branches. Despite this, I couldn’t help but feel a tight fist of panic close over my brain. I knew this creature, had seen a drawing of it once before, locked away in Dr. O’Brian’s office.

‘A creature so intelligent, so powerful, that it could bend the forces of the void to its will and create minions to do its bidding.’

The traitor’s voice rose in my head with haunting clarity, and I dared to breathe the name out loud as the wind raged against my tent’s canvas walls in arcane knowledge. “Oak Walker.”

This one, however, did not tower above the trees like some dark preacher with its hands held wide in authority over worshiping crowds of Puppets. Instead, it lay with its back to the old tower, some of its body shaded as if burnt, with chunks of twig missing from its crown. The head of the being had been torn open by something, half of the upper section missing, and from the soot marks on the edges of the gaping hole, I thought it almost looked like an explosion. Wild vines flowed from its corpse, snaking up the walls of the dilapidated tower, and a thicket of bushes grew around its limp form like a protective wall. A raised lump of vines over its torso almost resembled a tumor, with a split down the middle like a narrow passage into the creature’s chest cavity. No other creatures were visible in this sketch, but even from the unmoving nature of the picture I had the feeling there were swarms of eyes on it always.

“So, it really did exist.” Too intrigued to go back to bed, I flexed the cold toes in my socks to stave off the cold.

To my disappointment, the next pages were blank, as if Vecitorak had given up writing in it before he’d passed the book on to me. Without his spider-scratch words to go by, I was left to slump in my camp chair with puzzled unease. What was the point of all this? Why reveal his plan, and why now? Had the supposed ‘resurrection’ already been accomplished? If so, why wasn’t the Oak Walker stomping out of the trees to kill us all?

A breeze from outside turned the last page over in a flutter, and something glinted in the stove light.

My curiosity peaked, and I leaned forward to gasp in awe.

The necklace lay secured to a thicker section of pages stitched together by rough vine-like cordage, its harder edges leaving an indentation on the paper around it. It was a simple bit of jewelry, a silver chain with a piece of turquoise wrapped in silver settings at the end of it. Written below it was a single line of text, but the words were different, graceful and smooth, etched in a silvery ink that almost glowed in the firelight.

“What binds must also free.” I muttered, tracing the line with my forefinger. This didn’t look like Vecitorak’s handwriting. The perfect swirls and lines of each letter didn’t ooze the vitriol, rage, and malic that the red scratch ones did.

I dared to touch the ink, and the itching in my scars ceased, the anxious tension in my chest easing. Out of the folds of my memory, a pair of silver irises emerged, looking down from behind a gas mask as I was carried through ashy fog.

“Who are you?” My own words echoed in my head.

“A friend.” The gentle baritone voice replied.

Thunk.

Startled, I looked up from my musings to see the outline of a shadow just beyond my tent flap. It was human, that much I knew for sure, but they stood completely still, in silent wait. Even in the dark of night, I could discern their face pressed to the fabric of my tent, staring at my shadow with shameless intensity.

Something about the motionless outline made my pulse quicken, and I reached instinctively for my submachine gun.

Wham.

In a blur of motion, the figure threw itself between the tent flaps and tackled me to the floor.

My head bounced off the cold ground, and I struggled to keep the hands of my attacker off my neck. I couldn’t scream, couldn’t call out, the wind knocked out of me by the heavy figure on my chest. The Type 9 lay not far away, but I couldn’t reach it, and my war belt swung on a hook in the central tent pole.

On top of my ribs, the figure snapped and snarled with animalistic rage, teeth bared, and flecks of hot saliva speckled my face as he forced my arms back. Even with my enhanced senses thanks to the mutation, I still bore the physical strength of my old self, and this boy, for I could see now that it was a young man close to my age, easily outweighed me.

Thwack.

All at once the figure lurched to the floor, and I blinked up at Peter, who brandished a long stick of firewood in his hands. Two of his fellow pirates flanked him, armed in a similar fashion, and they gave the prostrate attacker a few more swings and kicks for good measure.

“Saw him walking funny toward your tent, and thought we’d take a peek.” Peter gave me a hand up, and frowned at the unconscious boy on my floor, his eyes traveling to the desk, the book, and the necklace in suspicion. “Seems he wasn’t here for a fireside chat. Isn’t he one of yours?”

Rubbing the back of my head, I glanced down and saw to my horror that he was. Trevor lay with both eyes open in a strange, glazed, stare. I realized he wasn’t unconscious at all, merely unmoving, and he watched me with an inhuman blankness to his face. He showed no registration of the pain from Peter’s club, no fear, hate, or aggression. In fact, the longer I peered into the void of Trevor’s gaze, the more my scars itched in uncanny recognition.

I know that look.

In a jolt, Trevor leapt to his feet and lunged for my desk.

My hand made it to the book before Trevor’s could, and I accidentally tore the page with the necklace out in my desperate bid to keep his hands off it. The odd parchment shredded in an organic fashion that reminded me of thin leather, releasing a musty stench inside the tent that made my nostrils recoil.

Without regard for his own self-preservation, Trevor crashed into my desk face-first, clumsy and primitive, like an animal released from his cage.

Peter jumped in front of him and blocked his clawed hand with another furious swipe of his club. “Stay down, you crazy fool.”

Unafraid, Trevor hissed at him, clacking his teeth in a way no human should ever do, and shoved past the other two pirates. Ignoring their fervent club swings, he darted into the night with a high shriek that made images of rain, trees, and a long gravel road flash through the murky depths of my mind.

“Stop him!” I snatched up the book and slung the Type 9 over my shoulder with frenzied hands. “We can’t let him get to the trees!”

As we burst from the tent, I caught sight of Trevor sprinting down the line, his gait strange and unnatural, as though he wasn’t used to using two legs. Confident in my stride, I took off after him, the pirates right behind me.

“Get everyone up!” Peter shouted over one shoulder to his men, who turned for the other tents in breathless urgency. “Get every hand on the firing line, quick as you can! Light the torches, go!”

My pace quickened, and I drew away from Peter as we neared the perimeter, where long rows of coiled barbed wire stood between us and the dark forest. Foxholes had been dug every so often, reinforced with logs for cover, but the stretch I ran for was in between the emplacements, where I noticed Trevor slow to a swaying stop in front of the wire.

Heart pounding, cold air stinging my lungs, I unslung my submachine gun and approached him from behind. “Trevor?”

The boy twitched, his lips moving in a silent mantra that I couldn’t pick up even with my superior hearing, both listless eyes focused on the shadows beyond.

Close enough to put my hand out, I settled one palm on his shoulder, the muzzle of my weapon pointed at his back. I didn’t want to pull the trigger. Trevor was the platoon comedian, an upbeat, funny guy, barely nineteen by a few days. He loved cheddar cheese and was one of my best marksmen, a hero to many of the younger fighters who flocked to him in the training yard.

Please just wake up and be okay, don’t make me do this, don’t . . .

“He can’t hear you, Hannah.”

My pulse screeched to a stop, every muscle in my body turned to stone, and I watched a familiar hooded shadow emerge from the woods at the edge of our barbed wire defenses.

Even from where I stood, I could almost smell his rotted breath, heard the flies swarming over his pallid skin beneath the robes, and felt the already frigid air grow colder. In the trees behind him, more figures inched closer, their fish-white eyes gleaming with anticipation, unnatural smiles wide as they gripped their primitive edged weapons. There were dozens of them, gray skinned fiends crouched just out of sight, waiting for the command to strike. It seemed none of the other sentries had spotted them yet, but I knew help was on the way, thanks to Peter’s men. We just had to stall for a few more minutes.

“You.” Peter dropped the stick of firewood and reached for one of the flintlock replica pistols that hung from his belt. In payment for breaking the siege at New Wilderness, he had been allowed to retain his personal weapons and was the only pirate given such privilege. Though he wore modern handguns as well as old, it seemed the inner pirate in him preferred the heavy-bore flintlocks, but I knew as well as he did that it was a worthless gesture.

“How amusing.” Vecitorak sneered at his drawn weapon and cocked his moldy head to one side. “Do you really think a scrap of metal can bring me down? You are an ant under my boot, a pebble before the tide; nothing you can do will prevent the inevitable.”

Click.

Peter thumbed the lock back on his ancient weapon anyway and leveled the long barrel at Vecitorak’s hood. “Fancy words for someone who ran like a scurvy dog last time we met.”

Don’t antagonize him, you don’t know what he’s capable of.

As if he could read my mind, Vecitorak ignored Peter’s gun, and turned to me. “Is that what you want, Hannah? Did you forget what happened to your friends the last time we crossed paths? You wouldn’t want more of them to end up like dear Jamie, now would you?”

My brain filled with alarm bells, and I almost vomited at his words. “You’re lying, you don’t have her.”

“No.” Bones popped in their sockets as Vecitorak lifted one arm and swept the moldy poncho aside. “But I do have this one.”

With the same ease as someone holding a dead rabbit, he displayed a struggling uniformed silhouette in the torchlight for me to see. His decayed fingers clamped down around the girl’s sheet-white throat, and I glimpsed the flash of red hair, her frightened chestnut-brown eyes, and the sentry’s boots kicked in desperate attempt to wriggle loose.

Peter’s face lost its smirk, and I had to clap one hand to my mouth to stop from screaming.

No.

Lucille’s eyes flicked to me, and she made small choking noises, her fingers clawing at Vecitorak’s iron grasp to no avail.

Lifting my Type 9, I flicked the safety off and spat the words between furious clenched teeth. “Let her go.”

Refusing to give Lucille even the slightest respite, Vecitorak leaned forward, the two of us mere feet apart with the wire between, and his gravelly voice turned hateful. “Give it back.”

The book.

Stunned, I lost my voice for a few seconds, mind swirling in confusion. If he would go to such length to retrieve the putrid clump of pages, then it meant I’d gotten it all wrong. Vecitorak wanted it back, needed it, which could only mean someone had managed to steal it from him. If that were true, I couldn’t hand the book over, not if what I’d read about resurrecting the Oak Walker relied on it. This could mean the difference between saving our world or losing it all, but Lucille’s life was on the line.

Playing dumb, I tried to shake my head, and hoped the roaming sentries would come along any moment now. “I don’t know what you—”

“Don’t be coy with me, you filthy little thief!” His rage boiled forth like a cascade of hot tar, and Vecitorak clenched a skeletal fist at me, while Lucille’s eyes screwed shut in pain as his other hand tightened on her esophagus. “If I have to pry it from your blasphemous fingers while you scream for death, I will. Give it back, now.”

“If I give it to you,” I nodded at his cloak, hearing shouts echo in the camp, and boots thudded over the grass towards us from all directions. “You’ll let her go, and leave the rest of us in peace?”

“This whelp means nothing to me.” He shook Lucille so hard that it made her teeth rattle. “Her time will come, the same as the rest of your kind. Whether it is today, all depends on you.”

Watching Lucille’s red face get worse, her limbs slowing as suffocation neared, I gnawed at my lower lip until it bled.

I can’t give it to him . . . but if he takes her . . . I can’t stand it, I just can’t.

Fighting a wave of anxious nausea, I walked to the edge of the barbed wire coils and held out the book. “Leave her unharmed, and it’s yours.”

As soon as his gray fingers closed around the cover of his macabre journal, Vecitorak hurled Lucille into the camp.

She landed on the muddy ground with a splat, and Lucille coughed as fresh air flowed back into her lungs. “I-I’m sorry, Hannah . . . I didn’t see him, I didn’t know . . .”

“It’s okay.” I pushed her into Peter’s arms, eager to get Lucille as far from Vecitorak’s reach as possible.

“She’s fortunate. The Master didn’t call her.” Vecitorak slid the book into his robes, and studied me with renewed focus. “It seems we’ll have to look elsewhere.”

Static fuzzed in my ear at his intense stare, and my legs shook, an icy blade of fear thrust into my psyche. He could have stormed the compound, I realized. He could have slaughtered most of us before the flamethrowers pushed his forces back. Vecitorak didn’t have to negotiate for the book; he’d obviously tried to avoid negotiation by sending Trevor to steal it. So now that he had it back, had no more hostages, why not attack?

Simple; there was still something valuable to him within the wire.

Or rather, someone.

“For what?” I stood between him and Lucille, desperate to learn something, anything, now that my only source of intelligence on his plans was gone.

Vecitorak’s head bobbed as he looked me up and down, and something in his gravelly tone sparked with malice. “In eight days, when the moon reaches its zenith, you will join me in the sacred grove and see for yourself.”

“And why would we do that?” Peter wrapped his coat around Lucille’s shoulders and stood to join me as our troopers advanced around us, their weapons raised, eyes wide in terror at what they saw.

Unphased by the growing number of rifles trained on him, Vecitorak swept aside a fold of his poncho, and from the dark, brought forth a vine-entangled bundle. It stood about four feet tall, and as it seemed to almost float out of the mass of his decayed clothing, a partition appeared in the oily tendrils.

Oh God please let this be a bad dream, please let it be a bad dream, please.

Tarren didn’t move, though her little chest rose and fell under the grimy T shirt she wore, its shooting star now stained black by the vines. Her skin was a clammy white, the roots slithering through her brown tufts of hair like worms, under her clothes, and around her limbs in a constant flow of greasy black rot. How long she’d been like this, caught in some form of stasis, unlike the other Puppets in Vecitorak’s army, I didn’t know. Trapped in the vines, Tarren couldn’t have done anything even if she had opened her little eyes, and in short order the growth swept back over her face to drag the eight-year-old back into the abyss of her nightmarish captivity.

Crimson rage flooded Peter’s thin cheeks, and he charged to the edge of the wire, his pistol shaking in his white-knuckled fist. “I’ll rip you limb from limb you mutant fu—”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Vecitorak snorted at him, and Peter’s advance was met with a forest of crude spearheads leveled from within the trees, each poised to strike him down, the countless Puppets in the dark willing to die for their priest. “If you want the girl returned, then you’ll do as I say. Eight days, in the Sacred Grove, or the girl dies.”

Finding himself helpless for once, Peter backed toward me, and I saw the pleading heartache in his countenance. Tarren had been one of the youngest of the pirate crew, protected and babied by both Peter and Captain Grapeshot. She hadn’t succumbed to cruelty or vice, and in some ways Tarren was the last shred of light the pirates had, their final grasp on humanity. She was their little sister, and they would do anything to get her back.

Even if it means hunting Vecitorak to the ends of the earth.

“How do I find it?” I lowered my Type 9 and motioned for the other soldiers to do the same.

Vecitorak laughed, a cruel, cold sneer. “As if you didn’t already know. Enough games, thief. Eight days, at the full moon, when the storm shakes the stones . . . or the girl is mine forever.”

With that, he melted into the shadows along with his silent army of cheshire-grin freaks, leaving me with a sickness in my stomach. The other lieutenants were around me, asking questions, barking orders to their men as the defensive line came to life in preparation of an attack that wouldn’t come. I could only stand there, frozen to the spot, needles of terror in my heart as the words repeated on a loop in my mind.

Eight days.

Previous Part: Part One

The next few days passed in a strange haze. I called off work, something I almost never did, and spent most of my time getting ready—or at least trying to convince myself I was ready for whatever this was.

When I told Avery, I expected an argument. Or disbelief. Or maybe some concern about me “falling into old habits.” Instead, she just tilted her head, smirked faintly, and said, “Well, I’m going too.”

I didn’t even try to argue. Something about the way she said it made it clear I wouldn’t win, and honestly, part of me was glad. I could tell she didn’t really believe me—about the Kitsune, about the Wendigo, about any of it—but Avery was stubborn in the best way. Whether or not she believed, she was coming.

I spent a lot of time in my office, staring at the shelf where the obsidian chess pieces sat—Naamah’s Queen and Moloch’s King.

I leaned closer, squinting at them as if they might somehow reveal more to me than they already had. Naamah’s powers, the Kitsune had said. Did I really have them? Was I unknowingly pulling something from her when I snared Moloch too?

I picked up the King piece, rolling it between my fingers. It was colder than the Queen, heavier somehow, like it carried something more violent. “Did you leave me anything?” I muttered to it, half-joking.

The King didn’t answer. Of course, it didn’t. It never did.

Still, I wondered.

I spent the rest of the time packing—gear, clothes, notebooks, the essentials for when you’re not entirely sure if you’re going on a hike or heading straight into hell. Avery packed too, probably with more confidence than I had. She tossed things into her bag like she was prepping for a weekend camping trip, not a demon hunt.

Finally, the third day came.

I stayed up late that night, waiting. I don’t know why I expected Kitsune to show up earlier—she didn’t seem like the type to follow normal schedules—but sure enough, as the clock struck midnight, there came a knock at the door.

It wasn’t loud, or hurried. Just a gentle tap-tap-tap, as if the Kitsune had all the time in the world.

Avery glanced at me from across the room, raising an eyebrow. I didn’t say anything as I walked to the door, my pulse quickening.

When I opened it, there she was.

The Kitsune stood upright on her hind legs, tails swishing lightly behind her, a smug grin plastered on her small fox face. She held a stick slung over her shoulder—an old-fashioned “hobo pole,” with a little red cloth bundle tied to the end.

“Right on time,” she said cheerfully. “Told you I’d be back.”

Avery peered over my shoulder, and I braced myself for her to freak out. Instead, she just stared at the Kitsune with wide eyes and said, “That’s… a talking fox.”

Kitsune’s ears perked up, her grin widening. “Yes, I am! And you must be Avery. Glenn’s told me so much about you.”

I shot her a look. “I really haven’t.”

“Details, details.” Kitsune waved a paw dismissively, then tilted her head to get a better look at Avery. “Hmm. I like you already. You’ve got a good vibe. Sassy. Stubborn.”

Avery blinked, clearly still processing. “You’re… smaller than I expected.”

“Rude!” Kitsune gasped, putting a paw to her chest dramatically. Then she grinned again. “But fair.”

Avery’s shock turned into something closer to amusement. “You’re actually a talking fox. Like, real.”

“I get that a lot,” Kitsune replied with a smirk. “And no, I’m not a hallucination. Or a robot. Or a fever dream. I’m as real as you are, sweetheart.”

Avery turned to me, her expression unreadable. “Okay. I’ll admit… I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Now you believe me?” I asked.

She shrugged, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I mean, yeah. Kind of hard not to when there’s a fox with a hobo stick in our doorway.”

Kitsune snorted. “I like her, Glenn. You should keep her around.”

I sighed, shaking my head. “Are we doing this or not?”

Kitsune’s tails flicked playfully as she turned, already trotting back toward the yard. “Oh, we’re doing this. Pack up, grab your stuff, and let’s get going. The mountains are waiting, and I’d really rather not waste any more time.”

I grabbed my pack, gave the chess pieces one last glance, and followed Avery out into the night.

It felt strange, surreal, like stepping out of my house and into a story that I wasn’t quite ready to tell.

And somewhere in the darkness, I swore I heard faint, distant footsteps that didn’t belong to us.

We got into the car, bags thrown in the trunk, the kind of heavy silence between Avery and me that only comes from diving headfirst into something we weren’t prepared for. Avery climbed into the back without protest, already settling into her seat, while the Kitsune casually hopped into the front passenger side.

“Shotgun!” the little fox declared, tails curling smugly as she perched herself upright like she belonged there.

Avery smirked. “She can have it.”

I glanced at Kitsune. “You don’t even need a seatbelt, do you?”

She grinned, bright and toothy. “I’m magic, Glenn. Seatbelts are for mortals.”

I rolled my eyes, but the faint humor didn’t last long as we pulled out of the driveway. The street was empty, bathed in dim, hazy light from the occasional streetlamp. I adjusted the rearview mirror and kept my focus on the road ahead.

But something made me look back.

In the mirror, standing in the driveway we’d just left, there was… a figure.

I couldn’t make out the details—just a tall, dark silhouette standing perfectly still in the center of the drive. Watching us.

A cold knot twisted in my stomach, and for a moment, I tried to ignore it. I told myself it was just a shadow or a trick of the light. The Kitsune’s antics had my nerves frayed, that’s all.

But then it stepped forward.

Just one step.

I slammed on the brakes, the car screeching to a stop in the middle of the empty road. Avery jolted forward, grabbing the seat in front of her.

“What the hell, Glenn?” she barked.

Kitsune, unfazed, tilted her head. “Something wrong?”

I didn’t answer. My eyes stayed fixed on the figure in the mirror. It hadn’t moved again, but it was still there—clear as day now. It was tall, too tall, its shoulders sharp and hunched. The outline was wrong somehow, like its proportions didn’t quite belong to a person.

“I think we’re being followed,” I muttered, my voice low.

Kitsune turned, standing on the seat to peer out the back window. Her tails swished, ears twitching, as though she could sense something I couldn’t. “Oh.”

“Oh?” I repeated, incredulous.

She turned back to me, her orange eyes narrowing with sudden seriousness. “We should take a look.”

“Take a look?” Avery said, sitting upright. “At what?”

I didn’t respond. My gut told me driving away wouldn’t solve anything—not from this. I took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and stepped out into the night.

The air was cold, heavy, as though the world was holding its breath. Avery got out behind me, though I could hear the frustration in her footsteps, and Kitsune followed with an unsettling calm, hopping down lightly onto the pavement.

I turned toward the house.

The figure was still there, standing motionless in my driveway. It hadn’t moved. It hadn’t spoken.

But it was watching.

Avery stepped up beside me. “Glenn… what is that?”

I didn’t have an answer.

We stood there, the three of us, staring into the dark, as the figure stared back.

We stood frozen, the world wrapped in a silence so thick I could hear the faint ringing in my ears. The figure didn’t move, but I could feel its gaze—like the weight of a stone pressing against my chest.

“Glenn,” Avery whispered, her voice wavering just slightly. “What… is it?”

I couldn’t answer.

Kitsune, however, padded forward without a hint of fear, her small paws barely making a sound against the pavement. Her tails swished, their movements unnervingly calm. She tilted her head toward the figure, and in the faint light, I swore I saw her roll her eyes.

“Oh, for the love of—” Kitsune muttered, exasperated.

The figure twitched. Its head tilted to one side—a sudden, jerky movement like a puppet whose strings had been pulled too tight.

I swallowed, forcing myself to step forward. “Hey,” I called out, my voice steadier than I felt. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The figure swayed—barely perceptible—then took a step toward us. Up close, it was even worse. It was tall, gangly, its limbs too thin and long, its silhouette rippling like a mirage. Its clothing, tattered and dark, clung to its thin frame like it was stitched into place. But the worst part was its face.

At first, there was nothing—only shadows where features should be. But then, as it leaned forward slightly, the darkness peeled away to reveal eyes. Large, round, glowing faintly like lanterns—soft and childlike.

The rest of the face was faint, pale as porcelain, like it was unfinished.

“Glenn,” Avery muttered, tugging my sleeve. “Let’s just go.”

I ignored her. The figure stopped a few paces away, staring. Watching.

“Who are you?” I asked again, this time softer.

The figure twitched, its shoulders rising and falling in what almost seemed like a shudder. Then it spoke.

“I… I brought something for you…”

The voice was faint, trembling, and small. Not like a monster at all—like a scared child whispering in the dark.

The figure’s hands—long and bony—reached forward, cradling something carefully. I tensed, ready for anything, but the motion was hesitant, uncertain.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said gently, my own fear giving way to something… else. “What did you bring me?”

It took a small, timid step forward and stretched out its hands. In them was a small object—a figurine, carved delicately from stone. I hesitated, glancing at Kitsune, who didn’t seem alarmed, just annoyed.

“Take it,” she muttered. “Honestly, Glenn, you’re making this so dramatic.”

I swallowed and stepped closer. The figure flinched slightly, like it expected me to lash out. Slowly, I extended my hand and took the object.

It was a small statue of a horse, carved from smooth, cool stone. Its details were fine—graceful curves, a hint of motion frozen in its posture. Despite its simplicity, it felt… important.

“It’s for you,” the figure whispered again. “It’ll help. You’ll see.”

I looked back at the figure, its pale, faint face watching me with something like hope. “Why?” I asked softly.

The figure’s head twitched again, its voice smaller now. “Because… because I’m scared. It’s coming. The hungry thing in the mountains. It hurts everything.”

“The Wendigo,” I murmured, realization sinking in.

The figure nodded, its glowing eyes wide and fearful. “It smells like cold. It eats everything.”

I glanced back at Kitsune, who yawned dramatically. “Yes, yes, we know about the Wendigo,” she said, tail flicking. “That’s why we’re going, Selsie. You can go now.”

“Selsie?” I echoed, looking between the fox and the spirit.

“That’s its name,” Kitsune replied flatly. “Or at least, close enough.”

The figure—Selsie—straightened slightly at hearing its name. “Thank you,” it whispered, almost too faint to hear. Then it stepped back, swaying like a leaf caught in the breeze.

“Go on, now,” Kitsune said, her voice surprisingly soft. “You’ve done enough.”

Selsie turned, its movements slow and uneven, and began to walk away. Its silhouette grew smaller and smaller, disappearing into the shadows beyond the yard.

The silence that followed felt heavier somehow, like the world was catching its breath.

Avery let out a long exhale. “What… the hell was that?”

I didn’t answer right away. I stared down at the horse statue in my hands, its smooth surface oddly warm. Despite everything, I felt calm holding it. Protected, almost.

Avery shook her head. “I don’t know what’s crazier—that thing… or how you just stood there talking to it like you weren’t scared.”

I turned to look at her, surprised. “I was terrified.”

She smirked faintly, though I could tell it wasn’t quite steady. “Could’ve fooled me.”

As she turned back to the car, Kitsune hopped onto the pavement beside me. She tilted her head up at me, her grin smug and knowing.

“You’re welcome for the bravery,” she said.

I rolled my eyes. “That wasn’t you.”

“Sure, sure,” she replied, tails curling playfully. “Keep telling yourself that.”

I sighed, sliding the horse figurine carefully into my pocket before turning back to the car. Whatever Selsie was—whatever it meant—I had a feeling we were going to need this little gift sooner than I’d like.

To be Continued.

[This is a follow up to my post from the other day](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1hfpp6p/i\_work\_security\_at\_a\_prison\_few\_even\_know\_exists/).

You’re not dumb. I know you’ve watched the news over the last week or so and seen the chaos surrounding these drone sightings. I know you know they aren’t looking for nukes. Not looking for Iranian motherships. We aren’t being invaded by aliens—but what’s out there makes that sound almost comforting. They are looking for something so much worse—something that makes every other theory seem almost comforting by comparison.

They are looking for it—something they were never meant to lose, something we were never meant to know existed. Something they desperately want back.

I told you the nature of my job, the secrecy around it. I now know the reason they never told even those of us working in the prison who we were guarding. They knew we would’ve said absolutely the fuck not.

Yet here I am, sitting in some beat-to-shit motel along the highway somewhere on the East Coast. The neon vacancy sign outside flickers erratically, casting jittery shadows through the cracked blinds. The air smells faintly of mildew and stale cigarettes, and the buzzing of an old ceiling fan is the only thing breaking the uneasy silence. I can’t shake the feeling I am being watched, and the back of my neck burns where I had accidentally cut myself with my own nails. I need a damn Xanax.

The only stroke of luck so far seems to be that the government isn’t scanning this forum. For as long as I can, I will continue to update you on what is happening. Despite how insane this all sounds, I managed to make one critical move before escaping the prison. Using my limited system access, I pulled everything my clearance allowed from the internal network and dumped the files onto a secured, encrypted external hard drive. I know enough to extract the data, but decrypting files this protected is way beyond me. If I can find someone with the right skills, those files might hold answers—answers about whatever the hell I saw back there.

I still see its face. That ungodly smile. The twisted limbs. Harris’s blood- and tear-soaked face smashing into the wall. The disfigured ghoul of a creature shifting, twisting, morphing into the fragile shape of a human child.

What the hell was I involved in?

A harsh light swept across the windows of my motel room, sending shadows crawling across the stained walls. I jumped to my feet, feeling my heart beginning to pound.

Had they found me already? The thought struck like ice in my veins. My breath hitched as I strained to hear anything beyond the motel's thin, groaning walls—footsteps, engines, voices—anything. I need to get a damn gun.

Thud…thud…thud…

My heartbeat pounded in my chest, steady and relentless, until it became something else—something familiar. The sound twisted around me, warped, morphing into the heavy, echoing footfalls of the creature dragging Harris’ mangled body across the containment wing of the prison.

Thud…thud…thud…

I could remember so vividly the sound of the slick scrape of flesh against the cold floor, the metallic ring of blood dripping in irregular splatters as it pooled around me. The memory was so vivid, so present, it eclipsed reality. My motel room faded, swallowed by the dim, flickering red emergency lights of the prison’s containment corridor. The walls pulsed with each thudding step.

I wasn’t just remembering it—I was there.

I stood frozen behind it, trapped in the suffocating stillness of that awful place, my breath shallow, every nerve screaming to run. I could feel the cold air of the corridor against my skin, smell the copper tang of blood saturating the air.

It walked toward the door at the end of the hall, dragging Harris like discarded meat. And then—it stopped.

I wanted to breathe, but the air was gone—drained from my lungs, as though even the molecules themselves recoiled in terror from the creature’s presence. The vacuum around me vibrated with malevolent intent, thick and oppressive, crushing down on my chest.

Its ghostly pale skin stretched tight over a grotesquely angular frame, bones jutting out like jagged spires beneath parchment-thin flesh. Veins pulsed with something darker than blood, spidering across its inhuman body. It radiated a twisted, unnatural authority—less a living thing and more a terrible force wearing a corpse-like disguise.

Its head twisted slowly, unnervingly deliberate, until those hollow, empty eyes locked onto mine—twin voids that reflected nothing but endless, consuming darkness. I wanted to scream, but my throat clenched shut. My feet felt nailed to the ground, my muscles locked in a primal, instinctive terror.

With a sickening thud, it dropped Harris’s broken body like garbage, his blood spreading into the cracks of the floor. The sound echoed, stretching impossibly long in the vacuum of silence.

It moved toward me. Each step deliberate, slow, predatory—like it knew I couldn’t run. Like it had me trapped in a snare it set. My heartbeat hammered a frantic rhythm, but the world around me remained still, suffocating.

Thud… thud… thud…

It loomed over me now, its twisted mouth stretching into something far worse than a smile—a grotesque mockery of human expression twisted by hunger and malice. Its breath reeked of rusted iron and decayed flesh, poisoning the air between us. Its head tilted, slowly, calculating, almost…curious.

Where the hell was I?

Its jaw began to open—stretching wider and wider, jagged teeth unfolding in grotesque symmetry, endless rows of razor-sharp spikes forged for tearing and devouring stretching down its throat into its torso. The edges of its maw quivered with some unspeakable hunger, vibrating with anticipation.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. A single tear burned its way down my cheek.

Its mouth stretched wider still—too wide—until reality itself seemed to bend around it, the abyss inside threatening to consume me whole.

And then—it pulled back.

I was shaking now as it stood before me, nearly 10 feet in height. And I noticed we were no longer in the prison. We were in my room. It and I.

It looked around, scanning the room as I remained trapped in place. Its smooth bald head hunched just under the ceiling. Blood pooled at its feet, soaking into the filthy carpet. Its gaze settled on the TV stand, where my wallet, a burner phone, and my room key lay. The motel’s name was written clearly, the room number smeared in black marker.

It looked back at me and smiled its twisted, inhuman grin.

Fuck.

A blinding pain detonated in my skull, sharp and electric, like something clawing its way out of my mind. My mouth stretched open in a silent scream as the ringing surged, splitting my thoughts like shattered glass. And then—release. The pressure vanished, leaving behind only a hollow ache and the stillness of an empty room. The pain was gone as fast as it had arrived.

And so was the creature.

It knows I’ve seen it. It knows where I am.

I’m in a cab now, getting as far away as I can. I need help from an old friend—someone who might be able to hack his way into the hard drive. I need to know what the government was hiding. I need to know what is now hunting me.

I’m okay for now. I will continue to update you all as long as I can—until the government or that thing stops me. Just remember, those drones are looking for it. They know it is somewhere along the East Coast of the United States. And they will not stop until they find it.

Whatever this thing is, our government is willing to lie to every American to hide it.

I am going to find out why.

Girls Have Gone Missing in My Town. : r/nosleep

Girls Have Gone Missing in My Town Update 1 : r/nosleep

K'o uvnn cnkxg!!

It's been a few days since my last post, sorry 'bout that. For anyone who hasn't read the first two posts: my small town has been plagued by disappearing girls sinch March 23rd of this year, and one of my friends was one of those girls. Her name is Calla Dollenganger, and I last said that I'd be talking to her sister, Marie, this weekend. She's the reason I'm doing all of this.

Anyways, I talked to Calla's ex-boyfriend Ben today. That's where this post begins.

He was at the library, and I decided to record our conversations to make writing this easier. (Ben, if you're reading this by some chance, I know I should have told you. Sorry about that, dude). I asked him if we could talk, and he said this. I'll provide the transcript of our conversation now.

Ben: What'd you wanna know, Nola?

Me: What happened in the woods when you went camping?

Ben: *exhales* I already told your dad everything. Since when were you a special agent?

Me: Please, just answer the question, dude.

Ben: Alright. Lily said she needed to go get her sunglasses from the car, and I didn't think twice about it. She wanted to take some photos for her Instagram, said the lighting was right. I noticed something was weird when twenty minutes went by, but I thought she found a nice spot.

Me: Twenty minutes? That's faster than usual.

Ben: *faint laugh* You know how she is.

Me: Yeah.....When did everyone else notice?

Ben: I think I...I dunno who I told first. Maybe Cheryl or Oliver. I dunno. Just, we all realized she hadn't come back and started looking for her. I don't know how long it took. Maybe three hours, maybe five minutes.

Me: Hmm?

Ben: Time was weird, okay? I just know that it was dark way too soon. I think we were trying to sleep when I heard her voice. She just kept saying, "Ben, I'm over here! Ben, c'mon! C'mon, c'mon." Real eager, ya know? Like nothing was wrong.

Me: I'm sorry.

Ben: It's f.....don't worry about it. I followed her voice, but it kept getting farther away. I remember getting snagged on a branch, and her entire tone changed.

Me: How?

Ben: Like.....it was like she couldn't remember her own voice. She sounded so close but not. W-Why are you doing this, Nola? This was months ago. Why....why?

Me: I don't know. I just want to find her.

Ben: It's useless, okay?

Me: I thought you loved her.

Ben: I do, but * heavy sigh* that won't bring her back. Please, just leave me alone.

Me: Alright. I'm sorry, Ben. Really sorry.

Ben: Me too. *after a brief pause* One more thing, she and Marie had a fight that day. That's why she came along instead.

After a very depressing realization, I ran into some new people. I didn't even know people had sold their houses, but I guess that's inevitable, right? Anyways, their names were Pippa and Anne McLaren, and they were both maybe college-age or a little older. The weirdest part is that I feel like I've seen them before.

I talked to them for a l'il bit, but they were both kinda spacey and absent-minded. I don't want to call them this because it seems rude, but the word "docile" comes to mind now that I've had some time to think. They both had big, doe-like eyes and sugary-sweet voices, but it didn't feel right. It was like they were trying too hard to come off as polite, but maybe I'm just bad at reading people.

Marie texted me again today, and she said she had a gift for me. I can't wait another day, so I'm gonna move it to tomorew

Guys my mom just came into my room crying. Mitzy was found dead in a ditch earlier today, and she's apparently been there for over a month. If it wasn't for her jewelry and painted nails no one would recognize her. Most of her skin had been removed and her clothes were gone.

I feel sick to my stomach, and it doesn't help that there's a stotm right oitside. I think I'm gonna eat some paper and vomit BRB

I want to give my firsthand account of the events that occurred on my family's property in the spring of 2016. Before I begin, I would like to provide some minor details about myself. My name is Tanner, and I am 28 years old—but I was 20 when these events unfolded.

Now, with that out of the way, I will continue. My family used to own a decent amount of property in Northern New Hampshire—about 200 acres made up of hardwood and softwood forests, along with three large open fields spread around the area. There is a hunting cabin on this land, situated in the corner of the southernmost field. The cabin is very secluded, with the closest road being around 8 miles down a narrow dirt path that eventually connects to the main road. This path is just barely large enough to fit a single vehicle.

After I remove these less essential details, I will do my best to discuss what happened that spring.

Until 2016, my father and I took an annual turkey hunting trip, typically in mid-May. The trip always ran from Friday evening, when we arrived, until Monday morning. I remember when I was still in school, my father would always let me stay home the Monday we'd get back. I miss those days. The time we spent at the cabin was perfect for allowing quality father-son time—which there wasn't much of in those days.

Anyway, as usual, that year, we arrived at the cabin on Friday, May 13th, at 6:45 PM. The cabin was nothing special, but it was ours. It had a small front porch and a single wood door that led straight into the main area.

The main area was simple. There was a round wood table, three chairs, an old green couch that had seen better days, a gun rack hanging on the wall near the doorway that led into a small bunk room, and a small cooking area with a few cabinets and a counter. There weren't many options for when nature called—just the woods or an old outhouse about 15 yards into the trees behind the cabin.

As I said, we arrived at the cabin around 6:45 PM that Friday, my father's red Ford F-150 kicking up some dust from the dirt path as we pulled up. The sun was starting to set below the treetops. It was always a little eerie at the cabin when the sun went down. It always felt like someone was watching us from the trees. Go figure.

We unpacked our things from the truck bed and went up to the cabin and onto the porch steps. That's when we noticed them…

We first discovered five large pits that had been dug in the field near the front of the cabin. I recall my father saying something along the lines of, "Those must be some huge-ass moles." He will always make light of things, no matter the situation.

The wild thing about these holes is that each one was dug at least five feet deep and seven feet long. They also appeared as though something had spent a lot of time in one or two of them—almost like sleeping in them. I don't know; it's hard to explain.

That, however, wasn't the most bizarre part. What we found next were three severed deer legs at the foot of our cabin's front door. My father was quiet for a long moment. All he had to say was a very brief, "Huh…" He seemed legitimately disturbed by this, and that made me nervous.

We discussed for a few moments why they could be here—a sick prank, a careless hunter, Bigfoot—but ultimately, we couldn't settle on a solid explanation. It felt deliberate, though. My father decided to just take the legs a few yards into the trees and toss them. "Some free food for the coyotes," he had said.

From there, we unpacked the rest of the truck and settled in. The remainder of the evening continued as usual. We organized our hunting gear, ate an easy dinner, set up our bunks, and talked. By 9:00 PM, we both decided to turn in, as we had to be up early for the morning hunt.

Morning finally came, and my father and I were eager to get into the woods. We got geared up, loaded our 20-gauge shotguns, and headed out. We both had makeshift hunting blinds built years ago, about a quarter mile apart from each other and a mile and a half from the cabin.

Together, we entered the forest to the east. After the mile-and-a-half trek through a stretch of hardwood forest, it was time to split up and make our way to our respective blinds. I recall my father making yet another joke about how he hoped he wouldn't come across any more severed deer legs on his way to his blind. I didn't find this amusing—the whole event from the previous evening still weighed heavily on my mind.

I proceeded through the trees and brush for several more minutes, my 20-gauge slung over my shoulder, trying not to think about last night. That's when I stopped in my tracks. I could see the blind, but something felt off. The air smelled unclean, and everything around me had gone silent. There were no birds, noises from nearby wildlife, or wind—nothing. I even found myself holding my breath.

I removed my shotgun from my shoulder and slowly moved toward the blind. As I got closer, the smell in the air changed to the distinct stench of death. I've smelled dead animals before, so I instantly recognized it.

I opened the door to the blind, and what I found walked the line between grotesque and macabre. Well, let's say…I found the rest of the deer.

The doe had three legs missing, ripped off at the joints. The hide of her back had been torn off, her face, now disfigured, looked like something had been gnawing on it, and she had multiple lacerations across her body. Most disturbingly, her fourth leg had been broken off like the others—except this one had been crudely shoved down her throat. Whatever had killed this deer wanted her to suffer as much as possible.

I remember standing there in complete shock for several moments, contemplating what to do next. Should I remove her from my blind? Should I leave the area and hunt from a different spot? Should I go get my father? I honestly had no clue what to do.

I ended up deciding to go and get my father. It didn't take me long to reach him because I ran the entire quarter mile to his blind. I was by no means in the best shape for a then-20-year-old, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I was completely out of breath when I explained to him what I had just found. 

My father believed me, of course, and together, we briskly made our way back to my blind. The anticipation of showing him the deer was killing me, so you can probably imagine my horror when we arrived, and the fucking deer was gone.

My father still believed me, however—especially when we found drag marks on the ground leading from the blind's entrance off into the forest. Oddly enough, the tracks led in the same direction that would eventually take you back to the cabin, a mile and a half away.

We immediately decided to return to the cabin—just in case whatever mutilated the deer had gone there. Both my father and I knew something was very wrong. Our shotguns stayed in our arms as we walked back through the hardwood forest.

Suddenly, my father said, "Look," and pointed ahead. I followed his gaze and saw that we had picked up the trail of drag marks on the forest floor. We quickened our pace, following the marks the rest of the way until we reached the cabin a short time later.

At this point, we knew what we would find. As we neared the front porch, we saw that the corpse of the deer was exactly where we expected it—deliberately placed at the foot of the cabin's front door. My father was beginning to get angry, and I grew increasingly anxious.

Without a word, he handed me his shotgun and proceeded to roughly drag the deer's body by its head and neck to the tree line, where he had tossed its legs the evening prior.

"Dad, can we just go inside?" I muttered. "I don't really feel like spending time in the woods after all this bullshit. Something isn't right."

He agreed, and we headed inside for the remainder of the day.

It was a long afternoon. All we did was make small talk and drink Heinekens into the evening. The buzz did help our moods—it was a much better alternative to being out in the woods somewhere with whoever butchered that poor deer.

Don't ask me why we didn't just get out of Dodge when we found the deer's body at the cabin. Stubbornness? Denial? Maybe we both felt like things couldn't get worse. I don't have an answer. What does it matter now anyway?

Dusk came that Saturday evening. My father had just started cooking dinner, and that's when we heard it—a low, deep squeal mixed with something that sounded like laughter. As strange as it may sound, it was like a large pig was outside the cabin, laughing at us.

My father and I moved to one of the cabin's front windows to see if we could locate the source of the laughter, and that's when we saw him.

Beyond the field in front of the cabin, standing at the edge of the now-darkening treeline, was what I can only describe as an extremely large, naked man—easily 300-plus pounds—with the head of a pig. And no, not like a pig mask or some crude Spirit Halloween costume, but the actual head of a pig.

He had tusks. His body appeared hairless. He stood bipedal, with floppy pig ears and the legs and hooves of a massive pig—the whole nine yards.

I scrambled for my hunting bag to retrieve my binoculars. Once I had him in view, I could see he had very human-like eyes—cold and blank—staring back at us. He wore a long grin stretching across his face, almost from ear to ear. That was the worst part.

His smile.

I could feel his vile intentions radiating from that smile as I watched through the binoculars. I had to look away. I handed the binoculars to my father so he could see, and his reaction was the same as mine: disbelief and horror.

My father watched as the creature bent down and picked something up from the ground, draping it over his massive shoulders. My father later told me that it appeared to be the deer hide that had been torn from the doe's back.

"Sick fucking thing," my dad whispered under his breath.

The Pig Man then slowly backed into the trees behind him and was gone.

We took this opportunity to pack up our stuff, grab our shotguns, and make a dash for the truck, all while never taking our eyes off the treeline. My father was ahead of me, so he reached the truck before I did. I was just coming down the porch steps when I heard him yell, "What an absolute fucking joke!"

When I approached the truck, I saw that all four tires had been crudely slashed in multiple places.

"How did we not notice this? When could this have happened?" I gasped, my voice trembling with fear.

"I don't know," my dad replied. "Just get back in the cabin."

We did just that and hurried back indoors. Once inside, my father locked the door and checked to ensure all the windows were latched. We then sat down at the table, and he explained our plan of action.

Unfortunately, we would have to stay the night. It was getting darker, and an eight-mile trek to the main road was simply out of the question. Since the cabin had no electricity, my father said we would get out all of our LED lanterns and set them up around the main area and bunk room. 

He wanted to place them anywhere with windows so they could also illuminate some of the outside.

He then told me that we would stay up all night and sit at the table with our shotguns loaded and close by in case the Pig Man decided to pay us a visit at any point during the night.

I checked my watch. It read 10:01 PM. A few hours had passed since we had seen the Pig Man standing at the treeline.

I want to make a quick point—no, we didn't have cell phones. We would leave them home every year to avoid distractions during the trip. Besides, there was hardly any service out there anyway.

By 11:45 PM, I rechecked my watch, and still, nothing had happened. I decided to slightly crack a window to see if I could hear anything outside. Once again, it was dead silent out in the woods. There was nothing but a slight breeze, carrying with it that all-too-familiar unclean smell.

"Tanner. Up. Now."

I awoke to my father shaking me awake and telling me to get up.

"What is it?" I groaned while checking my watch. It read 2:00 AM. I had fallen asleep at the table, and I guessed my father had allowed me the rest. He, however, had remained awake and vigilant.

He silently motioned me to one of the front windows near the door. I slowly got up, moved to where he was standing, and peered out into the dark front area outside of the cabin that was slightly illuminated by a lantern. I glanced around for several moments, unable to see what my father was trying to show me. He repositioned me to exactly where he stood, and then I saw him.

The Pig Man was standing just at the edge of the lantern light. His silhouette was just barely visible. He looked even bigger this close—easily over 7 feet tall. His face was not visible; the two white, unblinking dots of his eyes were all that showed in the dark. I knew that the bastard was still smiling. Even in the dark, I could tell.

Just like before, he stood there, watching. The worst part is that he was silent. He made no noise at all. My father and I stood in the window for a solid minute, staring back at him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of backing away first despite our mounting fear.

He suddenly and quickly backed away from the lantern's glow, his white, glowing eyes the last to disappear. He remained close this time, however. We could hear him circling the cabin for 25 minutes or so.

He began making all kinds of low grunts, squeals, and chuckles. At this point, my father and I had our shotguns in our hands, fully expecting him to charge through the cabin's front door. But he never did, not then, anyway. His noises grew fainter and slowly subsided.

And all was again silent.

We continued to sit at the table, and neither of us said a word. I kept checking my watch. 2:45 AM, 2:50 AM, 3:00 AM. The time was going by so agonizingly slow that I couldn't take the tension anymore.

"Dad, what the hell is the plan here!?" I blurted out, standing up from my chair. "We can't just sit around and wait for it to come back!"

My father just looked at me with a tinge of annoyance on his face. "What would you have us do, Tanner?" he said sharply. "Go running out into the dark, guns blazing? With birdshot, no less. You think that's gonna do shit to this thing?"

I stood there for a moment, then sat down. He was right.

My dad's face turned soft as he saw I was visibly scared. "Listen, son," he started, "it's important that we—"

A sudden loud crash of breaking glass rang out from the bunk room. We grabbed our shotguns and rushed in, my father ahead of me.

Once in the bunk room, we saw that the single window on the far wall was smashed, and a softball-sized rock sat on the floor surrounded by shards of glass. We stood there quietly, waiting to see what would happen next.

We could hear the Pig Man outside the window, somewhere in the darkness. He was chuckling to himself.

My father, furious, ran to the broken window, stuck the barrel of his shotgun outside, and blindly fired a thunderous shot.

The Pig Man began to laugh and squeal, clearly amused. We heard him rush past the window and around the left side of the cabin.

"It's headed for the front door!" my father shouted.

All I could do was stand there, paralyzed by some primal fear that is likely rooted in the brain of every human being on this earth. My father, however, rushed forward toward the bunk room doorway, trying to make it to the main area before the Pig Man could gain entry. But just as he reached it, the Pig Man was violently slamming on the cabin's front door.

Still standing where I was, I watched my father quickly step back into the bunk room, slam the door shut, and lock it. Just as he did this, the Pig Man crashed through the front door, squealing at the top of his lungs.

He was inside now.

My father continued to back up until he was standing beside me. He turned his head to look at me. He didn't say anything, but I could see in his eyes that he was afraid—not for himself, but for me.

Then, an enormous crashing sound erupted from the main area. It sounded like the table had just been thrown across the room. More crashing, banging, and the sounds of things breaking and being torn off the walls followed. The Pig Man was trashing the place.

We couldn't see much. We had only placed a single lantern in the bunk room, so the lack of visibility, coupled with the chaos ensuing, made our situation worse—especially when we knew what was on the other side of that door. I have never been so scared in my life. 

When the sounds of destruction finally stopped, we both held our breath. The silence was deafening.

Then we heard the Pig Man slowly make his way to the bunk room door, his hooves making heavy knocking sounds on the cabin's wood flooring. He stopped just on the other side of the door. 

We could smell his foulness, even from way back in the room.

My father and I raised our shotguns and aimed them at the doorway.

"The minute that door breaks in, you fire every shell you have," my father said softly.

The Pig Man began to mumble to himself. No discernible words came out, but it almost sounded like a language. Then he let out an incredibly long, drawn-out, high-pitched squeal.

The noise gave me immediate goosebumps, and I came very close to dropping my gun to cover my ears. I just wanted it to stop.

Finally, he did.

He turned from the bunk room door and charged back outside through the shattered front doorway. And all fell silent once again.

We waited in the glow of the lantern light for several minutes. Both of us were too shaken to move. My father's voice broke the silence. "I'm gonna check things out." Keeping his aim on the bunk room door, he slowly moved forward. I followed this time. When he reached the door, he kept his shotgun steady in one hand and unlocked the door with the other. With a firm push, it swung open. 

My father quickly moved into the main area, checking every corner with his shotgun raised. I was close behind him, doing the same—mainly to feel like I was doing something.

The cabin was empty.

Everything was in disarray. The table was flipped over, and on the other side of the room, the couch was torn to shreds, the cabinets were torn off the wall, the windows were broken, the chairs were scattered, and there were deep tusk marks all over the walls. Together, my father and I flipped the table back over and re-centered it in the middle of the room, along with the chairs. There was no fixing the front door; it was in splinters all over the floor. We sat back at the table, and I glanced at my watch, which read 3:20 AM. That whole ordeal had only been 20 minutes in total. What a joke.

There were still a couple of hours until daybreak, and I was petrified by the thought of the Pig Man coming back for us. But to our surprise, he didn't. We sat at the table with our shotguns, surrounded by the wreckage, until the sun began to peek over the tops of the trees.

I walked outside to the porch steps and sat down. I just wanted to take in the warmth from the rising sun for a moment. Seconds later, my father was sitting down beside me. "Tanner…" he said concern in his voice. "Are you alright?" I nodded slowly. "I'm never coming back here," I said. Saying that out loud broke my heart because that land and cabin had been the home of countless memories since my childhood: hunting trips, weekend family gatherings, hikes, and all kinds of good stuff. But after everything that had happened over the course of that weekend, I knew I'd never be back. My father put his arm around me and gave me a tight, one-armed hug but said nothing.

He then stood up. "We better get going; that 8-mile walk is calling our names." That made me smile a bit. "I can't wait," I replied. We packed our things and set out into the field towards the dirt path. As we walked, a high-pitched squeal echoed from the forest and across the field. My father and I exchanged glances and kept walking.

The trek to the main road took about three hours, but we made it in one piece. We walked the main road until we could flag someone down and have them pull over. The man who pulled over was nice enough to let us use his cell phone to call my mom. And within half an hour, she was there to pick us up. My parents owned the land for another three years until 2019, when it finally sold.

We never returned to get the truck or fix the cabin. The truck was included in the asking price, and the cabin was as is. We never disclosed what happened that weekend to the realtor, the buyers, or anyone else, which is why I have given so little information about names and exact locations. Should we have disclosed everything or at least tried to? Yes. Did we? No. Would you have?

It's been over eight years, and I've stayed quiet about what happened that spring until now. I have felt an increased urge to share my account these last few months. A big part of me wants to make people aware that there are things in this world that can not be explained by logic or science and that there are dark things out there that want to do you harm. So, I will leave you with this…If you ever find yourself deep in the forests of New Hampshire, especially up north, I urge you to stay vigilant, and please keep an eye on the treeline because he could be there...watching.  

I’ve been awake for eighteen days. 

That's not hyperbole or any form of exaggeration. I've genuinely gone all this time without any sleep or rest. 

Not even a wink.

And the craziest part is that I don't feel like I need it. I don't know how I'm still alive. These last few days have been some of the craziest of my life, and I feel like it's about to get much worse. 

It all began on the eve of one of my exams. The dreaded finals week had come around, and although I had studied for it throughout the month of November and prepared myself to the best of my ability, it was still getting to me. Something about having a considerable portion of grades dependent on one test… just never sat right with me. 

I had been lying in my bed for the past three hours, tossing and turning, frustrated, unable to allow myself to slip into that glorious world of slumber. It was 4 a.m… and my next final was…. At 8... 

Eventually, I’d had enough, so I decided to get out of bed and pull an all-nighter to do some extra studying. After all, staying up through the night had always been better than dozing off for two hours and then being rudely awoken, surprisingly enough. 

So, with that, I sighed, got up from my bed, and started putting on my clothes. I headed out the door into the warm, humid Floridian air. The campus library was open, as was to be expected; they were always available 24/7 during this time.

The building was entirely still. The information desk was open, and some poor soul who had taken the student job was staffing it overnight. I looked over, and she didn't even move her head to notice me, staring blankly at the screen ahead of her. 

There were other people in here, too, just not a lot. Now and then, you'd see the occasional chair filled by a zombified student, a cup of coffee in one hand, their laptop in the other, and a lovely pie of pizza resting on the table in front of them. 

Typical. 

In the center of the main lobby stood a beautifully crafted table with a white cloth draped over it. On top were two big metallic cylinders, coffee dispensers, with a basket containing a bunch of small paper cups to the right. Further to the side a variety of creams, sugars, and sweeteners. 

The sight didn't surprise me. This school had a tradition of offering free coffee to all students in the late hours during this time. It was a nice gesture for everyone stressing out about their upcoming exams, I suppose. 

I'm not a coffee drinker —never was— I despise the taste. Still… it was 4 a.m., and I was about to stay up all night. So, with that in mind, I caved and filled up one of the paper shot cups, making sure to load it with so much cream that, frankly, you probably wouldn't be able to call it coffee anymore. 

With that, I made my way up the stairway to the right, which took me to the third floor, the computer lab. 

I approached one of the tens of empty computers, logged into my account, and pulled up my professor's PowerPoint presentation.

I practically gulped the coffee down in a minute, and it tasted about how you would expect.

But the texture, the texture was off…

As the hot liquid slid its way down my throat… I felt… something like a rough surface pass by my tongue. It was almost as if little tiny balls had been in the fluid, like cottage cheese, but a tad less noticeable. I didn't think much of it then, figuring it was probably something I put into the beverage, or something with this particular brand. And a quick look inside the cup revealed nothing unusual, so I quickly forgot about it. 

I was considering getting another one when, just ten minutes later, the caffeine took effect. It was insanely powerful, more than I expected. My heart was throbbing in my chest, as I was jolted into awakeness, and I felt like I had just slept ten hours.

There was an ongoing gag going around the school that they injected the coffee with jet fuel. Well, I guess now I know where that came from. 

Suffice it to say, I'm glad I didn’t follow through on what I was considering. I think I would've succumbed to cardiac arrest almost immediately. 

I continued studying until about 7 a.m. when the sun began to peak over the horizon. As I exited the building, stepping into the crisp morning air, I still felt perfect. The heart pounding in my chest was the only thing telling me that this period of energy was artificial.

I finally understood why people were such avid coffee drinkers, and I thought that maybe I should do this more often. 

It ended up taking until about 2 p.m. that day for the caffeine to wear off. At last, I could feel my body begin to slow down, and the full effect of the stunt I had just pulled came over me like a rock. It was like somebody had snapped their fingers, and I just… crashed… 

I decided to return to my bed and attempt to sleep off last night. Not for too long, though; after all, I had more finals in the morning. And thinking of that got my fear going once again. I said I had prepared the best I could, but the one that was coming up... Oh boy… No matter what I tried, I couldn't figure out half of it. And the thing was worth about 40% of my grade… If I didn't do well on this final, it would tank my class average.

A slight panic set in at the thought of it. I should mention that I have a mild case of anxiety. Not to the extreme where I get regular panic attacks, but just enough to make every testing situation about ten times worse than it is for anyone else. I tossed and turned for about thirty minutes in this pit of dread I was drowning in, when suddenly... something very peculiar happened.

My sleepiness disappeared again. It was just… gone… entirely and utterly vanquished. I didn't know what to make of it at first but blamed it on the adrenaline currently shooting through my veins. I decided to splash some cold water on my face and take a hot shower to calm down.

It didn’t help… two hours of laying there passed… nothing… It didn't make sense to me. It was as if the crash had just… ended…

As I wasn't getting any sleep, I decided to use this time to work some more. Being so worried about what was coming up and all, I did just that until about 11 p.m. that night… 

And again… I just… still didn't feel tired… I spent hours tossing and turning, hoping, begging myself to fall asleep, but no dice. 

I had enough at this point. 

I pulled out my phone and did a quick Google search on how long caffeine is supposed to last. Most results pointed me in the direction of four to six hours, with the more extreme estimates being up to twelve. This had already gone far longer than any of the websites suggested. 

I rationalized it away by saying that perhaps I was just sensitive to caffeine and that since this was my first real exposure, it would take a while for the effects to subside. 

I was going to crash eventually. I just needed to wait it out. 

But that didn't happen. It was now 4 a.m., and I was still lying awake in bed, feeling no different. I decided to spend the night studying again, very decidedly not taking any of the coffee this time, slightly annoyed that I would likely regret it in the middle of the next morning's final. 

I didn’t. 

Nothing had changed. And now, I was starting to get concerned. 

Did I have some adverse reaction or something? What was going on? I called my mom to ask what she had to say. She was equally concerned for my well-being and suggested I take a trip to the university's health center.

The best they could do for me was to recommend I take some medication and see if that fixed it, and she instructed me to call a doctor if it didn't.

I’m sure you can guess the results of that little experiment. 

Not only did the medication take no effect, but as I lay awake for hours, a chill sweat began to trickle down my skin. It started gradually, but it eventually became intense, such that my sheets quickly became drenched in the stuff. My head as well… was throbbing; a piercing, screaming headache shot its way through my brain, only getting worse, as if I had just been shot. 

There was a different kind of thumping in my head, though… one much more unexplainable. On top of the raging headache, I felt something else—a tiny, slight, unrhythmic tapping… seeming to occur in different parts of my brain. I paid close attention as it slowly moved from one side of my forehead to the other, then around the back of my skull, before continuing to wrap itself around. 

I didn’t know what to make of it. And that’s also where I drew the line.

Enough was enough. 

I was calling a doctor tomorrow. 

Well, I did so the following morning, and the response I got was something like, "Sorry, the best we can do is give you an appointment in two weeks."

Great. 

All praise the healthcare system, I guess. 

But, accepting it was the only thing I could do, I said, "Okay," booked the meeting, and hoped it wouldn't worsen.

The following day was when things started to get a little scary. My mother nearly gasped when she saw me on FaceTime, saying I looked ‘paler than snow’.

I had to agree with her because, in the middle of our conversation, I got a sudden wave of extreme nausea, gagging harder than I ever had before. I hastily hung up the call and sprinted to the bathroom, just in time to empty my stomach contents into the toilet bowl. I sat there, retching for the next hour. All the while, the headache and those odd irregular feelings circling themselves around my brain continued.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, as I was donating my insides to the indoor plumbing, I swear I saw something move in the corner of my eye. It was brief… but it looked like an… odd, elongated shape slowly moving up the bathroom wall. I didn't get a good look at it, as it appeared to hurry out of view entirely before I turned around.

I searched the entire place, top to bottom, but there was no sign of the damn thing. It was like it had just… vanished… 

That was the final straw. 

I assumed the sleep deprivation was getting to me, and I was beginning to hallucinate, even though I still felt as awake as ever. But I didn't care anymore. Enough was enough; I could not, in any way, wait two weeks for an appointment. 

And so, without any options left, I picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1. 

The paramedics arrived within minutes and I quickly explained the situation to them, and, after seeing how terrible I looked, they immediately put me on a stretcher and whisked me away to the local hospital. 

The two-hour wait in the emergency room was what I could best describe as miserable. I was stuck sitting on a cheap plastic chair in a sanitary, lit, open room surrounded by patients suffering from god knows what illnesses. The icing on the cake was that my symptoms continued to worsen throughout my entire stay. 

My vision was beginning to go hazy, and I swear I kept seeing something move in my peripheral vision, like what I found back in my apartment. 

Finally, after hours of torture, The doctor finally called me and escorted me to my new room. He introduced himself as Dr. Jones and ran me through some basic questions, you know, the typical stuff.

“How are you feeling, Kevin?”

“Terrible.”

“Have you taken any drugs recently?”

“Other than Nyquil? No…”

“Do you drink any alcohol?” 

“Very rarely.” 

It was just your standard, run-of-the-mill doctor's questioning, but soon, one toward the end caught my attention. 

“Did you drink any caffeinated beverages recently?” the doctor asked.

I stopped for a moment. "...I mean, I did have a shot of coffee… but it was… three… four days ago?"

The doctor made a hum of acknowledgment, his expression considerate before shaking it off. "Okay… well, that shouldn't be causing this, then… I'm going to be honest with you, Kevin: I'm not sure what's happening… So what we're going to do now is run you through a few tests to hopefully determine an answer… and if we can't find anything… then we might have to keep you here overnight to perform a sleep test."

I snorted.

Sleep test… right… 

The preliminary tests went exactly as expected. They took some fluids, checked my blood pressure, and looked at my heart rate—all the standard stuff. Everything turned out negative for any sort of issue. My vitals were perfect… frustratingly so. 

And so, I was then quickly informed that they would be proceeding with the sleep examination that night. They escorted me to a place that looked more like a hotel room than a hospital. A big window at the far end would let in plenty of natural light during the day. There was another blurred-out window on the right side, and a neat little old-fashioned lamp stood on a nightstand. The bed itself looked rather cozy and had a lovely wooden finish as a headboard. If I weren't so ill, I would've admired it. 

After hooking me up to various pieces of equipment that I couldn’t even explain the purpose of, Dr. Jones spoke again. "Alright… you're all set up, Kevin. Now, don't worry. We're going to be watching from the adjacent room the entire night, okay? So if you need anything… just ask."

I nodded my head, the only response I could make in my current state, and watched as he handed me a couple of pills. 

"Oh, and one more thing, here is some Silenor for the night… it's an insomnia medication; it should be more powerful than the stuff you had before… Hopefully, it might have an effect." 

After I swallowed what he had given me, the doctor made his way out of the room and turned off the lights before closing the door. And just like that, I was left with nothing but complete, overbearing silence, broken only by the gentle hum of machinery. 

As my eyes hadn't adjusted yet, darkness swallowed everything. I gently eased my head back into the pillow and shut my eyelids, hoping to finally catch some Z’s. The bed was really comfortable; in any other situation, I would've fallen asleep within minutes. 

But now… 

One hour passed…

Two hours passed…

I was beginning to get frustrated. It seemed that the tablet the doctor had given me wasn't helping. So I just lay there, staring at the ceiling for some time and holding my eyes shut.

Nothing happened until about midnight, and quite frankly, I wish it had stayed that way. I immediately felt the throbbing in my head return, and the gentle taps that seemed to be circulating around my entire head went into overdrive. It was more evenly spread now, too. Rather than being in specific locations, it was across what seemed to be the entire circumference of my brain all at once. I could almost*...hear…*it inside me, all the little contacts… like crinkling paper.

I sprung up to a sitting position, clutching my face in pain. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness now; what was once pure nothingness had brightened into a shadowy cacophony that ate the corners and walls of the room. The nausea returned, and stars pulsated through my vision, and just then… something caught my eye. 

It sounded in my ears too…coming from the dark, shadowy corner that lay just to the left of me…running smoothly and slowly up the wall. 

I looked over to the source of the noise, which was partially illuminated by the glow of the machinery, and what I saw made my heart drop. Tucked away where the left and back wall met each other was what appeared to be a black, slim, elongated tube of some sort… but no, it wasn't that. I peered closer at it, and I realized it had legs… hundreds and hundreds of little tiny legs squirming and latching onto the surface in unison with the noise. 

The animal slowly crawled its way upward, paying me no attention. Its long body wriggled in perfect harmony as it made its way towards the ceiling. 

 I stayed frozen in fear for a few seconds before I immediately launched up from my bed and screamed, practically ripping the equipment down from where it was standing, unleashing a loud crash.

The doctors stormed into the room and immediately turned on the lights, demanding to know what had happened. I was hysterical. My head was still pounding, it felt like my brain was constrained.

"The-there's something in the corner of the-"

But as I looked to point it out, what I had seen was gone. 

“Kevin… How long did you say you were awake for…?” Dr. Jones asked with concern. “It’s common with severe sleep deprivation that you may experience hallucinations… ”

It made sense, but what I had seen felt so... life-like…

Unsurprisingly the doctors informed me that they would have to cancel the sleep test because my ruckus of throwing everything to the floor managed to break the equipment I was strapped to, so… yay me. 

However, They said that they could retrieve all the data up until now and that they would be able to review it as soon as possible and decided it would be best to move me to a standard hospital room while they awaited my results. 

They could barely move me five feet before I started gagging, and soon the floor was greeted with a pristine covering formed from my stomach contents, delivered by yours truly. 

Jokes aside, I finally got a good look at what was coming out of me. It was filled with what looked like… tiny black spheres… I didn't know what to make of it; quite frankly, I was worrying about other things, but it seemed to stun the doctors for a moment, too. However, they quickly got back to the task and escorted me out into the hallway. I didn't see what became of my mess afterward. 

After getting into an admittedly less comfortable hospital bed, I finally had the opportunity to scroll through my phone. It was completely blown up with panicked messages from my mother asking me what was happening and demanding to know why I wasn't answering. I called her back, and the second she saw the medical bed behind me, she nearly exploded into tears. 

“What happened?!” she cried out. 

I explained everything that had been going on since I last called her: the sudden wave of nausea I experienced, calling 9-1-1, and the sleep test. We, or rather, she, came to the conclusion that she would fly down and visit me as soon as possible to hopefully get this whole situation sorted. It was… nice… a silver lining in all this awfulness. At the very least, I was going to be able to see my mother again. 

Doctor Jones interrupted our conversation, and after I said one last goodbye to my mother, he simply sat down and sighed. He was holding what looked to be a couple of sheets of paper in his hand. 

"Hey, Kevin…" he started. "So, we've been reviewing your sleep test data as promised, and well…" He showed me what looked to be a graph with a long squiggly line complete with small valleys and ever-towering hills. "Your brain waves… they're highly irregular… look." He began tracing his finger along the jagged line. "They are much more active than they should be… and they nearly go off the graph here when you had your… episode… It's highly alarming." 

I stared at him in silence, not knowing exactly what to say. "One thing's for sure; we're going to have to get a head CT done as soon as possible… I'll see how soon I can get you in for an appointment…"

I could barely utter an ‘okay’ before he left the room, and finally… I completely broke down. This whole thing… It was a massive nightmare. I had no idea why this was happening, and it seemed like even the doctors, the world-class professionals, did not have any semblance of a clue either. I just wanted this all to end; I just wanted to get some sleep, finally. I wanted to stop… seeing that creaturein the corner of my eye. But alas, I should’ve known my prayers would all fall on deaf ears. 

A few hours later, Doctor Jones returned and escorted me to the head examination room. It was small and white, with what looked to be some sort of control desk behind a wall in the front, and a large machine resembling an MRI taking up most of the space, making a lot of noise, far more than I had expected.

I lay down on the little bed, feet facing the device, and put my arms over my head as the assistant wheeled me into the machine. I can't lie; I had a certain amount of dread come over me. I knew this was all normal procedure and that it was going to be painless, but something about this was daunting.

Dr. Jones and the others returned to the control area near the entrance and advised me the scan was about to begin. However, I didn't even make it for what seemed like five seconds, when there appeared to be distress from the control center, and one of the assistants practically ran out of the room.

My heart began to pound in my chest.

Dr. Jones approached me immediately, a grim expression on his face. 

"Listen, Kevin…" He sighed. "Normally, CT scan results take weeks to get back to you, but we've seen some things here that I believe might have to be taken care of now.” 

He ushered me back to the area he had been in during the process and pointed at the computer screen, and I nearly gasped when I saw the image being projected. 

There was a picture of my head, which was to be expected, but there was something else. Wrapped around my brain was a long, bug-like creature with two big antennas at the front and an uncountable amount of legs; the whole thing bore resemblance to a giant millipede, yet, it was slightly fatter and was long enough to cover the entire circumference of my brain twice. There was something else, though; that… creature… looked precisely like the one I had been seeing in my hallucinations, albeit a bit smaller. 

My heart lurched in my chest as I stared at the unnerving image. I was feeling sick to my stomach, but not due to the illness this time. 

“What the hell?!” I exclaimed. 

"Yeah…" Dr. Jones commented. "I have no idea where this came from; I've never seen anything like it before… but we're going to have to get it out of you pretty fast."

I could only bob my head in agreement, still lost in my thoughts. This… passenger… had been sitting inside me for god knows how long… was that what I felt when I experienced that tapping inside my head…? Was it that… crawling around up there? 

As if on cue, it started again. I paid closer attention this time, and I could really feel it—all those little legs skittering along my brain. I immediately dissolved into a blind panic, but that only seemed to make it pick up the pace. 

It almost seemed… excited… or stimulated in some way. 

My headache returned, and I collapsed to the ground, my fear briefly forgotten. Doctor Jones stood up to help me back to my feet and looked at me with a concerned expression. 

"Look, Kevin… I'll try to schedule surgery to get it removed as soon as possible… until then… just try not to think about it too hard… okay?"  

Don't think about it too hard.

That was easier said than done; how was I supposed to go back to my room and pretend something like this hadn't just made itself a home up there? My terror got worse as I was ushered back to my room. I still felt it the whole time… it had gotten active recently, and my symptoms were starting to flare up again. 

I was overwhelmed with illness the second I got back and immediately sprinted toward the bathroom. The substance I excreted looked the same as before… filled with those… weird black spheres. 

I didn't pay attention to it, though. I was still thinking about that thing. It had been real… maybe my visions hadn't been—but whatever that was had been living inside me this whole time. I tried, desperately, to calm myself down and tell myself it would be out in a day. That didn't make it any better. 

After finishing my rounds, I got up weakly to wash my hands.

And that’s when I saw it. 

Slightly above my eyebrows, in the middle of my forehead, was what appeared to be a massive bulge. It sat there, completely still. As I looked at it further, I realized it wasn't just that… It was a long, winding… bug-like cylinder that circled itself around my entire head. I could even see the pieces of my hair slightly displaced by the shape, as it sheathed beneath them.

I don't know what came over me. But somehow, all worry and tension immediately disappeared. I found my right hand slowly drifting up towards my scalp as if it had a mind of its own. I'd say I tried to stop it, but that would be a lie. It was almost like… like I was in some sort of trance. My mind had gone completely blank as my arm slowly hovered up further toward the anomaly.

Then… I touched it and squeezed it gently. It was soft, almost like some sort of sponge, but I didn't have much time to register it as it immediately squirmed away, darting out of view and behind my head at a speed that looked similar to a bullet fired from a gun. 

This is what finally ripped me from my state. 

I screamed and leaped backward, almost splitting my head on the bathroom tiles. I sat there breathing heavily for a moment, hyperventilating, nearly crying before I worked up the courage to look back into the mirror.

It was gone. 

I did a complete 360 to make sure, but no matter what angle I checked… it wasn't there anymore. 

My headache intensified once again, and I ran to my bed, curling up in the fetal position, tears streaming from my eyes. I remained like that for hours. The doctors had come in to check on me and see what was wrong… but after I explained what I had seen, they found nothing. Still, their presence helped calm me down a tiny bit. 

That night, I simply lay staring at the ceiling. I don’t think I would’ve been able to sleep even if I didn’t have this odd condition. 

Nothing else happened. But still, it was bad enough. The image of what I saw on the CT scan and what happened to me later in that bathroom was haunting. And no matter how hard I tried, I simply could not get it out of my head. 

My mom arrived the following morning, and I explained everything to her. She was understandably just about as freaked out as I was, but she relaxed a tad bit when I told her about the doctor's plans to remove what was now being dubbed a ‘parasite’.

My neurosurgeon, with a team of doctors, an assistant, and my anesthesiologist, came in a few minutes later, announcing that it was time to perform the surgery, and told my mom to remain in the waiting room. With one last hug, we said goodbye and split up, to hopefully see each other again once this was over.

"Don't worry. I'm going to take good care of you," my anesthesiologist reassured me as she prepared the machine. 

Bright, blinding lights sprang to life as the doctors prepared their tools and laid them out on the table next to me. I knew I wouldn't be feeling any of this, but still, I have to admit, it did give me a small pit in my stomach to see all of the sharp objects that were about to be used on me.

They stuck an I.V. into my arm and hooked me up to all kinds of equipment, including heart rate and blood pressure monitors. I listened as the rhythmic beeping sprang to life and tried to ease myself, staring into the piercing lights above. 

"Okay, Kevin," my anesthesiologist smiled. “Once I set this mask on your face, I want you to count down from ten in your head. I promise you will be asleep before you reach zero."

With that, she gently placed it over my nose, and, slowly breathing in the chemicals streaming through the tube, I did as she’d requested.

10...

9…

8…

7…

6…

5…

4…

3…

2…

1…

0...

I reached the end of my ten-second countdown. I was still awake. I began to worry; nothing around me had changed. I tried to say something, to get up and tell the doctors that I was still there, but the second I tried to move, I realized I couldn't. I was locked in place, bound to the table, completely paralyzed. I couldn't even do so much as wiggle my fingers. 

My heart beat faster in my chest as I looked over at the anesthesiologist who was viewing my heart rate and other vitals, and thankfully, she seemed to realize something was wrong, too. 

"He's awake," she said bluntly, slightly confused as she stared at the screens in front of her. “Don't start yet; I'm going to increase the dosage."

She turned some nob on the machine connected to my mask, and all of a sudden, I felt an intense surge of the stuff getting pushed through the tube, far more potent than it had been before, forcing itself into my nose. My paralysis was getting stronger, but I was still not falling asleep. 

I began to panic, as evidenced by the ever-increasing beeping on the monitor beside me. The anesthesiologist started to swear under her breath as she turned the dial up even more, almost bringing it to its max. But nothing was working. I lay there, awake on the table, unable to do or say anything, while the doctors all crowded around me, trying to get me to go under. 

Suddenly, the lights above me went out, and the room went completely dark. All the medical staff blurred into the sides of my vision, still and unmoving. What was once a soundscape filled with the frantic movement of personnel and nurses and the rapid beeping of machinery was replaced with complete and utter silence. 

I sat there, breathing heavily, and that thing began to scurry again, rushing as I felt it crawl all around my head. I wanted to throw up. It was incredibly disgusting, and it just wouldn't stop. 

There was something else, though. A couple of minutes passed, and something crept through the silence. A soft but noticeable crackling noise came from the far end of the room, something I couldn't see from here, slowly making its way ever closer. 

I stared into the distance in terror as the sound unmistakably began wiggling its way up the foot of my bed before changing slightly, now sounding like small, tiny micro taps on plastic.

It wasn't long before two creepy small antennas became barely visible, peering through the darkness, just into view. A couple of seconds later, the head arrived. It was here… the same creature I had seen on the CT scan, although it looked much larger.

It continued to work its way up the end of my bed and slithered down the other side. I tried to get up, to run, but the paralysis drug that the anesthesiologist had given me was doing its job; I was still stuck. I was left helpless, only able to watch in horror as it slowly squirmed its way over onto the bed and up onto my foot, giving me the sensation of hundreds of tiny little appendages pushing their way up my body.  

It was relaxed, seemingly unphased by all my struggles as it got closer and closer, gently wrapping its way around my limbs. I could look at it now; it definitely resembled a massive millipede, but no exoskeleton existed. Instead, what made up the body seemed to be a pale fleshy mass laced with a pattern of black marks strewn across the entire specimen. 

It reached my stomach and made a straight beeline for my face. I tried as hard as I could to hold my head back and keep it as far away as possible, but it was futile. All the while, the back half of it had just crossed over the far bed frame.

My eyes watered as it slowly crawled over my neck and made contact with my chin, its long antennas now taking up a good chunk of my vision. I didn't seem to be wearing my mask anymore. I don't know when it disappeared, but it was missing, which gave that thing the opportunity to reach between my lips with its little front legs and slowly pry open my mouth with a strength I wouldn't believe it had. 

I tried again in vain to turn my head to do something to counteract it, but nothing worked. The only movements I made were the spastic twitches of my muscles as I shook like a leaf. 

Once the creature had opened my mouth just enough, I gagged as it slowly began to crawl its way inside; I felt every movement of the tiny bug limbs creeping on my tongue, the fleshy mass slowly rubbing against the top of my mouth. I wanted to throw up so badly, to cough, but for some reason, those reflexes weren't working; all I could do was gag over and over again as its long, segmented body maneuvered its way in like a snake shedding its skin.

The head reached the back of my throat and began to work its way up towards the top of my skull. As I watched more and more of its body disappear behind my lips, I heard the sound, and then saw more and more of these creatures. Smaller ones began to appear at the sides of the bed and weaved their way towards me. Some crawled toward my face; others maneuvered themselves across every square inch of my body. 

I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I began hyperventilating, looking at the scene in front of me with terror; each time I looked, there were more and more, appearing out of thin air, exploring every little nook and cranny of me. A pounding, throbbing headache ensued, and above all that I felt the original parasite continue to crawl its way around in my brain faster than it ever had before.

I squeezed my eyes shut, praying for the nightmare to end.

After what felt like forever, the lights above me blared to life, and I launched out of the bed and let out a shriek as I flailed my arms around. I nearly smacked the hand of the anesthesiologist dead on as she immediately grabbed hold of my shoulders, trying to ease me back into the bed.

“Easy… easy…” she said.

I wanted to yell at her, but then I realized… everything I had just seen, all those bugs… those creatures. They were gone. It was just me and the doctors in an operating room with a highly rapid heartbeat monitor. 

I took a second to collect my bearings and looked at the mask sitting on the bedside table; they had taken me off the medication. 

I instantly collapsed into tears and begged for my mother.

"We're going to have to try something else…" one doctor said, "Removing it isn't going to work if we can't get him under." 

I nearly tackled my mom when I saw her again and explained everything about my horrible experience in that operating room. 

Dr. Jones came in a couple of minutes later, with a grim expression. "Okay, Kevin…I am sorry about what you just went through. For now, we've decided that we're going to try and give you some anti-parasitic medication and see if that will help your condition. I hate to tell you this, but the medical staff is… a little lost right now because you've been infected with a species we've never seen before, so we'll call in some researchers to better understand your condition. 

My mother immediately stood up in protest. “You are not going to run experiments on my son!”

Dr. Jones simply looked at her with professionalism. "They aren't experiments, ma'am… we're just going to study the best course of action to hopefully kill or get this parasite out of him. And besides, it's Kevin's choice…"

They both looked at me, and I sighed. I desperately wanted this as far away from me as humanly possible, and so, with nothing left to lose, I accepted. 

The next seven days, my condition didn't get much better. I had been awake for thirteen days at this point. But it was weird because despite how horrible I felt, I still didn’t feel the need to sleep. I still felt just as awake as when this whole thing had begun, and at this point, I had resigned myself to not feeling sleepy ever again until this was over. 

I requested to spend my nights with my mother because, after my surgery encounter, I didn't want to be lying in my room alone at night, and the presence of my mother helped put me at ease. She even taught me to laugh about it all a little, and as time went on, mysteriously, the hallucinations became slightly more diluted, something which the researchers quickly picked up on.

Oh yeah, at this point, I was also being watched by a team of them 24/7. I was doing constant tests, scans, the whole deal.

The anti-parasitics they were trying seemed to have no effect. I guess that was to be expected.

The next day, one of the researchers came in and told me he had an idea. My symptoms seemed to calm down when I was at a state of ease and flare up when I was stressed or scared so he proposed giving me a high dose of a medication that's supposed to regulate my stress hormones. 

I tried it for two days, and the scientists' theories were all but confirmed because my hallucinations and all my other symptoms weakened significantly. A subsequent CT scan revealed the thing had grown much smaller than it had been before… it was starving. This is what led to the current theory that the parasite likely feeds off of stress hormones or other things your body produces during these periods. 

They continued this pattern for the next two days until my symptoms became so mild they almost didn't exist anymore. I was still stuck awake, but everything else had been diluted to an absolute minimum; the parasite on the CT scan looked like a shriveled husk of what it used to be. 

Dr. Jones came into the room that day and delivered a message that almost made my stomach drop. He said that, if possible, he would like to try the surgery again, given the thing had gotten so weak that the researchers didn't think it could overpower the anesthesia as it had before. 

I halted for a moment; on the one hand, I was eager to be done with this, but on the other… I didn't want to relive what I had. Dr. Jones assured me that they would be starting with a very low dose, and if they didn't notice an effect, they would immediately call off the operation. 

After a long debate between my mom and the doctors, we decided to proceed. 

Thankfully, the surgery went off without a hitch. 

When I came to, I finally saw the thing that had caused me all this trouble with my own eyes; it was dead, lying on the bedside table fully stretched out. It looked the same as what I had seen in my hallucinations, albeit a lot smaller. 

I even got to name the damn thing. ‘Neural Sleep Parasite’ had an excellent ring to it. Before long, they hauled off that monster for further study, and I never saw it again. 

They explained to me that I had most likely ingested its eggs when drinking that coffee back in the library, and that, combined with the high-stress response, allowed it to sort of take over my brain for a while. 

But I cut them off. I didn't want to hear more about this. I was done. 

I was released from the hospital a few hours later, got into my car, and drove back to my apartment with my mom. I know you will say I probably should have let her drive, but after all this, I was so eager to get back to a normal life. 

However, I regretted it very soon because the past eighteen days of no sleep hit like a truck in the middle of the journey. Without the parasite continuously stimulating my body, I needed to sleep again, and now my brain was about to demand I pay up the tab. 

Without realizing it, I began to doze off at the wheel in seconds and drifted into an oncoming lane. A shrill scream from my mom sitting next to me was the only thing that stopped us from slamming into a massive 18-wheeler with a combined speed of 140mph. 

I ripped the car back to the proper lane, adrenaline surging through my body. I immediately pulled over and let my mom take the wheel, realizing my stupid mistake. It goes without saying she drove me home the rest of the way.

Upon arriving at my apartment, I immediately made plans to dive into bed. It was time to catch up on those eighteen days of lost sleep. 

Or so I thought. 

Because immediately after I jumped under the covers… my tiredness… vanished… 

I began to panic but forced myself to think clearly. 

They said I ingested its eggs with that coffee… what if there was more than one… or what if it had laid more while it was inside me? Come to think of it, those odd black spheres coming out of me all the time were… unsettling; I just never thought to bring it up because there was always something else of critical importance happening…

I’m writing this now with a piercing headache, as all of my symptoms are beginning to rush back.

I think I just felt something crawl under my skull.

It all started with a damn single hair.

My wife is on the shorter side. I can see over her head even if she stands on her toes. We were cooking when she tried to squeeze by. By chance, I looked down at the top of her head. At first, I didn’t see it. It was hardly noticeable. A single short white hair was mixed inside the rest of the dark strands. I reached out to brush some hair away to get a better look.

She flinched away from my hand but laughed at the movement.

“You’re going grey.” I commented smiling hoping I didn’t offend her.

She wasn’t even thirty yet. But I’ve seen people whose hair that turned before her.

“Good. I’ll look super hot.” She laughed again.

She let me look at the small white spot. It was short with a slight bend. And thicker than a normal hair. I reached over to take it between two fingers ready to pull it out. She elbowed my chest getting away with her first grey hair intact.

“Let it grow longer. I like it.”

I raised my hands showing a truce. If she wanted to let it grow, I didn’t care either way. It was just a hair. We got busy cooking dinner, and I forgot about it for a few days.

That was until Carrie fainted at work. The call came while I was in the office. It was an hour before I got the message. I quickly told my boss I needed to leave for the day. I rushed to the hospital with dread forming in my stomach.

I met her in the waiting room. She looked pale but overall, not as bad as I feared. Her co-worker drove her there which was nice of them. Soon we were able to see a doctor for a checkup. They didn’t see anything wrong with a basic checkup and tests. A scan had been suggested but it would take a while before Carrie could get a more thorough look. We were sent home without any answers.

I tucked her into bed to let her rest for the rest of the day. Thankfully Carrie didn’t feel lightheaded when we got back home, only over tired. I thought getting extra sleep would fix that.

The next day it appeared the rest cured whatever caused the sudden fainting spell. Carrie acted like her old self and went back to work even though she could have taken another day off.

I told her to not push herself. If she started feeling off again, she should stop working and get someone to help. She assured me she felt fine and nothing bad would happen.

I believed that for a while. The medical tests wouldn’t be for a few weeks. I kept an eye out for more grey hairs at the roots, however none showed. However, I noticed something else. Carrie started to act differently. The signs were small. She would pause for an extra few seconds trying to think of the next word she wanted to say. I figured she was just having issues sleeping. The concern came when her eating habits changed.

Carrie had always been a picky eater. That was fine. We worked around that. One night I came home to see the food I had bought for myself gone. I wasn’t upset, just confused. It wasn’t like her to devour frozen meals and yet she had doubled what she ate without gaining weight. Instead, it looked like she had been losing some. I brought it up to her and she just brushed it off commenting she always ate more when the weather got colder. We had been married for five years; how did I never notice that before?

Then her memory issues got worse. Small items like keys and her wallet were always getting misplaced. I was very understanding and helped her find what she lost every time. After we located what she had misplaced she told me that maybe stress from work was getting to her. I believed that the first three times.

I started to look online to see if there was anything I could find that explained these little changes. A month after it all started, she did something she never had before. She snapped at me. We were in the kitchen dishing out a special take-out meal when I caressed the top of her head. I leaned down to kiss the top of hers when she spun around face red with rage. She pushed as hard as she could with both hands knocking me hard into the table. It didn’t hurt that much. I was more shocked than anything.

“Don’t fucking touch me without any warning!” She shouted and stomped a foot.

My mouth hung open. Carrie never swore. Well, rarely. She would drop a curse whenever it was funny. But I had never heard her swear in rage at anyone let alone imagine she would do so at me.

“Sweetheart... are you alright?” I asked mouth open.

What had I done wrong? Did I cause this? Or did something else happen that made her act this way? My head swam with thousands of questions.

Carried quickly settled down embarrassed by the outburst. She walked over and offered an apology hug that I took.

“I’m fine. I don’t know, I’m sorry. I just don’t feel like myself for some reason.” She said in a small voice.

I risked a heavy question that changed the mood.

“Do you think you might be pregnant? We’ve been trying for a while and hormones can make you act different.” I suggested.

She scrunched up her face at the suggestion as a joke.

“Different? As in crazy?” She half-joke.

“Well...” I trailed off and my answer made her smile again.

Sadly, she pulled away and shook her head.

“No, I’ve already checked.”

I didn’t let the disappointment show on my face. We hadn’t had the money for the tests to see why we hadn’t been able to have a child yet. We figured one would come at the right time. That time simply hadn’t come yet.

“We’ll call the doctors to see if you can get in for those scans sooner. You might have hit your head harder than we thought when you fainted at work. It’s not as if you made changes to your medications or anything like that.” I suggested.

There hadn’t been a bruise when she fainted, but I didn’t want to take the risk. An odd expression came over her face as she chewed on the inside of her lip. Carrie had something she wanted to tell me but was too embarrassed to do so. It took a few minutes and some joking threats of eating her dinner for her to open up.

“I took some of these Asian pills I bought from the gas station. They're supposed to help with a lot of things. Like those weird energy drinks you can find.”

I frowned concerned over this new information.

“Do you have the box still? We can look up to see if anyone else has had the same issues.”

She shook her head and sighed.

“No. It was like, two months ago. If not longer. I took three and then tossed them out because they made me feel lightheaded. I don’t know what they were called and the gas station stopped selling them.”

Well, that sucked. She didn’t remember enough to track down these mystery pills. At least we had something to bring up when we saw the doctors next. Or so I assumed. I held her tight assuring her everything was alright. Figuring out why she felt so odd lately wouldn’t be a big deal. That it would just take time. I was unaware time is what we lacked.

A few days later Carrie skipped work and stayed in bed. I offered to stay home but she talked me into going to work. However, I left my shift early to find her in the same spot I had left her.

Dark bags were under her eyes even though she rested all day. I got her dinner and begged Carrie to go to the hospital. Somehow, she talked me down and promised to go in the morning if she still felt tired. The meal woke her up a little. I climbed into bed next to her and we watched a bit of TV before both falling asleep.

That night I woke up in the dark to hear her moving in her sleep. I turned on the bedside light and she flinched away from it. Her hands went over her eyes as if the brightness hurt.

“Do you have a headache? Can I get you something?” I offered.

“Migraine. Yes, please. It feels... like pressure.” Her voice was low and weak.

I got up and put my cell phone in my pajama pants pocket. Depending on the next few minutes I would call for an ambulance. I got her a glass of water and some aspirin I helped her take. Her body felt far too thin. How had she lost so much weight without anyone noticing?

While keeping her upright with a hand on her back I spotted that single white hair growing out of the top of her head. I had forgotten about it. An urge to pluck it came over me. While Carrie remained defenseless, I took the hair between a finger and my thumb, then pulled.

Her body jolted. Instead of normal hair, it appeared like I had started to pull out a thread that started to get thicker. Her scalp bulged a little from what was under the skin making my stomach churn. Unable to help myself, I kept pulling. Slowly but surely, the long white thread came out growing thick and thicker as more came into view. Her body twitched and her eyes rolled back. I knew this was hurting her and yet I couldn’t stop. Wrapping the exposed thread around my hand a few times, I took a good hold of it with the other and pulled as hard as I could.

White liquid pooled out from around the wound. I heard a soft pop as the end of the white wriggling mass came loose. It moved on its own, the end as thick as my finger. I could have sworn I heard it scream in the dim light of the room. Carrie had stopped moving, her body limp but somehow a dazed smile was on her face.

“Oh... that’s better.” Her words were slurred and her eyes slowly started to shut.

Disgusted by what I saw I tossed the thing away as quickly as I was able. My hands flew to her shoulders trying to shake her awake. I didn’t understand what happened or what I just did. The wriggling long white creature I just pulled from her head started to inch closer to my bare feet. I nearly threw up, my skin crawling at the sight.

I might have been able to handle myself if what happened stopped there. Quickly my deepest fears came to light as more small white hairs pushed through Carrie’s dark strands, moving on their own looking for a new host. Just one of these things was enough to nearly make me lose it. Seeing so many caused my brain to shut down.

I hate myself for what I did next. I turned on my heels fleeing the house leaving my wife behind. I know I called 911 but had no memory of what I said. Police and an ambulance showed up.

A lot of questions I did not have answers for were asked. I sat in the back of a police car letting people speak to me but not hearing a word. At some point, another car pulled up. A black one with a very plainly dressed man got out. He took some officers aside and spoke with them. Had someone called a lawyer for me? Did I need one? I didn’t care enough to ask.

The officers came back and asked if I could speak with them at the station. I numbly agreed but asked about Carrie. They said nothing and just ushered me away.

I spent the night at the station going over what I had seen in detail with someone who didn't bother to write anything down. In the morning, I was free to go but not a soul had told me about Carrie. When I asked the officer gave a strained look and asked who that might be. I felt like I was going crazy. I demanded information about my wife and caused so much trouble they almost locked me up.

A bomb was dropped on my world. They claimed I was never married, and I arrived that night because of a random arson attack on my home. These officers were bad actors. I knew they were lying. But they refused to drop the new story.

I called in a favor and a co-worker drove me to my place. The street was swarmed with firefighters finishing putting out a blaze. I stared in sheer shock realizing they kept me at the station all night so they could cover all this up.

Who was they? I don’t have the slightest clue.

No matter who I spoke to those people had reached them first. In stressed tones, they claimed to not know who Carrie was. This couldn't be happening. I didn't understand how things went wrong so fast. I called and called praying someone, anyone picked up the phone that knew her. Soon, my calls and any attempts at contacting her family were blocked expect by one person. Her mother answer the phone. At first, she didn't speak and I didn't think anyone was on the other end of the line. Was someone else there with her? Or did she just not want to speak with me?

"Please stop trying to contact us. We don't know who you're talking about..." She said in a low strained voice.

"I still have photos of her on my phone. Photos of us together. Please, tell me what's going on." I begged.

She was also a victim here. I didn't want to get angry at her. I just wanted answers.

"That's... AI is getting good now a days..." She said but didn't sound sure of her statement.

"Please... I loved her as much as you did."

At first I thought the line went dead. After a full minute she responded whispering so low I barely heard her.

"I did love her, so so much. But I need to think of my family. I lost a daughter. I refuse to let them take anyone else."

She swiftly hung up the phone and then blocked my number. I knew I would never hear from her again no matter how hard I tried. If I did press the matter, I endangered everyone Carrier ever cared about.

Right now, I’m staying in a hotel using the last of my savings. My family has offered to take me in. To get help. To try and live a normal life. I considered taking them up on the offer. The only thing stopping me is a constant itch at the top of my head growing more intense by the hour.

I was driving my rusted-out Toyota Corolla, which somehow still had working speakers despite everything else about it falling apart. Jess sat shotgun, feet up on the dashboard, scrolling through her phone and occasionally smacking me on the arm to show me memes I couldn’t look at. 

Behind us were Kyle, Luke, and Rachel, crammed together in the back seat. Kyle was holding a Styrofoam cup filled with God-knows-what, leaning forward between the seats. He was the type of guy who always looked like he was about to tell you something you wouldn’t want to hear but would laugh at anyway. Luke, on the other hand, was quieter. Big into hiking and survival stuff, he’d been our “nature guy” ever since Jess declared we needed one. Rachel was the calm one, always keeping us grounded when things got chaotic—which they always did with Jess and Kyle around.

Honestly, the drive wasn’t bad. The weather was perfect—blue skies, a slight breeze—and the road twisted and turned through some of the prettiest landscapes I’d ever seen. We passed a few scattered houses, but eventually, those gave way to dense forests. By the time we reached the gravel road leading to the camp, it felt like we’d stepped out of reality and into some beautifully forgotten corner of the world.

When we finally saw the camp sign—wooden and faded, with the words "Blackpine Camp" barely visible—we cheered. I pulled the car into the gravel lot, killed the engine, and stepped out. The air smelled like pine and earth, cool and clean, and for a moment, everything felt perfect.

The car doors slammed shut one after another, the echoes swallowed by the surrounding forest. Jess stretched dramatically, her flannel shirt riding up slightly as she groaned, “God, I think my legs forgot how to work.”

“Cry me a river,” Kyle said, tossing his cup into a nearby trash bin. “Try sitting in the middle seat for three hours. I’m ninety percent elbows right now.”

Rachel pulled out a laminated camp map. “Okay, according to this, the main cabin is just up that path. That’s where we’ll find the supply closet and, hopefully, coffee.”

“Coffee’s priority one, huh?” Luke asked, adjusting his backpack straps.

“Obviously. You don’t want me uncaffeinated, trust me,” Rachel replied with a soft smirk.

Blackpine Camp looked like something out of a postcard—at least at first glance. The cabins were rustic but sturdy, sitting in a semi-circle around a gravel clearing with a fire pit in the middle. Beyond that, there were trees as far as the eye could see, their branches swaying gently in the breeze.

Kyle was the first to break the silence. “Okay, where’s the creepy guy with the hook for a hand? He’s late.”

“Shut up, Kyle,” Jess said, rolling her eyes. She walked toward the largest cabin, the one that looked like it might’ve been an old mess hall. “This place does have some serious summer camp horror movie vibes, though. I’m into it.”

“Great,” I said. “That’s exactly the energy we need—Jess summoning Jason Voorhees on day one.”

“I’m just saying,” Jess shot back, pushing the door open and peeking inside. “If I hear one creepy noise tonight, I’m leaving you all behind.”

“Noted,” I said, following her in. The inside smelled like wood and dust, with beams of sunlight cutting through the cracks in the old shutters. There were rows of long, wooden tables, most of them covered in cobwebs.

Kyle wandered in behind us, kicking at one of the benches. “I’m digging this.”

“Less digging, more cleaning,” Rachel said, stepping into the room with a bucket and a mop she’d found in one of the supply sheds. “The sooner we get this place livable, the sooner we can relax.”

We spent the next couple of hours splitting up and tackling different parts of the camp. Luke cleared debris from the fire pit while Rachel started scrubbing down the mess hall. Kyle and Jess worked on organizing the sleeping cabins, which were just as dusty as the mess hall but surprisingly intact. That left me in charge of unloading the food and gear.

As I lugged a cooler toward the mess hall, I spotted Jess standing in the doorway of one of the cabins, her arms crossed. “Hey,” she called out. “Come look at this.”

“What is it?” I asked, setting the cooler down and walking over.

She gestured inside the cabin. “Tell me this isn’t weird.”

I stepped in and saw what she meant immediately. Hanging from the ceiling was a small bundle of sticks and feathers, tied together with an old piece of string. It looked handmade.

“Huh,” I said, reaching up to touch it.

“Don’t touch it!” Jess said, slapping my hand away.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s creepy as hell, and I don’t want you activating some ancient curse or something while I'm standing here.”

“It’s probably just a decoration,” I said.

“Yeah, sure,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “When I'm gone you can deal with it. I’m not sleeping in here if that thing’s still hanging.”

Before I could respond, Kyle stuck his head in the door. “Hey, lovebirds, quit slacking. Luke says the fire pit’s ready.”

“We’re not slacking,” Jess snapped, shoving past him. “And I’m not a lovebird.”

Kyle grinned. “Whatever you say.”

We regrouped by the fire pit just as the sun started to dip below the trees. Luke had set up a circle of old camp chairs, and Rachel had brought out a bag of marshmallows she’d found in our gear.

“See?” Kyle said, holding up a marshmallow on a stick. “This is the life. No cell service, no responsibilities, just us and nature.”

The fire was dying down when the first weird noise reached us. At first, I thought it was just the wind playing tricks—low and faint. None of us said anything about it, too caught up in the moment. Kyle had been telling some ridiculous story about a haunted amusement park, waving his arms around like the overenthusiastic camp counselor he was born to be.

“…and then the clown’s head just—” he clapped his hands together, “—pops right off! Blood everywhere.”

“Nice,” Jess said, throwing a marshmallow at him. “Way to kill the vibe.”

“Come on, that was gold,” Kyle replied, catching the marshmallow mid-air. “You’re just mad you don’t have my storytelling skills.”

“I think I’m mad that you exist,” Jess shot back, laughing.

“Guys, shh,” Rachel interrupted, holding up a hand. “Do you hear that?”

We all froze. For a moment, there was only the crackling of the fire and the occasional chirp of crickets. Then I heard it—a faint, rhythmic mumbling, almost like someone talking to themselves. It was coming from the direction of the woodline, just beyond the clearing.

“What is that?” Luke asked, leaning forward.

“Wind?” I said, though I wasn’t sure.

“No way,” Jess muttered, standing up. “That’s a voice. Someone’s out there.”

“Yeah, like a serial killer or something,” Kyle joked, though his nervous chuckle gave him away.

Rachel shook her head. “No, seriously, we need to check this out. What if it’s someone who needs help?”

“Or someone who’s gonna murder us,” Kyle added.

Jess rolled her eyes and grabbed one of the flashlights. “Shut up, we’ll never know unless we look. Don’t be a baby, Kyle.”

Reluctantly, we all grabbed whatever makeshift “weapons” we could find—firewood, long sticks—and followed Jess toward the sound. It grew louder as we neared the edge of the clearing, the mumbling taking on an unsettling rhythm. It was almost hypnotic, rising and falling in a set of odd jitters and cooing.

We swept our flashlights around once the noise felt like it was in our ears. That’s when we saw her.

She was crawling through the dirt, hunched over like some wounded animal. The beam of Luke’s flashlight caught her pale, wrinkled skin, and we froze. She was completely naked, her body thin and frail, the bones of her shoulders and hips jutting out like they were trying to escape her skin. Her hair was gray and stringy, hanging in uneven clumps around her face.

“Jesus Christ,” Jess whispered. “Is she… okay?”

“Does she look okay?” Kyle hissed.

Rachel took a cautious step forward. “Ma’am? Are you alright?”

The woman didn’t react. She kept crawling, her hands digging into the dirt as she mumbled to herself. Her voice was low and guttural, the words slurring together in a way that didn’t sound like any language I’d ever heard.

“Ma’am?” Rachel tried again, louder this time. “Do you need help?”

Still nothing.

Luke swung the flashlight to her face, but she didn’t even flinch. Her eyes were wide and glassy, staring blankly ahead as if we weren’t even there.

“Maybe she’s deaf,” Jess whispered, her voice tight.

“She’s naked,” Kyle said, his voice rising slightly. “Why the hell is she naked?”

“Stop,” Rachel said sharply. She stepped closer, holding her hands out like she was approaching a scared animal. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you. Can you tell us what’s wrong?”

The woman suddenly stopped crawling, freezing in place. For a moment, the only sound was the wind rustling through the trees. Then, she slowly turned her head toward Rachel.

“Holy shit,” Jess breathed.

The woman’s face was pale and sunken, her cheekbones sharp under her paper-thin skin. Her mouth hung open slightly, and for a brief, horrible moment, I thought she might smile. But she didn’t. She just stared, her glassy eyes unfocused and empty.

Rachel took a step back. “Uh… okay. Maybe we should—”

Before she could finish, the woman turned away and began crawling again, dragging herself into the treeline.

“Ma’am, wait!” Rachel called after her, but the woman didn’t stop. Her mumbling resumed, louder now, her bony hands clawing at the ground as she disappeared into the darkness.

“What the fuck was that?” Kyle said, his voice shaking.

“I don’t know,” Luke said, lowering the flashlight. “But I don’t think we should follow her.”

“Follow her?” Jess snapped. “Who the hell said anything about following her?”

Rachel looked like she was about to argue, but then she glanced back at the woods and seemed to think better of it. “We can’t just leave her out there…”

“She’s gone,” I said firmly. “And whatever’s going on with her… it’s not something we can deal with. Let’s just go back to the cabin and figure this out in the morning.”

No one argued. We hurried back to the fire pit, leaving the woods behind, but the air felt heavier after that, like the trees were forming a wall around us. By the time we reached the cabin, no one was talking.

Inside, we locked the door and sat in silence for a while, listening for any sign of the woman. But the woods outside were silent.

Morning came too quickly, dragging with it the kind of exhaustion that no amount of coffee or sunlight could shake. None of us said much at breakfast. The memory of the woman—the way she crawled, the way she looked right through us—hung over the table.

Kyle poked at his cold eggs with a plastic fork. “So, uh, is no one gonna talk about the naked grandma in the woods, or are we just pretending last night didn’t happen?”

Jess shot him a glare. “I think we all saw it, Kyle. You don’t have to be an ass about it.”

“I’m just saying,” he muttered. “That wasn’t normal. People don’t just… do that.”

“She could’ve been sick,” Rachel offered, “Maybe she wandered off from somewhere.”

“From where?” Luke asked, leaning back in his chair. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Closest house is what, twenty miles?”

“Guys, can we not?” I said, rubbing my temples. “Let’s just get through today. Maybe she was some random drifter, and she’s long gone by now.”

Jess snorted. “Yeah, sure. Long gone. Totally normal behavior to crawl around naked and mumble in the dirt before just taking off.”

The rest of that day we split up to tackle more of the cleanup, but the air around camp felt different—thicker, somehow. It wasn’t just the woman; it was everything. The woods, the cabins, even the sky. It was like a strange type of stillness. 

By mid-morning, I was clearing brush from the trail near the cabins when I found it: a small bundle of sticks, feathers, and animal bones tied together with frayed red string. It was hanging from a low branch, swaying gently in the breeze.

“What the hell is this?” I muttered, staring up at it.

“Found one too?” Luke’s voice startled me, and I turned to see him walking up the trail towards me.

“They’re everywhere,” he said, “I’ve counted five so far. Jess found one tied to the side of a cabin, and Rachel’s freaking out.”

I reached up to take the one hanging in front of me, but Luke grabbed my wrist.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low. “Just… don’t touch it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s creepy as hell, that’s why. You don’t mess with stuff like this.”

Jess appeared behind him, holding up a bundle in her hand. “So what do we do? Just leave them here? Hope the arts-and-crafts witches don’t come back for round two?” She extended out her arm to look at the twigs. “I was on your page before, Luke, but these things got to go.”

“We need to tell someone,” Rachel said, jogging up the trail to join us. She was pale, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “These things weren’t here yesterday and I already took down a few with Kyle. Someone’s been here.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Jess said. “Probably the same someone who was crawling around last night.”

“Stop,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. “We don’t know what’s going on. But freaking out isn’t going to help.”

Rachel opened her mouth to argue, but before she could say anything, Kyle called out from the direction of the cabins. “Uh, guys? You might wanna see this.”

We followed his voice to the fire pit, where he was crouched over something on the ground. As we got closer, I saw what he was looking at: a strange symbol etched into the dirt. It was a perfect circle with jagged lines radiating out from the center, almost like a sunburst.

“It’s fresh,” Kyle said, tracing the edge of the symbol with his finger. “I checked the fire pit last night before bed. This wasn’t here.”

“Okay, great,” Jess said, throwing her hands up. “So now we’ve got creepy symbols, freaky art projects, and a naked lady crawling around in the woods. Are we sure this isn’t some elaborate prank? Like, are there hidden cameras somewhere?”

“If it’s a prank, it’s a damn good one,” Luke muttered.

Rachel shook her head. “I don’t think this is a joke. I think… I think we’re being warned.”

“Warned about what?” Kyle asked, standing up.

Rachel didn’t answer. She just looked back at the woods, her face pale and drawn.

The rest of the day passed in uneasy silence. None of us wanted to stray too far from the cabins, but staying close didn’t feel much better. Every noise, every shadow in the trees, set my nerves on edge.

By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, we were all on edge. The strange symbols, the bundles, the oppressive silence of the woods—it was all adding up to something.

I caught Jess glancing over her shoulder as we walked back to the cabin for dinner.

“Do you think she’s still out there?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. We both knew the truth.

When we finished dinner—if you could call microwaved instant noodles a dinner—the tension in the cabin was thick enough to choke on. Nobody wanted to admit they were scared, but the way Jess kept glancing at the windows and how Kyle wouldn’t put down the fire poker spoke volumes.

We tried to distract ourselves with a card game, but it didn’t help much. Every shuffle of the deck sounded unnaturally loud.

“Three of a kind,” Jess said, slapping her cards on the table. “Pay up, losers.”

Kyle groaned and flicked a peanut at her. “You’re cheating. I know it.”

“I don’t need to cheat to beat you, Kyle,” Jess said, smirking, though her eyes darted toward the window again.

Rachel stood abruptly, wringing her hands. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” Luke asked.

“Pretend everything’s fine. It’s not fine. There’s something wrong here. The symbols, the bundles, the woman—this whole place feels… off.”

“Great,” Kyle said, tossing his cards on the table. “Let’s all panic. That’ll totally fix everything.”

“She’s not wrong, though,” Jess said, her voice softer. “It’s not just her. You all feel it, don’t you?”

Nobody answered, but the silence was enough.

And then, something changed.

It started faint, just like the night before: low, rhythmic mumbling, drifting through the trees. My stomach twisted as the sound grew louder, closer. It wasn’t the same as last night—it wasn’t one voice this time. It was many.

“Tell me that’s the wind,” Jess said, her voice trembling.

“It’s not the wind,” Luke muttered, already reaching for the flashlight.

We crowded by the window, staring out into the dark. The fire pit was barely visible in the faint moonlight, but beyond it, a figure moved.

At first, it was hard to make out—shadows shifting just outside the clearing. But as the mumbling grew louder, the shadows stepped into the open.

They were old women. At least, they looked like old women. They moved slowly, shuffling in uneven steps, their heads low and their shoulders hunched. The firelight caught their faces—wrinkled, pale, and blank, like the woman from the night before. There were four of them, all muttering under their breath in that same strange, guttural language.

“What the hell?” Kyle whispered, backing away from the window.

“Are they…?” Rachel started, but her voice broke.

“They’re old,” Jess said, gripping the edge of the table. 

The women didn’t seem to notice us. They shuffled around the fire pit, their muttering rising and falling like some bizarre chant. One of them stopped and tilted her head back, her mouth opening wide as if she was screaming, but no sound came out.

“We should go out there,” Rachel said suddenly.

“Are you insane?” Jess snapped. “Did you not see what happened last night? We don’t go near them.”

“They’re just women,” Rachel said, though her voice was shaking. “What if they’re lost? What if they’re—”

“They’re not lost,” Luke said firmly. “Look at them. Does that seem lost to you?”

We all turned back to the window. The women had started to move again, this time heading toward the woods. One of them paused at the edge of the trees and turned, staring directly at the cabin.

I felt my breath catch. Her eyes were blank and milky, her expression slack. But somehow, I felt her looking through the cabin, like she could see us, see me.

“Close the curtains,” I whispered.

Jess moved quickly, yanking the curtains shut and plunging the cabin into darkness. We all stood there for a moment, listening to the sound of our own breathing and the muffled murmurs of the women outside.

After what felt like an eternity, the mumbling began to fade.

“They’re leaving,” Luke said, his voice barely audible.

Nobody moved until the forest fell silent again. Even then, we stayed huddled together in the center of the room, too afraid to speak.

Eventually, Kyle broke the silence. “So… we’re all just gonna pretend that was normal, right?”

“Shut up, Kyle,” Jess said, but her voice wavered.

None of us slept that night. Every creak of the cabin, every gust of wind, sounded like footsteps. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself it was over. But deep down, I knew the women would be back.

None of us spoke much the next morning either. We sat around the cabin’s small dining table, sipping instant coffee and avoiding each other’s eyes. The daylight felt weaker than it should’ve, like the sun was trying to push through some hidden barrier. I kept glancing at the window, half-expecting to see one of those women standing in the clearing.

“We have to leave,” Rachel said suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice was hoarse, her face pale. “Today. Right now.”

Jess nodded, barely touching her coffee. “Yeah. This place is messed up. I don’t care if the camp leader gets mad—we’re leaving.”

“Fine by me,” Kyle muttered. “Let’s pack up and get the hell out of here.”

Luke set his mug down and rubbed his temples. “Okay, but what’s the plan? The car can only take so much gear. Do we—”

“We’ll figure it out,” Rachel interrupted. “We’ll leave the camping supplies or whatever. We just have to—”

A loud, metallic clang echoed through the cabin, cutting her off. Everyone froze.

“What the hell was that?” Jess whispered.

“Sounded like it came from the car,” Luke said, standing quickly.

We all grabbed whatever we could find—flashlights, a crowbar, a broom—and headed outside. The clearing was empty, but the sound had definitely come from the direction of the parking area.

When we reached the car, my stomach dropped. Both tires on the driver’s side were slashed, deflated into sad, crumpled shapes against the gravel. A long, jagged tear ran down each one, as though something sharp and deliberate had ripped through them.

“Jesus Christ,” Jess muttered.

“Not just that,” Luke said, crouching near the hood. He pointed to a pool of dark liquid spreading under the car. “They cut the fuel line, too.”

Kyle kicked at a rock, cursing under his breath. “Are you kidding me? Who the hell does this?”

“The women,” Rachel said, her voice trembling. “It was them. It has to be.”

Jess threw up her hands. “Okay, great. So now we’re stranded in fucked town. What do we do now?”

“We wait,” Luke said firmly, standing up. “The camp leader’s supposed to show up tomorrow morning, right? That’s… what, 24 hours? We can survive one more night.”

“One more night?” Rachel’s voice cracked. “Did you see what they were doing out there? What if they come back? What if they don’t leave this time?”

“We don’t have a choice,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “We’re not walking twenty miles through the woods with no cell service. We stay, and we stick together.”

Jess looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn’t. Instead, she folded her arms and stared at the ground. “Fine. But I’m not just standing here like a sitting duck. We’re boarding this place up.”

We spent the rest of the day trying to stay busy. Luke and Kyle boarded up the windows in the cabins while Jess and I gathered firewood. Rachel sat by the radio, twisting the knobs in vain, trying to pick up a signal.

“We should’ve left yesterday,” she said when I came back inside.

I didn’t argue. She was right.

As the afternoon wore on, the unease grew worse. None of us wanted to stray too far from the cabin, but being inside felt claustrophobic. The woods seemed darker than they should’ve been.

At one point, Jess found another bundle laying near the fire pit—this one bigger than the others, with what looked like a tuft of animal fur tied to it. We didn’t touch that one.

By the time the sun started to set, we were all back in the main cabin, our nerves frayed and our tempers short.

“Okay,” Luke said, “If they show up again, we stick to the plan. Stay together, stay inside, and don’t open the door.”

“What if they break in?” Kyle asked, his voice unsteady.

“They won’t,” Luke said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “We’ll be fine.”

Nobody believed him.

The sky outside darkened. I could feel it in my bones: the night was coming.

It started with the wind. The shutters rattled, and the trees outside groaned like they were on the verge of snapping. Luke had locked and barred the doors earlier in the evening, and we’d shoved the cabin’s two flimsy tables against them for good measure. But none of it felt like enough.

Rachel was still by the radio, twisting the knobs in a desperate, silent plea for a signal. Jess was in the corner, gripping a kitchen knife she’d dug out of the supply shed, her lips pressed into a thin, furious line. Kyle sat on the floor, gripping the fire poker so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

“What time is it?” Jess finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Late,” Luke said. He was crouched by the window, keeping an eye on the clearing through a crack in the boarded shutters.

Jess laughed bitterly. “Great. Super helpful. Thanks, Luke.”

“Cut it out,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “We need to stay calm.”

“Calm?” she snapped. “Did you miss the part where we’re trapped in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of psycho witches who slashed our tires and cut our fuel line? You want me to calm down?”

“I want you to stop freaking everyone out!”

Before Jess could respond, Luke held up a hand. “Quiet.”

We all froze, every muscle in my body locking up as I strained to hear what he did. At first, there was nothing but the wind and the groaning trees. And then I heard it—the sound I’d been dreading since the sun set.

The chanting.

It started faint, like it had the night before, but this time, it wasn’t coming from the woods. It was closer. Much closer.

“Jesus Christ,” Rachel whispered.

“They’re here,” Luke said, his voice flat.

We crowded around the window, peeking out through the cracks. The fire pit at the center of the clearing glowed faintly with embers we thought had died hours ago. Figures moved in the shadows around it, their bodies lithe and jerky, like crows being yanked on leash.

They were the same women from the previous night—or whatever was left of them.

Their skin hung loose and torn, the raw, pink flesh underneath glistening in the firelight. Their faces were pale and hollow, their eyes milky and empty, but their mouths moved in a synchronized rhythm, muttering words that didn’t belong to any language I’d ever heard.

One of them bent backward at an impossible angle, her head lolling unnaturally to one side as her voice grew louder. Another dragged something heavy behind her—a burlap sack that squirmed and bled onto the dirt.

“Are those…” Kyle started, but his voice trailed off, his face ashen.

The women moved with purpose, dragging the sack toward the fire pit. One reached into it and pulled out a struggling, writhing animal—a rabbit, I think. The woman held it high above her head, her muttering rising to a fever pitch, and then—

She ripped it open with her bare hands.

Rachel let out a choked sob and stumbled back from the window, but I couldn’t look away. Blood poured down the woman’s arms, thick and dark, pooling at her feet. She flung the carcass into the fire, where it hissed and popped, filling the air with the sickening stench of burning flesh.

The chanting grew louder, more aggressive. The other women followed suit, pulling more animals from the sack—mangled rabbits, a squirrel, something I couldn’t even identify—and spilling their blood into the flames.

“Stop watching,” Jess hissed, grabbing my arm and yanking me back from the window. “We need to do something!”

“Do what?” Kyle said, his voice breaking. “What the hell are we supposed to do against that?”

“We can’t just sit here!” Jess snapped.

“They haven’t come for us yet,” Luke said quietly, his eyes still glued to the window. “We stay inside. We stay quiet. Maybe they’ll…” He trailed off, but we all knew how that sentence was supposed to end. Maybe they’ll leave.

The fire in the clearing roared higher, throwing long, flickering shadows across the trees. One of the women began to scream—not in pain, but in what sounded like triumph. Her voice was guttural, inhuman, rising above the others as she threw her arms wide and tipped her head back to the sky.

The others joined in, their bodies contorting in ways that shouldn’t have been possible. Bones cracked, joints twisted, and yet they didn’t stop moving.

I pressed my hands over my ears, trying to block out the sound, but it was inside me, vibrating in my skull, in my chest, in the marrow of my bones.

And then, one of them stopped.

She turned slowly, her head snapping unnaturally to one side, and stared directly at the cabin.

“They know we’re here,” Rachel whispered, her voice trembling.

The woman stepped forward, her movements erratic and uneven. Another followed her, and then another. They moved toward us, their eyes gleaming white in the firelight, their mouths still muttering.

“Get away from the window,” Luke ordered, but I was already backing up.

The chanting grew louder, more frenzied, until it was deafening. I could feel it in my teeth, in my ribs. My vision blurred, and for a second, I thought I might pass out.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

The silence was worse than the noise.

“They’re not coming inside,” Jess said, her voice trembling but defiant. “They’re not—”

A sharp, heavy thud against the door cut her off.

We all froze, staring at the door, which buckled slightly under the impact. Another thud followed, and then another, each one louder and more violent.

“They’re trying to break in,” Rachel whimpered.

Luke grabbed the crowbar from the floor and stepped in front of the door. “Stay back,” he said, his voice hard but shaking.

The thudding stopped.

And then, from the other side of the door, came a low, rasping voice:

“Let us in.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.

I wanted to scream, to run, to do anything but stand there, but my feet were rooted to the floor.

“Don’t move,” Luke whispered. “Don’t say anything.”

The voice came again, louder this time, and closer.

“Let us in.”

The firelight outside flickered, and I could see their shadows through the cracks in the shutters. They were everywhere, surrounding the cabin, waiting.

The pounding on the door stopped.

For a moment, the only sounds were our shaky breaths and the faint crackle of the fire outside. My heart was hammering so hard I thought it might burst. Jess was clutching the kitchen knife like it was the only thing keeping her alive. Kyle held the fire poker, standing frozen near the window.

“They’re gone,” Rachel whispered, though her voice shook with disbelief. “They’re… gone.”

Luke didn’t move from the door. “No. They’re not.”

As if in answer, the window behind us shattered. Glass exploded inward, and Jess screamed as something long and clawed reached through, swiping at the air. The hand—or whatever it was—was pale and thin, its skin sagging off the bones like wet paper.

“Get back!” Luke yelled, swinging the crowbar and slamming it against the frame. The creature retracted its arm with a guttural hiss.

“Block it! Block the window!” Kyle shouted, grabbing a chair and slamming it against the broken pane.

Before we could catch our breath, another window shattered. Then another. The sound was deafening, each break followed by the relentless muttering and scratching of those things clawing at the cabin’s defenses.

“They’re everywhere!” Jess screamed, backing toward the corner of the room.

“Basement!” Luke shouted, pointing toward the trapdoor near the kitchen. “We can barricade ourselves down there!”

We scrambled for the trapdoor, Rachel practically dragging me as my legs felt like lead. Jess was already there, yanking it open and shoving the others through.

“Hurry!” she yelled.

Kyle went next, followed by Rachel. Luke shoved me toward the opening. “Go!”

I climbed down the creaking ladder into the damp, dark basement. The air smelled like mildew and old dirt. Rachel fumbled with her flashlight, casting jagged beams of light across the low, claustrophobic space.

Luke followed, slamming the trapdoor shut above him just as another crash rang out from the cabin. Something heavy landed on the floor above us, followed by the sharp scrape of claws against wood.

We all huddled in the corner, our backs pressed against the cold stone wall. The room was deathly silent except for the sound of our breathing.

For a moment, I thought maybe we were safe.

Then we heard the trapdoor creak.

“No,” Jess whispered, gripping the knife so tightly her hand was shaking. “No, no, no…”

The door groaned, the wood splintering as something heavy pressed against it. The muttering was louder now, filling the room like a dozen bell chimes.

And then the trapdoor shattered.

The first one dropped into the basement with a sickening crunch. Her legs bent the wrong way when she landed, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her skin hung off her frame in wet, rotting folds, and her milky eyes glowed faintly in the dark.

Jess lunged forward, slashing with the knife, but the hag moved unnaturally fast, twisting around her strike and slamming her to the ground. Jess screamed as claws raked across her chest, tearing through her shirt and skin like paper.

“Get off her!” Kyle roared, charging forward with the fire poker. He swung hard, cracking the hag across the face, but it barely phased her. She turned on him, her jaw unhinging to reveal jagged, yellowed teeth.

More of them dropped into the basement, their movements jerky and inhuman. The room filled with chaos—screams, growls, the wet sound of flesh tearing.

“Run!” Luke shouted, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the far corner of the basement, where a narrow crawlspace led into the foundations.

I stumbled, nearly tripping over something soft and warm. I didn’t want to look, but my eyes betrayed me. Jess lay on the floor, blood pooling beneath her as one of the hags dragged her limp body toward the trapdoor.

“No!” I shouted, reaching for her, but Luke yanked me back.

“She’s gone!” he yelled. “We have to go!”

I couldn’t process it. Couldn’t believe it. Jess, the loudest, most assertive of us, was gone.

Rachel was next. As we crawled through the tight, damp tunnel, she let out a choked gasp. “No! Get off me!”

I turned in time to see one of the hags clawing at her ankle, dragging her backward. Her screams were cut short as another hag appeared behind her, grabbing her hair and yanking her into the darkness.

“Rachel!” I screamed, but Luke shoved me forward.

“Keep moving!” he hissed.

The crawlspace opened into a wider section of the foundation, the walls damp and crumbling. Kyle was there, clutching his arm, which hung at an unnatural angle. His face was pale, his eyes wide with shock.

“They’re everywhere,” he mumbled. “We can’t—there’s too many of them.”

Luke crouched beside him, shaking him by the shoulders. “Stay with me! We’re going to make it!”

Before Kyle could respond, a shrill, unnatural scream echoed through the foundation. The light from Rachel’s discarded flashlight flickered, and I saw them.

The hags poured into the space, their twisted bodies moving unnaturally fast, their claws raking the walls as they closed in.

Kyle let out a ragged yell and lunged forward, swinging the fire poker with his good arm. He hit one of the creatures, but another slammed into him from the side, sending him sprawling.

I didn’t see what happened next. I didn’t want to.

Luke grabbed my hand and pulled me into a narrow crack in the foundation. We pressed ourselves into the tight space, the cold stone digging into my back.

“Don’t move,” Luke whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of claws scraping stone and the wet, gurgling screams of our friends.

The hags moved through the space, sniffing the air, their muttering filling the cracks in my skull. One of them stopped inches from our hiding spot, its head jerking toward us.

I held my breath, praying it couldn’t see us.

It tilted its head, its hollow eyes scanning the darkness. For one horrible moment, I thought it would reach for us. But then it turned and disappeared into the shadows.

The screams stopped.

Luke and I stayed in that crack for what felt like hours, too afraid to move, too afraid to breathe. The muttering faded, replaced by the distant whisper of wind through wood.

When we finally crawled out, the basement was empty. The walls were splattered with blood, and the air reeked of copper and decay.

Jess. Kyle. Rachel. They were gone.

The basement was silent, the kind of silent that makes your ears ring. My legs were cramping from how long Luke and I had been wedged into the crack in the foundation, but I didn’t dare move. Neither of us did.

I stared at the floor in front of me, trying not to focus on the blood spattered across the stone or the claw marks gouged into the walls. My mind was fractured, cycling through images of Jess’s limp body, Rachel’s screams, and the wet, sickening sounds of what they did to Kyle.

I didn’t realize I was crying until Luke touched my arm. His face was pale, streaked with dirt and sweat, and his eyes were hollow. He didn’t speak—he just pointed to the faint sliver of light filtering in from the broken trapdoor above.

“They’re gone,” he mouthed, his voice too weak to form actual words.

I shook my head. “You don’t know that,” I whispered, though my voice cracked.

“I do,” he insisted, his voice barely audible. “Listen.”

I forced myself to listen. The hags’ guttural muttering, the scraping of their claws, the screaming—they were gone. Luke reached out slowly, testing the air. When nothing happened, he motioned for me to follow.

It took everything I had to crawl out of the crack. My body felt heavy, my arms and legs trembling as if they weren’t mine. The basement felt smaller than it had before, every corner soaked in death. Luke and I climbed the broken remains of the ladder and pushed the trapdoor open cautiously.

The cabin was destroyed. Furniture was overturned, the walls gouged and broken, and the floorboards were slick with blood. I tried not to look too closely at the stains—at what was left of our friends.

“Keep moving,” Luke muttered, his voice hoarse. “Don’t stop.”

We stepped into the clearing. The fire pit was still smoldering, the embers casting long, flickering shadows across the camp. The bundles of sticks and feathers were scattered across the ground, soaked in what I hoped was water but knew wasn’t.

There was no sign of the hags.

When the first light of dawn broke through the trees, I almost cried. The pale yellow glow didn’t feel real, like it was some cruel hallucination meant to lure us deeper into the nightmare. But the further we walked, the brighter it became.

And then we heard the rumbling of a truck.

It was parked just off the dirt road, a beat-up old thing with the camp’s logo painted on the side. The camp leader’s truck.

Luke broke into a run, shouting and waving his arms, but I hung back, my legs refusing to move. I watched as the door opened and a man stepped out, his face wrinkled and weathered but undeniably human.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to you kids?” the camp leader asked, his voice thick with concern.

Luke fell to his knees, gasping for breath. “They’re dead,” he said, his voice cracking. “They’re all dead.”

The man’s face fell. He rushed over to me, his hands on my shoulders as he asked me what happened. I couldn’t answer.

Luke told him everything, his words tumbling out in a frantic, jumbled mess. The camp leader’s face grew darker with every sentence, his eyes darting toward the woods as if he expected the hags to come bursting out at any moment.

“We’re leaving,” he said finally. “Now.”

He drove us into town, where the police and paramedics were waiting. I don’t remember much after that. Just flashes—being wrapped in a blanket, answering questions I didn’t have answers to, the way they looked at us like we were crazy.

They searched the camp. They didn’t find anything.

No bodies. No blood. Not even a single claw mark.

The police said it was a trauma response, that we’d imagined things in the chaos of the night. But I know what I saw. What I heard.

They’re still out there.

“I am the last guardian. He who stands against darkness, champion of light. He who stands between chaos and order, between the forest and humanity. The one who defends the good and the pure against evil and the shadows of darkness.

I am the last outpost.

I am the Last True Guardian.”

Jonas leaned his forehead against the rifle barrel and took another deep breath. Over and over again he repeated the chant his father had taught him. He felt that every word was true, because that was what his father had told him. They were the last in a long line of warriors who for hundreds of years stood up for good against the evil that threatened in the darkness.  The screaming and banging from the basement door caused him to lose concentration and he looked up and looked away towards sound. It was Anna calling out to him. She pleaded and begged him to open and let them out. Slowly he stood up and crept through the dimly lit room towards the cellar door. The floor creaked under his feet and Anna fell silent, then she raised her voice again, she sounded hopeful. Two small voices mingled in with hers. Jonas swallowed. It was their two young boys. Jonas leaned his forehead against the plywood door and asked Anna to make hush them, please, they must be quiet! Did they not understand that they had to be quiet? Otherwise, he would not be able to protect them. He could hear the sound of the boys crying and Anna trying to comfort them, then he heard her voice crack and soon she too was crying. He pounded his hand on the door and asked them to please, please be quiet. The sound grew fainter, and he understood that they were heading down the stairs again. He exhaled. Did they not understand that he did it for their sake? He had seen the signs, seen how the darkness had reached for her. He was the man of the house and he had to act. Just like his father had done. He must protect them.

A hard bang from the other side of the door made Jonas flinch and back away. A man's voice sounded through the wood. Anders, their retired old neighbor. Jonas glared at the door. Anders didn't try to appeal to him like Anna had done. No. His words were harsher, more commanding. Was he trying to command Jonas? Jonas could not allow that! In two steps and he was at the door, driving the butt of the rifle into the wood so that a  jack was formed in the white coating. He roared at them to shut up! Jonas didn´t have to lock Anders and Gerda up, but they came and hand mingled, so Jonas saw that as his duty to take care of them too. But it was clear that Anders didn't understand. He was an ordinary man, lulled by society's lies. Jonas leaned against the wall opposite the door and began to chant his father's rhyme again. He was awake, his father had seen to that. His father had taught him how the world worked. Who was the real enemy trying to take over society and how he and those before him were chosen. Jonas knew, however, that he was not alone, as his father had claimed. He had found forums online where he found others like him, men who weren't blinded by the pretty surface, men who saw the world for what it was! He had shared what he had learned, and others had shared their knowledge and experiences. How they saw the enemy infiltrate society, all the important bodies, the police, social services, journalism, politics. If this was true, it was huge and devastating.

But never had Jonas ever thought they would go this far. That they would try to reach him through his own wife and children! She had sounded so convincing when she had talked to him, tried to make him believe that he was wrong, that he was crazy. He shivered, had to quell the doubts, had to protect the family.

He heard noises from outside the house and immediately became alert. He had darkened the whole house so that he would be protected by the darkness and the shadows. No one would see him sneak up to the window and look out over the yard. He had rigged up floodlights all around the house which were aimed at the yard. The lights reacted to movements. They may be goblins and ghouls but they still had bodies, bodies whose movements caused the headlights to turn on. They would be dazzled but he would see them. He focused on his breathing. No one would come and take him by surprise. He was prepared. The knocking on the basement door started again.

He had seen the signs. He alone understood what about to happen. The forest was coming, and it was his sacred duty to protect as many people as possible. He had had a plan. Such a beautiful plan. But Anna had found out he was up to something, and he was forced to deal with the matter earlier than planned.

Jonas sensed movement out in the shadows, just beyond the light. He felt the sweat beading on his forehead. He couldn't save everyone, but he would try to save his family and maybe his sacrifice would serve as a warning to others. Because there were other warriors out there, men like him who understood, who shared his fears. He had broken both his computer and his phone so that no one could eavesdrop on him, but he had written in the forum one last message, they were warned.

A dazzling light streamed out across the yard. Jonas swore and crouched down. Carefully he looked out across the yard towards the forest. Nothing. Wait? Didn't he see a movement over there by the tree? As quietly and carefully as he could, he opened a crack in the window.

He put the the rifle to his shoulder and took aim. Sure enough, he saw movement, a dark body. He took a deep breath and hugged the trigger. A shot went off and it was answered with a scream from the forest. He smiled. A hit! He had hit one of them with one of his specially made bullets. He has two varieties; silver and iron. It might not kill them, but it would poison them. Just like that big pig in that creepy Japanese cartoon that Anna had forced him to watch. He had against his will like the message, although Anna claimed that he misunderstood. It was rather she with her hippie ideas who was misunderstood! It had been about man's battle against nature, and he had liked that. Even if the rest of the movie was complete fluff.

There was another movement that caught his attention and he fired again. Behind him, the people in the basement had fallen silent. They had probably been startled when he shot. Jonas fired another number of shots at the shapes in the darkness. They couldn't see him, the lights were blinding them, but he still crouches under the window as he reloads.

In the pause that took place while he reloaded, he heard a crackling sound, as if from a speaker and a voice calling out to him from the darkness.

"Jonas Trokelsson! This is the police. We ask you to lay down your weapon and surrender voluntarily so no one gets hurt!”

The voice was crackeling as if the speaker was speaking through a megaphone, but Jonas knew better! He smiled to himself. They cannot imitate human voices perfectly. But it worried him that they knew his name. He frowned, remembering what another user in the forum had written about the enemy infiltrating important societal agencies like the police. He hadn't wanted to believe it himself but considering the two who had knocked on the door earlier, the blue lights thar followed and now this. Maybe they were right? Jonas shook his head. No, it wasn't true. They were just very good at imitating, but he could hear how wrong it sounded, like a recording.

He breathed deeply, when it crackled again, he jumped up to his feet and aimed his rifle at the sound and fired. A scream was heard and a sound like that of a body falling. Jonas smiled. He aimed further into the darkness beyond the line of light, they didn't venture any closer, but he saw their shadows.

Then he heard a shout and that was when he saw the lighting flicker and then the sound of glass breaking. They shot at his headlights! Disgusted, he put the rifle back on his shoulder and started firing wildly into the darkness. But then he felt a burning sensation in one arm, and then his chest. He gasped and looked down over his body, a dark spot spreading across his chest. Another stinging sensation in others and he felt the energy drain from him. Voices, running steps, someone kicked open the door of his house, he threw himself to his knees on the floor and raised the rifle then another shot went off, once again he felt the searing pain and he felt an invisible force hurl him against the wall before he fell limp down to the floor. As if in a daze, he saw shapes enter the room, as if from far away he heard voices, he heard the sound of steps, of doors being opened. Something he thought sounded like Anna. She screamed. He turned his gaze to the ceiling, where her face hovered above him, her eyes red-crying, her hair a halo around her pale face. He tried to say her name but his lungs couldn't push out the air to give sound to the words. He coughed, his mouth became warm and wet, tasted like iron. He tried to raise his hand and touch her cheek, they apologized to her. He had failed.

As the yard was bathed in blue and red light from both ambulances and ambulances Negin looked down at the man lying on the bunk. He was breathing weakly. Medical staff worked intensively to keep him alive. Such a waste of resources! He might have cost the Order one of their top men and she couldn't forgive that. He moved uneasily, his eyes opened, and his gaze flickered. “Ana!” he cried. Negin put a dark strand of hair behind her ear as she leaned over him and whispered in his ear: “I am one of the many, one of those who stand between the forces of nature and the kingdom of man. I am one of those who protect, one of those who have the right to judge and to punish. The forest is on my side and so is the sacred of humanity. We stand together against those who want to harm, those who want to tear down and those who want to destroy. I know who you are and will punish you accordingly, Witch Hunter!” The man's eyes snapped open, and she smiled to herself as she saw the shock in his eyes and how they then rolled back into his head as the last life drained from him.

She watched as the man was loaded into the ambulance. Behind her she heard the wind rustling in the trees. The forest moved restlessly. She closed her eyes and inhaled. The power of nature filled her. She steered her steps towards the other ambulance where they had already loaded Harrier, her supervisor. He was on life support already and she sat down on the bunk beside him and took his hand. The trees wanted what she did. The forest wanted what she did. He was one of those whose pain and belief in the smallest kindness keept the rest of them human. They needed him. He was the Last True Guardian.

Viet never believed in ghosts. Growing up in a small, struggling village, he scoffed at the old wives’ tales whispered around the flickering firelight. But that was before he met Mr. Tan, a wealthy collector who promised Viet a life-changing sum of money. All he had to do was dig up an ancient grave.

“It’s just bones,” Mr. Tan said, his voice smooth and convincing. “They’ll bring fortune to anyone who owns them. Think of the money. Think of the future.”

The temptation was too great. Viet ignored the unease twisting in his gut and agreed.

The night was eerily quiet as Viet and three others snuck into the overgrown cemetery. The moon hung high, casting cold, silvery light over crumbling tombstones and tangled weeds.

“This one,” Mr. Tan whispered, pointing to a collapsed grave covered in moss.

They began digging. The further they went, the colder the air seemed to grow. Viet’s hands trembled as his shovel struck something hard: a rotting wooden coffin.

When they pried it open, a chill mist seeped out, carrying the faint stench of decay. Inside lay a pristine skeleton, its bones gleaming unnaturally white. Beside it, a small, ancient box rested, bound with strange symbols.

Mr. Tan’s eyes gleamed. “Take it,” he urged, snatching the skeleton and the box. Viet hesitated but followed orders, telling himself it was just old superstition.

But as they left, Viet could have sworn he heard a faint whisper: "Give it back…"

That night, Viet couldn’t sleep. His dreams were filled with shadowy figures circling him, their voices wailing, “Return what you’ve taken…”

The next morning, he woke to find scratches on his palms—thin, bloody marks as though clawed by invisible hands. The air in his small home felt heavier, suffocating. Strange noises began echoing at night: footsteps on his roof, whispers outside his window, and the distant sound of digging.

Desperate for answers, Viet ran to Mr. Tan’s house.

He found the man slumped over his desk, his eyes wide open in frozen terror. On the floor beside him lay the box, its lid ajar. Inside was a brittle piece of parchment with a chilling message: "Those who take, shall pay with blood."

Viet knew what he had to do. He would return the bones and the box. Alone, he braved the cold, moonlit night and returned to the graveyard.

The cemetery seemed alive, its shadows shifting with each step he took. The ground beneath him felt soft and unstable, as though the earth itself wanted to swallow him whole.

When he reached the grave, Viet hurriedly placed the bones back into the coffin. His hands shook as he set the box beside them.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Please, let this end.”

For a moment, the air stilled. Then, a low, guttural laugh echoed around him. The ground quaked, and skeletal hands burst from the soil, clawing at Viet’s legs.

“No!” he screamed, struggling, but it was useless. The hands pulled him down, deeper and deeper into the cold earth.

The next morning, the villagers found the grave overturned, but there was no sign of Viet. Only a message remained, scrawled in blood across the dirt: "You cannot escape."

From that day on, no one dared step foot in the cemetery. On moonlit nights, villagers swear they hear the sound of digging and a mournful voice crying, “Give it back…”

Viet’s fate became a legend—a cautionary tale of greed and the price of disturbing what should remain buried.

What would you do if you heard that whisper? Would you risk everything for fortune, or would you leave the dead to their eternal rest?

Alexandria, the ancient city on the Mediterranean coast, bears the marks of countless epochs and civilizations. Its history is filled with rises and falls, and every time it seemed as though it would vanish from the face of the earth, it rose again like a Phoenix. Over the centuries, the city has been destroyed by earthquakes, fires, and wars, but each time, a new Alexandria would emerge from the ruins. Even today, while constructing modern buildings, ancient sarcophagi and skeletons of past inhabitants are still being discovered, giving the impression that the city is literally built on bones.

Many of Alexandria’s residents claim that strange occurrences happen in their homes. Shadows flicker in the corners of rooms, candles crackle and smoke for no apparent reason, and animals behave oddly. It feels as though something otherworldly resides in these houses.

We lived in a large, beautiful apartment by the Mediterranean Sea, and spirits, or jinns as they are called in Islam, often frightened us. You'd be sitting in the living room and suddenly catch a glimpse of a black cat running past. But we didn’t have any cats, so it must have been a trick of the eye. Yet the shadows continued to appear here and there.

When our children grew a little older, they began to tell us that they saw a boy in the corner of the room, or an aunt at the table, or some uncle in the hallway. Although I’m not a particularly fearful person, I was too scared to leave the bedroom at night. Between the bedroom and the kitchen, there were a few steps where a feeling of dread would grip me, and goosebumps would cover my skin, as if there was a portal to other dimensions in that spot.

One day, my older daughter, a teenager, came to me and said, "Mom, I don’t know if it’s a dream or reality, but for the third night in a row, a person in a hood has come to me and stood by my bed. I’m not scared, but I just don’t understand if it's a dream or not." I went online and with horror discovered that many people had seen similar beings. No one knew who they were. One person wrote, “The ones in black hoods are priests of Ahriman. They often visit children in dreams to give them a certain role in life.”

The more I read, the scarier it became. The next night, I decided to spend the night in my daughter’s room. Of course, I fell asleep immediately, and she told me that he had come and she asked him, "Who are you?" He introduced himself as the Shadow and said they were forbidden to show their faces.

The Shadow lived in another reality, where they guarded the transitions between worlds. He dreamed of breaking free and entering our world, but to do so, he had to fulfill certain conditions.

Here is his story:

"In the gray, featureless void, where there was neither sun, nor stars, nor any sign of life, there existed a kingdom of shadows. Here, there were no humans, only their ephemeral reflections—soulless copies, devoid of emotions.

One such being was the Shadow. He was lonely and unhappy, yearning for a world full of color, sound, and feeling—things he had only heard of in ancient tales.

The Shadow would sit for hours at the borders of his world, mesmerized by the lives of people in another reality. He saw their laughter, their tears, their love, and their anger—all the emotions he lacked.

The dream of becoming part of this world settled deep in his heart. He longed to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, the taste of good food, the joy of friendship and love.

But the path to the human world was thorny and dangerous. Ancient legends said that only one who could accomplish three impossible tasks would be able to cross the border between worlds.

1. The Ritual of Enlightenment: In the Shadow’s world, there was an ancient ritual known as "Enlightenment." To cross the gate between realities, the Shadow had to perform this ritual. On the highest peak of his world, he must light a fire and chant a mantra to open the portal.
2. The Symbol of Union: The Shadow must create a symbol that links him to our reality. It could be an amulet, a drawing, or even a melody. He had to charge it with his own energy and intent.

Since my daughter had certain abilities from childhood, he chose her for the third condition. She was curious and wasn’t frightened by his unusual appearance.

One day, the Shadow told my daughter about the final condition for crossing over—he had to earn someone’s genuine belief in his existence.

The girl, struck by his story, wholeheartedly believed in the Shadow. She saw him not just as a shadow, but as a being with a kind heart and an extraordinary fate.”

A connection formed between the Shadow and my daughter. She began drawing him and one day said that the time was near for her strange friend to transition into our reality. When he made the transition, he would leave her a sign.

As time passed, the Shadow appeared less often. One morning, as my daughter was getting ready for school, she opened her bag and found a small white rose—exactly the sign the Shadow had promised to leave her. Since then, my daughter began having prophetic dreams, and many even asked her to inquire about various situations in her dreams. This gift was left to her in gratitude by a being from another world.

Alexandria continues to live on, maintaining its mystical atmosphere and the remnants of past civilizations. This city, built on the bones of its ancient inhabitants, harbors many secrets and mysteries that continue to stir the imagination and attract seekers of the mystical and the unknown.

I killed my girlfriend. It can't be helped. IT controls me. The IT I'm suffering from isn't Pennywise. Psychologists may give a crap about my IT. But IT is IT for me. IT has no name. I named it dumbly. IT has overlapped within my mind, body, consciousness.

I am not gonna say the origin of IT. Because I don't know it myself. IT is not a choice. IT is a compulsion. A reflex. You will withdraw your hands from the fire immediately. The same goes for me. I remember when IT came to me.

I'm gonna get arrested. But IT will save me. I'm gonna say how IT controls me. I don't know how to call it. IT is not human. IT is a devil. So I used the Stephen King's novel's name and started calling it IT.

IT just left me. My hands are wet with blood. I can smell the metallic taste in my nostrils. It's strange to type this in front of a corpse. My girlfriend's corpse.

I love my girlfriend. That's why she is my girlfriend. She'd take care of me like a child. Like her baby. We were really happy. We were planning to marry soon. I met her in the university. Her name is Hanjie. She is an Asian. Breaking the stereotype, her eyes are big. Very big. Cutely big. Her hair would always be dry. Her brown eyes are my favorite thing. Her cheeks are fluffy. Her smile is demure. I'd do anything to make her laugh. My worst day brightens upon watching her smile.

My dad is in jail for domestic violence. He killed his first wife but escaped from the law. IT runs in my blood.

Everything started a month before. I was cleaning my basement in my dad's old house, which I'm gonna sell. I saw a painting. A man or a transgender was dressed in what looked like a woman's dress. It looked ancient. He was not happy. His smile looked artificial. Quite unsettling. If you watch his face, you will feel eerie music running in your head. His eyes were pale. He was scared of someone or something. His eyes were distant. His eyes were locked in something. It looked like he was too scared to take his eyes off what he was seeing. A soul-stirring look.

At that moment, with a huge sound, something fell on my head. I had a concussion. I woke up to my phone ringing. It was evening. My head was throbbing in pain. It was 5:32. Damn it. I came here around 11:00 am. I don't know what the hell happened to me. At that moment, my camera got opened. I saw IT for the first time. An eerie, unsettling look in my own eyes. It doesn't have a form. You can just feel it in the air. I felt death in my own body's smell. The look vanished in a second. I was sweating in that cold temperature. I left everything and hurried away. For the last time, I peered at that odd painting. His face was in peace, his eyes were gleaming with warmth. I feel like he thanked me through his eyes for getting his burden.

I went back to my home. Our home. Hanjie and I were living together. She was mad at me for being late. I gave a lame reason. Her anger was not subsiding until she met my eyes. She looked into my eyes for a second. She stopped scolding me. Her eyes didn't stay on mine longer than a second. She became pale. She felt scared for looking in my eyes. Or should I say she was scared for looking into IT in my eyes? We were silent the rest of the day. We ate our dinner. Watched TV in dead silence. Said goodnight. Went to sleep.

I was sleepless. Hanjie used to sleep silently than a normal person. I don't know whether she was sleeping near me or staying awake like me. But I am sure that if she was awake, she'd know that I'm awake too. I'm a sound sleeper. If I'm not snoring, I'm not sleeping.

I went running into the bathroom to puke. I don't remember vomiting like this any time before in the middle of the night. I didn't eat anything bad. I felt shivers run down my spine when I realized the vomit didn't smell like any food. It had the same smell as my dad's basement. It had a smell of death.

Hanjie would have come running behind me if she wasn't sleeping. But I get an odd feeling that she is pretending to sleep. Silly. I felt like I couldn't sleep this night. I took a sleeping pill. Sat on the couch. I was trying to relax. But I felt someone's presence. I avoided the feeling. But it started to increase. I double-checked every door and window in my house. Everything was locked. But I couldn't keep the intruder outside as It was inside my mind. I heard IT's voice for the first time.

IT started to describe an awful event. An accident to be precise. I was scared to shit. You never would have experienced someone talking to you through your mind. I wanted that to stop. But I couldn't. I was becoming insane. The sound was echoing in my fucking ears. IT was booming endlessly. I couldn't stand. I couldn't do anything. It's a compulsion. It's a thing that you don't have control over. IT demands complete surrender, which you give as you have no choice.

In a demonic yet seductive way, IT explained how Hanjie got into an accident. IT in a detailed way explained her pain. Her suffering. I was literally crying. IT said everything will become okay. I had no choice except to listen and comply.

IT said I could find solace in my loved ones' suffering. I am the only one who could make them escape from the eternal suffering from a few minutes of suffering. I'd kill them in a horrible way to make them escape from the cruelty of the world. I will atone for their sins. I'd make them reach eternal peace. Life is uncertain. Death is certain.

The next day I woke up. But it felt like I didn't have a wink of sleep last night. Hanjie was cooking in the kitchen humming something. She was better than the last night. Her happiness was kinda disturbing.

Days passed. We were normal again. Or that's what Hanjie would have thought. Movie. Cooking. Long drive. Sex. It was good to hear. But I was getting tormented inside to make her suffer by IT. You may think I am stupid. But you can't understand me. You may ask me to get some help. But the point is I can't. IT became a part of me. Mixed with my soul. A part of my living consciousness. Another half of me wanted to kill me to end this all. But I can't. Sorry.

Finally, I knew this was the day. From the smell of the day. From the way it started. I knew this is the day I'm gonna kill my girl. My lover. My heart. My soul. My babe. My everything.

I feel disgusted. I'm taking a knife from the kitchen. She is in the bedroom arranging the bed. I'm moving towards the door. I can hear her asking something. I push open the door. She is standing showing her back to me. She is smiling at something on her phone. I'm moving my hand backward gathering the force. I'm pulling her hips towards me with the other hand. She is blushing, thinking I'm being romantic. I stab her in the back. She is screaming. Her blood is gushing out. Drenching my hands. She is turning. My eyes meet hers. I see pure raw fear.

She is falling down. I am not moving. She is struggling. She is weeping in pain. Time passes. She is lifeless below me.

I fell down like something jumped out of me. IT left me for the time being. No one is gonna believe what I say. I'm writing this with blood on my hand. I have a feeling that IT will come back with more desire for suffering. I'd kill someone in a more horrible way. Please help

The sun was warm on my back as I leaned against the fence, watching the pigs snort and shuffle around their feed. The morning chores were done, and the farm stretched quiet and still around me, just the way I liked it. A light breeze carried the scent of fresh hay and wildflowers, mixing with the earthy smell of the pigpen.

That’s when I saw it.

A kite.

It was the kind of thing you didn’t expect to see out here. Bright red, with long, tattered white tails that fluttered lazily in the wind. It drifted above the forest at the edge of the property, its movements almost hypnotic. I tilted my head, squinting against the sun.

Who on earth would be flying a kite way out here?

I couldn’t stop watching it. The kite dipped and twisted in the breeze, its tails catching the sunlight like ribbons of fire. There was something graceful about it, something deliberate. Whoever was flying it knew exactly what they were doing.

I rested my arms on the fence, my mind racing. Nobody ever came out this way—at least, not that I’d seen. Our farm was surrounded by miles of empty fields, with the forest standing like a wall on the horizon. It wasn’t the kind of place where you just stumbled across another person.

But there it was.

The kite swirled again, its string disappearing into the dense canopy of trees. I squinted, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever was holding it, but the forest was too thick. Just shadows and shifting leaves.

“Strange,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone.

The breeze picked up, tugging at my hair, and the kite danced higher. I found myself leaning forward, trying to imagine who might be on the other end of the string. A kid, maybe? But the nearest neighbors were miles away, and they didn’t have kids. 

None of it made sense.

I glanced back at the house, its windows gleaming in the sunlight. Mom would probably laugh if I told her about the kite. Dad would just tell me to get back to work.

Still, I couldn’t help myself.

I shifted my weight, my hands tightening on the rough wood of the fence. The kite hovered, teasing me like it knew I wanted to follow. The breeze tugged at my hair again, almost playful, and I let out a small laugh under my breath.

One quick look wouldn’t hurt.

Swinging a leg over the fence, I felt the familiar scrape of the wood against my jeans. My boots hit the ground on the other side with a soft thud, and I brushed my hands off, already taking a step toward the forest.

“Ellie!”

I froze, my heart skipping.

“Ellie, where are you?”

Mom’s voice carried from the house, sharp and insistent. I turned, spotting her standing on the back porch, one hand shading her eyes as she scanned the yard.

“Coming!” I called back, my voice tinged with reluctance. I glanced over my shoulder at the kite, still floating high above the trees, its tails trailing lazily in the breeze.

It wasn’t going anywhere.

I slipped back into the house, the faint scent of soap and cleaning supplies greeting me as I stepped inside. Mom was already at the sink, scrubbing away at a pot.

“Good, you're here. Mop the floors while I finish in here, will you?” she said, not even looking up.

I nodded, my mind still wandering back to the kite and the way it had danced so freely in the air. I grabbed the mop, pushing it in slow, repetitive circles across the kitchen floor, trying to keep my thoughts focused.

What could it have been? A person, sure, but who would be flying a kite out in the middle of nowhere? The more I thought about it, the less sense it made.

I pushed the mop harder, angry at myself for not having gone to look earlier, for letting my mom call me inside when I was so close.

“Ellie,” Mom said, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Get the dishes too, after you finish the floor.”

I sighed, grabbing the dish soap from the counter. By the time I was done with everything—sweeping, mopping, and cleaning up the kitchen—it was almost lunchtime.

“Alright,” I muttered, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “I’m going back out there.”

The sun was higher in the sky when I finally stepped outside, the air warm and heavy. The farm still stretched out around me, quiet and endless, but something felt... off.

I glanced up, hoping to see that kite again, but the sky was empty, the breeze too still to carry anything.

My chest tightened, the curiosity from earlier creeping back.

I bit my lip, staring out toward the edge of the forest, where the kite had been flying. The thought of it, gone so suddenly, left me restless.

I knew what I had to do.

I made my way across the field again, toward the trees, but this time, I didn’t stop at the fence. I kept walking, my boots crunching softly in the dry grass, the forest getting closer.

I followed the line where I had seen the kite dipping lower and lower. Something had been in the woods—something I hadn’t seen before.

And sure enough, as I passed into the trees, I noticed a break in the underbrush.

I pushed through the branches, heart racing as I followed the path. Then, just as I thought I might be imagining things, I stepped into a small clearing, and there it was.

A shack.

It was old, rundown, and almost hidden by the thick trees that surrounded it. The wood was chipped and faded, the roof sagging with age. I hadn’t seen it before, at least not up close. And now that I was standing here, I realized I had never even noticed it in the distance.

How had I missed it?

I took a cautious step forward, a wave of unease washing over me. There was no sign of life, no obvious footprints, but the air felt thicker here.

I stood there for a moment, my breath coming in slow, steady bursts. The air felt heavier in the clearing, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath, waiting.

I could turn back. I could go back to the farm, forget about it, but...

No.

Something inside me stirred. This was too strange to ignore.

I stepped forward, my boots crunching softly against the dry ground. Each step felt like a betrayal of everything my parents had told me about staying away from the forest, but I didn’t care. I had to know.

I reached the shack and pushed open the door with a groan of rusted hinges. It was darker inside than I expected, the light filtering in through gaps in the rotting wood. The air smelled like mildew and decay, but there was something else too—something faintly sweet, like forgotten memories.

I hesitated, my hand hovering near the doorframe as I stepped inside. The floor creaked under my weight, and I winced at the noise, hoping it wouldn’t draw attention.

The place was eerily still. Dust and cobwebs hung thick in the corners. A small window on the far side of the room let in a sliver of sunlight, casting long shadows across the cluttered space.

And then I saw it.

Leaning up against an old, rotting wooden table was the kite.

It was the same one I had seen earlier—bright red, its white tails fluttering slightly, even though there was no wind inside the shack. The string was neatly wrapped around a spool, resting on the table as if whoever had flown it had just stepped away for a moment.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away. There was something... off about it.

Who would leave a kite here, like this? It didn’t make sense. It felt wrong, like the kite didn’t belong in this place.

I took a hesitant step forward, the floorboards creaking louder now, and my heart thudded harder in my chest. I couldn’t help but feel the weight of the silence pressing in on me, like I was intruding on something that wasn’t meant to be disturbed.

I reached out, my fingers brushing the edge of the kite. The fabric was surprisingly soft, and the tail rustled faintly at my touch. I recoiled slightly, my skin prickling as the quiet of the shack seemed to settle around me, even thicker than before.

I stood there for a moment, my fingers still resting on the soft fabric of the kite. The room was silent, but something about it felt wrong, like I was being watched by invisible eyes. But the kite... it was so bright, so vibrant against the dull, decaying surroundings.

I could take it.

A wave of desire washed over me. Who would even notice? It wasn’t like anyone else would come out here to see it, let alone take it. The thought of leaving it behind felt almost ridiculous.

It was a perfect kite.

I glanced around the shack again, as if expecting to find someone watching me from the corners of the room, but the place remained empty, still. The air was heavy with silence.

I looked back at the kite, my hand tightening around the string.

It wouldn’t hurt to take it, would it?

My heart pounded a little faster as I carefully untangled the string from the spool, making sure not to damage it. The kite fit easily into my arms, the edges soft and smooth under my fingertips.

I didn’t think about what I was doing, or the fact that I was probably doing something wrong. All I cared about was how it felt to hold something so... perfect.

I made my way back toward the farm, the kite still in my arms. As I walked, I glanced over my shoulder, but there was no sign of anyone—no one had followed me, no one had even been there. The feeling that I had just stolen something precious gnawed at the back of my mind, but I ignored it.

This kite was mine now.

When I got back to the farm, it was like the world had shifted just a little. The kite felt like a part of me now, an extension of my hands as I ran through the fields with it trailing behind me like a banner.

The wind was perfect.

I let it soar, feeling the power of it, watching it catch the breeze and glide like something alive. It wasn’t just any kite. It was... special. The way it dipped and climbed, twirling on the wind, as if it were designed to cut through the sky like an eagle on the hunt.

I ran circles around the yard, the kite pulling me along, its long, fluttering tails dancing behind it.

I was on top of the world.

But then, I heard Dad’s voice from the porch.

“Ellie.”

I froze.

He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, eyes narrowing at the kite in my hands.

“Where’d you get that?”

I hesitated, the joy in my chest turning to a nervous lump. “Uh, I found it... out by the woods.”

His brow furrowed. “The woods?” He stepped down the porch steps, walking toward me, his eyes still fixed on the kite.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice shaky now. “I saw it in the forest. It was... it was just there. It’s amazing, right? It flies so well.”

He stopped a few feet away, his gaze hardening. “Put it back,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Now.”

I opened my mouth to argue, to explain how perfect the kite was, how it felt like it was meant for me, but the look in his eyes stopped me. It was the same look he gave when he meant business.

“Alright,” I muttered, feeling the weight of his words settle on me like a stone.

I turned and walked back toward the trees, the kite still clutched in my hands. As I entered the woods, I noticed the air had grown colder, a stiff breeze biting at my skin. The trees seemed to close in on me, casting long shadows across the path.

When I reached the spot where I’d found the kite, my breath caught in my throat.

It was gone.

The clearing was empty, the ground undisturbed, as if nothing had ever been there. No shack, no broken-down table, no kite.

I glanced around once more, but all I saw was the same empty space.

I turned in circles, scanning the forest like I might find some clue, some trace that it had all been real. But there was nothing. No shack.

I felt a knot tighten in my stomach.

What the hell was going on?

I knew I was supposed to go back home empty-handed, that’s what Dad would expect. He’d told me to return it, and part of me knew I should leave it here, just drop it and go back, pretend nothing happened.

But I couldn’t.

The kite was... too perfect. Too beautiful. I couldn't just leave it here. I couldn’t explain why, but the way it flew, the way it felt in my hands—it was different.

I bit my lip, standing there for a long moment, torn between what I knew I should do and the desire to keep it for myself.

It was too pretty. It flew too well. I couldn't just give it up.

So, I made a decision.

I slipped into the barn, the familiar smell of hay and old wood filling my nose. The barn was empty, quiet. I pushed aside a stack of hay bales, the loose strands of straw brushing against my fingers. Then I tucked the kite into the shadows, carefully wrapping the string around its spool and hiding it beneath the bales.

It was the perfect hiding spot. No one would find it.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to walk back to the house, empty-handed. I kept my head down, trying to ignore the feeling of the kite still lingering in my hands, even though it was hidden away.

When I walked inside, Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, his eyes scanning me as I entered.

“Well?” he asked, his tone flat.

I looked up at him, my throat tightening.

“I... I put it back,” I said, trying to sound convincing.

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

I nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

He didn’t look convinced. His gaze hardened, and he pushed himself up from the table, walking over to me.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, but he didn’t press me further. Still, the weight of his words hung heavy in the air, making me feel like I was doing something wrong. Like I couldn’t quite understand what I was dealing with.

I just wanted to get away from him, away from the farm, away from the fear that was slowly crawling up my spine.

But I didn’t say anything. Instead, I quietly walked past him, heading to my room to try to forget the kite.

But no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I couldn't stop thinking about what I’d found.

I slipped into bed, hoping to forget the day—the weirdness of the shack, the strange emptiness where it had been, the way my dad had looked at me. The covers were warm, but my mind wouldn’t settle. I tossed and turned for what felt like hours, my body restless under the weight of what I’d done.

At first, everything was fine.

I was out in the yard, but it wasn’t like it was during the day. The light had a softness to it, like the sun was setting just below the horizon, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. The air smelled like summer, fresh and sweet, and everything felt peaceful.

Then, without thinking, I lifted off the ground.

It wasn’t like I was flying high, but I was hovering—floating—just a few feet above the grass. The wind tugged at my clothes, and I felt light, like a balloon lifted by the breeze. My arms stretched out, and I could feel the wind guiding me, carrying me across the yard.

It felt amazing at first, weightless, free. I zoomed around, gliding over the field, feeling the wind rush past my face. It was like I was a part of the air itself, just drifting along without any effort.

But soon, the freedom started to slip away.

I tried to turn, to go in a different direction, but I couldn’t. My arms were stiff, stretched wide, frozen in place. The wind wasn’t letting me move how I wanted. I tried to push myself forward, but instead, I felt myself pulled in a direction I didn’t choose.

That’s when I noticed it.

The string.

It wrapped around my arms, tight and unyielding, pulling me. I wasn’t flying—I was being flown. My limbs were stuck, unable to break free from the invisible hand that controlled the wind.

I looked down, panic setting in.

There, on the ground beneath me, I saw the figure. A man, standing just beyond the fence, wearing a straw hat. He was holding the string.

My heart skipped. I tried to scream, but no sound came. I couldn’t move. I was a puppet, dangling in the air, my body tied to his will.

And then, everything went black.

I woke up with a jolt, gasping for air. The room was cold, and I was drenched in sweat. My heart pounded in my chest, and the remnants of the dream clung to me like a heavy fog.

I glanced at the clock—it was 2:00 AM. My breath still ragged, I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the chill of the night creeping into my bones. My mind raced, trying to process the nightmare.

I turned over in bed, curling into a ball, hoping sleep would finally take me.

The morning came too soon. I didn’t feel rested, but the day didn’t care. The first rays of sunlight streamed through the window, pushing away the darkness of the night, but the unease lingered, like a cold hand wrapped around my chest.

I forced myself out of bed, rubbing my eyes and trying to shake the remnants of the nightmare away. It was just a bad dream. Just a bad dream. Nothing more.

The scent of fresh hay and the sounds of the farm quickly filled my senses as I went through the motions of the morning chores. The pigs grunted, eager for their breakfast, and the chickens flapped around their coop. But even as I filled the buckets and checked on the livestock, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

The air felt heavier than usual, thick with the same tension I’d felt last night. I glanced over my shoulder more than once, expecting to see something in the distance, but there was nothing. Just the wide-open fields stretching endlessly, the fence posts, the barn… and the forest at the edge of the property, its trees looming like silent sentinels.

By the time I finished the last of the chores, my mind was still on edge. I tried to focus, trying to remind myself that it was just nerves. Nothing more. I was imagining things. Everything was fine.

But then I saw it.

A shadow. Moving between the trees.

At first, I thought it was just a trick of the light, maybe the wind causing the branches to sway. But as I watched, the figure became clearer—a silhouette, tall and unmoving, standing just beyond the tree line. I couldn’t make out any details, just the outline of a person. And the straw hat.

My heart skipped a beat.

I froze, unable to tear my eyes away. There was something about the way it stood, so still and silent, like it didn’t belong. Like it was waiting.

I swallowed, my throat dry, and took a cautious step forward. But the moment I moved, the figure was gone—vanished into the trees, like it had never been there at all.

The feeling of being watched lingered long after the shadow in the woods disappeared. My heart was still racing, and I couldn’t shake the image of that figure standing so still, so unnervingly calm, in the trees. It felt wrong. Everything about this felt wrong.

I walked back to the barn, trying to steady my breathing, but the unease gnawed at me. My mind kept returning to the kite—its impossible perfection, the way it flew as if it had a life of its own. I thought about the way it soared, so effortlessly, and how it had felt in my hands, like something ancient and not quite meant for me.

The thought of it made my stomach turn.

I had to get rid of it. I had to destroy it.

I found myself heading toward the barn, not even fully aware of the decision until my hands were already reaching for the hidden kite. My fingers trembled as I pulled it from the hay, the fabric cool and smooth beneath my touch. I could hear the faint sound of the wind picking up outside, and for a moment, it almost seemed like the kite was calling to me.

But I couldn’t let it.

I grabbed a match from the kitchen, my hands shaking as I struck it against the side of the box. The flame caught quickly, and I held it carefully, walking back to the barn. The kite, still beautiful and perfect in my hands, was about to meet its end.

I set the kite down in the dirt, the fabric crackling softly as the match touched the edge. It caught fire instantly, the orange and red flames licking at the edges. But as the fire began to spread, something strange happened.

The smell.

It wasn’t the normal scent of burning fabric, wood, or paper. It was something foul—something sharp and acrid, like burning hair. The stench hit my nose with an intensity that made my eyes water. My stomach churned, and I stepped back, unable to stop the retching that rose in my throat.

What was that?

The flames seemed to twist and writhe, as if the kite itself was alive, fighting against the fire. I could feel it—a presence, pushing back, refusing to be destroyed. But it burned nonetheless, the strange stench growing stronger, almost suffocating in the air. The fire didn’t burn like it should, flickering unnaturally, as though something inside the kite was resisting, holding onto life.

And then, just like that, it was over.

The fire burned itself out, leaving behind only the remains of the kite, blackened and curled. The smell still hung in the air, thick and lingering, as if it had seeped into the very walls of the barn.

I stood there for a long moment, staring at the ashes, my heart pounding in my chest.

I had to go inside.

Reluctantly, I turned toward the house, trying to shake off the sense of dread that clung to me. As I stepped through the back door, the familiar warmth of the kitchen hit me, but the feeling of unease didn’t let up. It was almost worse now, as if the house itself was pressing down on me, suffocating me with its silence.

Mom was in the kitchen, humming quietly to herself as she worked over the stove. But when she turned to look at me, her eyes immediately narrowed.

“What in the world is that smell?”

I froze. My heart skipped a beat.

The smell. The stench of burning hair—of something wrong—was still clinging to me like a shadow. It hadn’t gone away. Not even with the showering rush of fresh air.

I quickly blurted out, “I slipped into some fresh manure in the field. Sorry, I didn’t mean to track it in.”

She raised an eyebrow, studying me for a moment, but then she sighed, shaking her head. “Well, you’d better go clean up before it gets worse. I’m not having you smelling like that around here. Go shower.”

I nodded, relief flooding my chest, though it was hard to shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. I made my way to the bathroom, my footsteps heavy on the floor. The thought of the kite burned into my mind, but I pushed it away, hoping that the shower would wash it all off.

I turned on the water, scalding hot, letting the steam fill the room as I stepped under the spray. The water cascaded over my skin, warm and comforting, and for a moment, I closed my eyes, trying to push everything from my mind.

When I finally stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel, the smell was gone.

Gone.

Like it had never been there.

I looked into the bathroom mirror, my reflection blurry from the steam. My heart was still racing, my mind still reeling from the events of the morning, but the air around me seemed clearer now. Calmer.

It felt… normal again.

I stepped out of the bathroom, a wave of relief washing over me, trying to shake off the weirdness of everything. I was just overthinking it. After all, everything else seemed so normal.

Until Dad barged in.

He didn’t knock, just pushed the door open, his face breaking into a grin as he held something behind his back.

“Got something for you, kiddo,” he said, his voice carrying a bit of excitement. He stepped forward and revealed what he was holding.

My heart dropped.

It was a kite.

The same shape. The same color. The same tattered white tails fluttering in his hands, just like the one I had burned.

“Where’d you get this?” I blurted out before I could stop myself, my mind racing to make sense of the sudden, overwhelming wave of déjà vu. How could he have possibly known?

Dad’s smile faltered for a moment, but then he shrugged. “Well, I felt bad about how I snapped at you yesterday. You didn’t deserve that, and I don’t always do a good job of showing you I care, so…” He hesitated before continuing, looking down at the kite. “I saw this in the city today. It kind of reminded me of the one you were flying the other day, and I thought you’d like it. You know, to make up for me telling you to return it. I didn’t want you to feel bad about it.”

I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I felt my stomach twist in a knot as I looked at the kite in his hands. My heart pounded against my chest. It was like the universe had decided to mock me.

“This looks… exactly like the one I had,” I managed to say, my voice trembling despite myself.

Dad’s face softened, and he laughed a little, shrugging again. “I guess it does, doesn’t it? It’s not the same one, though. I just thought you'd like it.”

I stared at the kite for a long moment, my mind screaming at me to say something, anything, but all I could feel was the gnawing dread that had settled in my gut. I had burned that kite. I had destroyed it.

And yet here it was, identical in every way.

“Thanks,” I finally forced out, my voice barely above a whisper. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth. Not yet. Not when everything was so… wrong.

Dad smiled, oblivious to the turmoil swirling inside me. “No problem. Just don’t let it get away from you, alright?”

I nodded, the words caught in my throat. I couldn’t even look at him now. I just wanted to run. To throw that kite as far away as I could and never see it again.

But instead, I stood there, staring at the kite in my hands, and wondered—what was going on? What had I really burned?

Dad, still smiling, looked at me with that familiar gleam in his eye. “Hey, why don’t we go outside and fly it together? You can show me how well it flies.”

I hesitated, glancing between him and the kite. My gut was telling me to refuse, to throw it in the trash, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. The gift was from him, after all, and he was trying to make things right. Plus, I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

I nodded stiffly. “Sure. I guess we can do that.”

We headed outside, the sun bright against the sky, the air warm and inviting. It was a beautiful day, too perfect to ignore. I didn’t want to spoil the moment, so I focused on the task at hand. Dad took the kite, and I stood back, watching as he expertly unspooled the string and let it catch the wind.

For a few moments, it was just… normal. The kite soared gracefully, its bright colors standing out against the sky. Dad stood beside me, guiding it with ease, and everything felt like it should—like it was supposed to be this way. There was no strange tension in the air, no feeling of being watched, no unease.

The kite was just a kite.

“See?” Dad said, looking over at me with a smile. “Just like you were flying it the other day.”

I watched him, my shoulders relaxing slightly as I began to let the strange thoughts slip away. Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe I had been overthinking it. There was nothing wrong with this kite. Nothing wrong with the way Dad was flying it. Everything felt… good, again.

The kite danced in the sky, tethered to Dad’s careful hands, and for a moment, I felt like everything was back to normal. Like the past few days had been some weird nightmare I could forget about.

Dad was right. It was just a kite.

I tried to focus on the kite, watching it glide smoothly through the air, but something felt off. The unease from earlier was creeping back into my mind. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.

My eyes flicked toward the treeline.

There, at the very edge of the forest, I saw him.

A figure in a straw hat, standing perfectly still, just beyond the trees. At first, I thought it was just my imagination, or maybe a trick of the light. But then, he took a step forward.

My heart skipped a beat.

Another step.

I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to see him moving closer. But my eyes betrayed me, my body frozen, unable to look away.

“Dad,” I whispered, voice trembling, “there’s someone out there…”

Dad’s hand rested lightly on my shoulder, his voice calm and soothing. “It’s probably just a trick of the light, Ellie. Don’t worry about it.”

I wanted to believe him, I really did. But the figure… It was human—no, too human. It wasn’t right. I could see the outline of him clearly now, his figure moving slowly, deliberately, closing the distance between us.

My breath caught in my throat. “Dad… he’s coming closer…”

Dad turned, still relaxed, a soft chuckle escaping him. “It’s fine. Probably just someone walking through the woods. It’s nothing to worry about.”

But the figure kept coming, his steps slow, methodical, each one taking him closer. My stomach twisted. Every instinct told me to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. My breath was shallow now, my eyes locked onto the man in the straw hat. He was too close. Too real.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I buried my face in his chest, my hands gripping his shirt as if holding onto some semblance of safety. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears, my body trembling as I tried to force the terror down.

“Dad… please…” I whispered into his chest, the words barely escaping my lips.

Dad gently placed a hand on my back, rubbing in slow circles, trying to calm me. “Ellie, it’s okay. It’s just the wind playing tricks, or maybe… maybe it’s a curious anima. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

But when I pulled away from his chest and looked up, the figure was gone.

Gone. No sign of him anywhere in the woods.

I scanned the trees, my heart still racing, but the only thing I could see was the wind gently rustling the leaves.

I stared at the empty space where the figure had been, my breath still shaky, my heart thudding in my chest. The woods were quiet again, but the fear didn’t fade. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was still out there, hidden in the shadows.

I tried to focus on the kite, but the breeze felt colder now, the sky darker. My dad’s hand, warm on my shoulder, grounded me, but it didn’t fully chase away the panic.

He gave me a soft, reassuring smile, though I could see the concern in his eyes. “Alright, Ellie,” he said gently. “I think that’s enough kite time for today, don’t you?”

I nodded quickly, relieved that he was reading my nerves. I didn’t want to be out here anymore, not with that feeling gnawing at me.

Dad tugged the string gently, pulling the kite down and folding it neatly. “Let’s head inside,” he said. “It’s been a long day, and you’ve had enough excitement for one morning.”

The wind had died down, and the air felt colder now, the tension still hanging thick in the space between us. We started walking back toward the house, my mind still racing with what I’d seen—or thought I’d seen—in the woods.

As we passed the field and got closer to the house, I glanced back once more. The treeline was still, empty. No straw hat. No figure. Just trees and the morning fog settling in. But that cold knot in my stomach remained.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said quietly, my voice almost a whisper.

He smiled down at me, his voice light. “No problem, Ellie. Let’s get inside and get some breakfast, alright?”

I nodded, not trusting my own voice, and we walked inside, leaving the quiet woods behind.

But even as the door clicked shut behind us, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the day wasn’t over. That something was waiting for me out there. Watching.

I slipped into my room, trying to block out everything that had happened. The door clicked shut behind me, but the chill of the outside still clung to my skin. I didn’t know what to think anymore. I wanted to shake off what I’d seen, but it wouldn’t leave me. My heart was still racing.

I crawled into bed, pulling the covers up over my head, trying to force myself to sleep, but all I could hear was the wind outside, rustling the trees like whispers. It was so quiet. Too quiet.

I drifted off, the tension in my body eventually giving way to sleep. The unsettling thoughts faded as I slipped into a dream.

was back in the field again. The sun was warm on my skin, and the air was just right. I could feel the wind lifting me, the sensation of weightlessness. I was flying, soaring above the grass, diving and twisting through the air like a kite, just like before.

I wasn’t in control. My arms were locked out, spread wide like a kite’s frame. My limbs stiffened, and I realized I wasn’t flying on my own—I was being flown. I couldn’t move them, couldn’t pull myself away from the wind’s grasp. The string was pulling tight around my wrists and ankles, like a leash, and I couldn’t escape.

I could barely move, but I tried. I tried to scream, to fight against the pull of the string, but nothing came out. The wind howled around me, and I could see his silhouette below, his hand turning the spool, reeling me in like some kind of prize catch.

Closer and closer, I was pulled, and with every turn of the spool, the world around me blurred, the field spinning faster, the sky spinning faster, and I felt myself becoming smaller, weaker. I couldn't stop it.

I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. I couldn't stop him. I couldn't stop myself from being reeled in.

And then, just as I was about to be pulled to the ground, the world vanished. I jerked awake, my body drenched in sweat, heart pounding in my chest.

I jolted awake, my body drenched in sweat. The clock read 1:00 pm, but the heavy weight in my chest told me time had lost all meaning. I could still feel the ghost of the nightmare clinging to me, making it hard to shake the dread lingering in the air.

The farm was quieter than usual, almost too still. I could hear the wind rustling through the trees, but there was something... off about it. Then I heard it.

Mooing. Pigs grunting. Not the usual sounds, but frantic, panicked. My heart thudded in my chest as I stumbled out of bed and rushed to the window.

The livestock were restless, pacing in their pens, agitated for reasons I couldn’t explain. I could hear them from here, their noises rising in urgency. Something was wrong.

I didn't think. I just ran.

I burst out the door and made my way toward the pens, my legs moving faster than my thoughts. As I reached the edge of the field, I saw it — a figure in the distance. A person? The sun was still high, casting long shadows over the land, but there was no mistaking the outline of a straw hat, the shape of someone standing in the field.

A cold chill ran down my spine, and my heart skipped a beat. 

I quickened my pace, but as I got closer, the figure didn’t move. It was still.

A scarecrow.

My breath caught in my throat. It wasn’t a person at all. Just an old, weathered scarecrow in the middle of the field, a straw hat perched on its head. I could feel the tension leave my shoulders, but the unease didn’t fade. I stood there for a moment, staring at the stupid thing, my pulse still racing.

That afternoon, I went outside to check on the animals again. My heart was racing in my chest as I moved toward the barn. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Every creak of the trees, every rustle in the grass made my skin prickle. It felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

I reached the fence and paused. Something in the air had changed. The birds had stopped chirping. The breeze had gone still. I looked toward the treeline, my eyes scanning for any movement. And then, there he was.

Standing at the edge of the trees, his straw hat barely visible beneath the shadows. I froze, my breath caught in my throat. He wasn’t just a figure in the distance anymore. He was closer. Not by much, but enough to send a chill down my spine. My stomach twisted into knots.

I felt the panic rising in my chest again, the cold dread wrapping around me like a vice. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.

And then, he stepped forward. Slowly, deliberately. My body screamed at me to run, to get away, but I couldn’t move. I just stood there, rooted to the spot, watching him draw nearer.

No. This isn’t real. It’s just a trick. It’s just the wind.

Then, I felt the overwhelming urge to look back, to run inside, to get away from him. And so I did. I turned, stumbling back toward the house. My heart was pounding in my chest, and every step felt heavier than the last.

I slammed the door behind me, my breath ragged, my hands shaking. My father was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper. He glanced up at me, concern creasing his brow.

“Ellie, what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice calm, steady.

I didn’t know how to explain it. I didn’t know how to tell him that something was out there, something that wanted me, something that wasn’t human. That he was still out there, watching, waiting.

“I... I’m fine,” I whispered, though the words felt hollow. I couldn’t stop the trembling in my hands. I could still see him in my mind, standing at the edge of the trees, his presence heavy in the air.

That night, I tried to sleep. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw him again, standing at the edge of the trees, waiting. The wind howled outside, tugging at the edges of the house, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that it was pulling me back out there.

But then, a sound—a distant creak—woke me. It wasn’t the wind. It was something else.

The next time I went outside, the world felt different. The air was too heavy, the sky too dark. The livestock were quiet, still. The ground beneath me felt too solid, like I was waiting for something. I took a step, then another, my feet dragging as though something was holding me back.

The field stretched out before me, peaceful at first, but then it all changed. I looked up, and there he was—he was there again. Just beyond the fence, just standing at the edge of the trees, watching me. His straw hat barely moved in the wind, but I could feel his presence, cold and unblinking.

I wanted to scream, but my voice was gone. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

He stepped forward. Slowly. His shadow stretching out toward me like a dark cloud.

No. Not again. I can’t...

I turned to run, but it was like the ground had turned to mud beneath my feet. Each step felt like I was sinking deeper, and the more I tried to escape, the closer he came.

I glanced back, and that was when I knew it was too late. The wind picked up again, howling through the trees, tugging at my clothes. The string was there. The string was pulling me.

I could feel it around my chest, tightening, lifting me off the ground. I was floating, helpless, weightless. The earth grew smaller beneath me, and I knew then, with cold certainty, that I wasn’t coming back down.

I was his kite now. Forever.

I’m a writer. Not a good one but good enough to write a character I fell for and started an affair with.

Her name was Thelma Baker.

She was ordinary, and I made her increasingly ordinary as I felt myself being drawn to her, but it didn't help. Maybe her ordinariness is what attracted me to her in the first place. On some nights, I just couldn’t write anyone else.

Then my wife found out. I don’t know how. Maybe it was the way I’d phrased the character notes, or my expression while typing away at the laptop.

She demanded I stop writing Thelma Baker.

“No,” I said.

She wasn’t pleased, but what could she do? I can write anywhere—on anything. If I want to write Thelma Baker, I’ll damn well write Thelma Baker. Besides, how could I let Thelma Baker down like that? She’d been so lonely.

I cherished our writing times together.

A few weeks later my wife emailed me a link to a Google Docs file.

“What’s that?” I asked, opening it.

“My autobiography,” she yelled back from the kitchen, and just as I scanned to the end of the document, I saw:

‘My autobiography,’ I yelled back at him from the kitchen.

My wife was logged in, editing the document.

I saw her type:

He scratched his head like an imbecile and stared with disbelief at his laptop screen, then thought, ‘What the fuck?’

I scratched my head. What the fuck?

WHAT THE FUCK!?

As I walked to the living room, he browsed to his stupid little writing folder and opened up the latest half-assed chapter of his idiotic book.

I stared at the document—my document—and felt compelled to write

a scene in which his favourite fictional slut Thelma Baker fucks the entire New Zork City police force, and loves it!

‘“Oh, yes. Yes! Give it to me, boys!” Thelma Baker screamed in orgiastic ecstasy,’ I wrote, unable not to write it. ‘And she gave it to them good, reminding them how much better at sex they were than Norman Crane.’

Oh—no…

The poor schmuck couldn’t comprehend that he’d been reduced to a character in his brilliant wife’s autobiography. The words you are what you love played over and over in his head. Then

I wrote, ‘Thelma Baker ascended the police station stairs in the desperate realization that she’d been hoodwinked by a two-bit swindler with a small cock who didn’t know how good he had it with his wife. Once she reached the roof, there was nothing for her to do but—

“No!” I yelled,

but I merely laughed at his misery.

—slit her throat with the very knife author-loverboy had given her in chapter-whatever and, with her last bits of strength, threw herself over the edge.’

SPLAT!

No more Thelma Baker.

I started weeping, wailing

, like a young child whose favourite toy had been taken away. He was pathetic.

‘The End,’ I wrote,

understanding that I was now faithfully

mine

helplessly forever.

//

That was then.

This is now: her mind has degraded. She suffers increasingly from dementia. Perhaps worse. Sometimes, she forgets about her autobiography for hours at a time, forgets who she is and who I am; and in those blessed hours, I am free.

For years, I have plotted—to finally put my plan into action:

Together, we sat beside her computer. Her blank unknowing eyes. She opened the latest volume of her autobiography (muscle memory!) and I whispered in her ear: “Until, one day, my husband began writing his own autobiography. For the first time in decades, he wrote.”

And she wrote it.

How quickly I ran to my own computer! (My legs themselves propelled me.)

Created a new document.

‘My name is Norman Crane,’ I typed. ‘I am a writer. I have a wife. She smiled at me.’

And—would you believe?—beside me, the dumb sow smiled.

Genuinely.

And thus I knew the day of reckoning was truly upon me.

For I, a mere character in my wife's autobiography (a voluminous and humiliating history of my own involuntary submission to her), had managed to create, within that autobiography, a second autobiography: mine—autobiography within autobiography, world within world—and within that, my wife became a character of my own invention and (I hoped) manipulation! Even as I remained a character to her, she was now simultaneously a character to me. Spin, heads, spin!

The ramifications, possibilities and paradoxes hurtled past, as I pondered the exact manner of my long-awaited vengeance.

I didn't know how long she would remain out-of-it, absent, staring through her computer screen, pliant and vulnerable as a plant, but with every passing second, even as I felt my wrath grow, I also felt something else, something wholly unexpected—and so, of my own free will, I typed:

‘Although for long she had been afflicted by the ravages of old age, today—for reasons inexplicable to medicine or science—she was cured. Sharpness and clarity returned to her mind, and never again did she suffer from dementia or any other serious ailment.’

And when I looked at her, she was herself again.

My fingers slipped from their keys.

“Norman,” she said sweetly, “—what the fuck are you doing messing with my autobiography!”

She hit me, and I…

I loved her.

“You're going to get punished for this! Thought you could take advantage of me in my state!” she screamed, then glanced at her screen, muttered, “Oh, no you don't!” and backspaced the lines about my autobiography—

the haze returned to her eyes, she slumped in her chair.

And so I am, cursed by my love for her itself.

Lying beneath my feet is an impossibly small figure. Something about its shape sets my teeth on edge. Those pointed ears, now matted with blood, remind me of the elves from Christmas stories—but no elf was ever this grotesque. A deep dread settles in my stomach as its crimson blood seeps into the fibers of my carpet.

It started with scratching sounds from downstairs. At first, I dismissed it as the house settling, but then came the unmistakable rip of wrapping paper being torn. My first thought was mice—or maybe a burglar. Grabbing the baseball bat I kept under my bed, I crept downstairs. Each step groaned beneath my weight, no matter how carefully I moved.

The Christmas tree lights were still on, their multicolored glow casting strange shadows across the walls. At first, I didn’t see anything unusual—just the faint hum of the lights and the faint smell of pine. But then, beneath the tree, a figure moved. Small, hunched, and precise, it was rummaging through the presents with almost mechanical precision.

It wasn’t an animal. It wasn’t a child.

My heart thudded as I reached for the light switch.

The overhead lights blazed on, and time seemed to freeze. The creature turned to face me, and I almost wished it hadn’t. Its features were a twisted parody of humanity. Bulging, oversized eyes dominated its face, and its grin stretched too wide, revealing teeth like shards of glass.

For a moment, we stared at each other, paralyzed in mutual horror.

Then it moved.

It screamed—a sound like nails dragging across a chalkboard—before leaping at me. Its teeth sank into my arm, a fiery burst of pain ripping through me. I swung the bat without thinking. The crack of impact was deafening, followed by a wet, sickening thud.

I stumbled back, panting, staring at the crumpled body on the floor. My arm throbbed where it had bitten me, blood dripping onto the carpet. Oh God. Oh God, I killed it. I killed something.

But as I tried to process what had happened, the air shifted. The temperature dropped sharply, and every instinct screamed at me to turn around.

I didn’t want to.

I couldn’t stop myself.

Behind me, in the doorway, stood a man in a crimson suit. Massive and imposing, his form seemed to fill the entire room. His snowy beard couldn’t hide the wide, gleeful smile stretching across his face. But this wasn’t the Santa of childhood stories.

No.

The lights from the Christmas tree cast his shadow on the wall, but it didn’t match his shape. The distorted silhouette loomed with spindly limbs and clawed hands, twitching in unnatural ways.

I tried to run, but my feet slipped in the blood pooling on the floor. The bat clattered from my fingers as I fell.

He laughed, the sound hollow and echoing, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” he said, his voice like frost scraping against glass. “What a mess you’ve made. But don’t worry—we never waste a potential helper.”

Before I could scream, his gloved hand clamped over my mouth, the other wrapping around my torso like a vice. He lifted me effortlessly, as though I weighed nothing at all. His eyes glittered with an unnatural light, and a cruel warmth seeped into his smile.

That’s when the change began.

It started with my bones. They cracked and splintered, then reformed with an audible pop. My limbs twisted, shrinking, contorting. Pain consumed me as my muscles tore apart and stitched themselves back together. My skin burned like it was being peeled away and replaced. I clawed at myself, trying to stop it, but my fingers—now impossibly small—scrabbled uselessly.

But worse than the physical changes was the shift in my mind. Something alien took root, pushing me out, shoving my thoughts into a tiny, locked corner. Instincts I didn’t recognize rose to the surface: a need to serve, to obey, to create toys, to prepare for next Christmas.

I screamed in my head, but the sound couldn’t escape.

Finally, the transformation stopped. He set me down gently, brushing a gloved hand over my newly pointed ears.

“Welcome to the family,” he said warmly, his voice like bells and thunder. “We have so much work to do.”

I wanted to fight, to scream, to resist, but my new instincts overpowered me. They forced me to smile—a grotesque grin stretching far too wide across my face. “Yes, sir,” I chirped, the words spilling out unbidden.

As I followed him toward the chimney, my new feet leaving bloody prints on the floor, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a silver ornament.

Staring back at me was a twisted little elf, its face split into an unnaturally cheerful grin. And behind me, the creature I had killed began to stir, its features slowly reverting to human.

My shadow danced in the ornament’s distorted surface, no longer my own.

The summer had come, and with it, our annual beer softball league. For the past three years, I had been part of the "Boozers and Bruisers," a team more focused on drinking between innings than winning games. The games were always played at the old Crescent Hollow Field, a run-down diamond on the edge of town surrounded by dense woods. The field had a reputation—it was said to be cursed. Everyone laughed it off, but there was always something unsettling about the place.

The first time I heard about the curse was from Pete, our team’s self-appointed coach and beer supplier. “They say the old Crescent Hollow Field used to be a burial ground,” he said, cracking open a can of cheap lager. “Back in the 1800s, they built the field right on top of it. Some kind of mass grave. The spirits of the dead are supposed to haunt the place.” He took a long swig of beer and chuckled. “Just a spooky campfire story to scare people away.”

The league started like any other year: sloppy throws, fumbled catches, and plenty of beer-fueled banter. But something felt off this season. The air around the field was heavier than usual, and the woods seemed darker. Even on the sunniest days, shadows stretched long across the diamond, as if the trees were trying to creep closer.

Our first few games were uneventful, though we noticed some strange occurrences. Foul balls would disappear into the woods, never to be found. Players swore they heard whispering voices when they stepped up to bat. And then there was the scoreboard. No matter how often we reset it, the numbers would sometimes flicker and change on their own, showing scores that no one had made.

By midseason, the uneasiness started to take its toll. Mitch, our left fielder, quit the league after claiming he saw a face in the woods staring at him. “It wasn’t human,” he muttered before driving off, leaving his glove and cooler behind. We all laughed it off, but I noticed how quickly Pete grabbed another beer and changed the subject.

The turning point came during our game against the "Homerun Hooligans," the league’s reigning champs. It was a cool Friday night, the kind where the air feels charged. A thick fog rolled in just before the game started, and the field lights buzzed louder than usual.

In the bottom of the third inning, one of their players hit a deep fly ball into right field. Our teammate Sam sprinted after it, disappearing into the fog near the woods. We heard him yell, but the ball never came back into play. When we ran out to check, Sam was gone. His glove lay in the dirt, and the only sign of him was a single trail of footsteps leading into the woods.

We called his name, but the woods were silent. Eventually, Pete decided to call the cops, but when they arrived, they found nothing. No Sam, no trail—just a misty field and a bunch of confused, half-drunk softball players.

Sam’s disappearance shook the league. Some teams dropped out entirely, but Pete insisted we keep playing. “We owe it to Sam,” he said, though I suspected he just didn’t want to lose his excuse to drink in the summer.

The next game was worse.

We were playing under the dim field lights, the fog thicker than ever. In the second inning, our pitcher, Karen, threw a perfect strike. Or at least it should’ve been. The ball stopped mid-air—just stopped—before falling straight down to the dirt. Karen stared at it, wide-eyed, before muttering something about the shadows moving. She refused to pitch another inning and spent the rest of the game sitting on the bench, clutching her beer like a lifeline.

Then there was Pete. During the fourth inning, he was at third base, shouting at the batter like he always did. But mid-sentence, he froze, his eyes fixed on something just beyond the edge of the woods. “Hey, Pete, you good?” someone called, but he didn’t answer. He just stood there, staring, until the batter hit a grounder his way. Pete didn’t move to catch it. Instead, he dropped to his knees and started whispering under his breath, like he was praying—or begging.

We all rushed over to him, but Pete was gone mentally. His eyes were glassy, and his lips trembled as he repeated the same phrase over and over: “They’re here. They’re here. They’re here.” We dragged him off the field, and he didn’t come back the next week—or ever.

With every game, more players dropped out, either too scared or too disturbed to continue. Those of us who remained started noticing things, too. Shadows that didn’t belong to any player. Cold spots on the field, even in the heat of July. And then there were the voices. At first, they were faint, like a soft breeze through the trees. But by the end of the season, they were loud, angry, and unmistakable.

The league championship game was supposed to be a big event, but only two teams showed up: us and the "Dead Ringers," a team whose name now felt ominously fitting. The fog was the thickest I’d ever seen, and the field lights flickered like dying candles.

We started the game with just six players, barely enough to form a team. By the fourth inning, we were down to four. Lisa, our shortstop, claimed she saw hands reaching out of the dirt and refused to play another inning. Ben, our catcher, ran screaming into the parking lot after a foul tip landed near home plate and burst into flames.

By the seventh inning, it was just me and Dave, our center fielder. The score was tied, and the Dead Ringers were up to bat. Their batter hit a slow grounder to me at third base. I scooped it up and threw it to first, but as the ball left my hand, it curved in the air, like it had a mind of its own. It sailed over Dave’s head and into the woods.

That’s when I saw them—the spirits. Dozens of them, rising from the woods and the field itself. Their faces were pale and gaunt, their eyes black pits of nothingness. They moved toward us, their mouths opening in silent screams. I froze, unable to move, until Dave grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the parking lot.

We didn’t look back as we ran. The fog seemed alive, clawing at us as we stumbled to our cars. I don’t remember much after that, just the sound of whispers and the feeling of something cold brushing against my neck.

The league disbanded after that. Crescent Hollow Field was abandoned, left to rot under the weight of its curse. I haven’t played softball since, but sometimes, late at night, I hear the sound of a bat hitting a ball, followed by the faintest echo of laughter—coming from the woods near my house.

Chapter 1: Bursting the Bubble

To all listening on this frequency, I have been to their realm. What’s happening now is their idea of sport until their invasion begins. We need to identify them and the breaches before it’s too late!

You might have noticed disappearances all over the country. Hell, they’ve been happening worldwide, but it seems to have started in Russia near someplace called Dachnyye Goryachiye Istochniki. Obviously, no one took it seriously, except the Russians after odd reports of rabid humans sprung out of nowhere. That’s around the time the first video dropped. The problem was, well, it was dark. Pitch black. But we could hear the screams. There were those unlike anything I’d ever fathomed from any animal, then there were those that were unnaturally long and loud. Apparently, a man was pleading for mercy. Now no one can contact a single town within 20 miles.

Well, it wouldn’t be long until I learned that for myself.

It started on a cold winter morning. I made two cups of coffee to force my lazy self out and into the tundra of Wisconsin. I thought Ohio had it bad in my younger days, but global warming seems to have forgotten this state. That being said, I didn’t mind it at all. I had been living in Columbus after my contract in the Navy when I decided to peace out for the second time. Now I'm a software developer working from home, except Mondays. Sadly, it was Monday. That meant a team meeting that we could one hundred percent do online, but our company and my project manager thought face-to-face interactions were healthy. I’d normally agree, but considering the lazy members who put everything off, ask others to do their work, or simply make excuses, I didn’t really have anything I wanted to say that was professional enough for a meeting. 

I hated everything. The fake friendliness, pizza or group parties, and the “we’re family here” that implies I wanted another. I should be grateful, but everything and everyone just seemed so lifeless. So fake. Everything felt like it was HR approved before it was spoken. No one could be offended or good luck when they let you go on the next set of lay-offs. 

When I headed out the door, it was still fairly dark and snowing. With my coffee in one hand and my laptop bag over my shoulder, I pushed onward toward my glorious whip, an HR-V 2016. It’s the first Chevy I’ve owned and hasn’t let me down yet. 

I walked to my parking space to reach the door. Before I opened it, something brushed against my back. I immediately turned with a bit of my coffee leaving my mug. There was nothing. I looked right, left, right again, then decided I was going crazy. My car wasn’t warm, yet, though I immediately pressed the brake and button to start it. My air was already on max from the previous my last time driving it blew out cold air just to reignite my shivering. I had become accustomed to warmer and humid climates. This winter and all was beautiful, as long as I didn’t have to leave to confide in my small, cozy house. Just as I put the car into reverse, a weird noise came from the trees. It sounded like a howl of some kind, but raspy and freakishly weird. Then I saw something. It seemed like a mist, but I couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. My house was locked and I didn’t have much to steal. I also had cameras installed at every corner around the house, with two more inside. If anyone snooped around, let alone broke in I’d have everything I needed to identify them. Unless they wore ski masks and acted quickly. 

After overthinking and worrying, I decided to quickly run in and get my Glock 43 looked around, then jumped back in. I finally left my long gravel driveway and onto the road. It was odd, though. I still felt like I was being watched, but I was driving. There were no other cars around.

I had left early, as usual. It was an old habit and a hard to break even if I wanted to. But at least that meant I could relax when I arrived and make myself another cup of coffee. A friend of mine always told me my addiction to caffeine would be the death of me. I’ve learned that there are far worse ways for one’s life to end. But that hadn’t crossed my mind yet. I was concerned about parking closest to the exits so I could be one of the first to leave the corporate office. It was just outside of the downtown area.

“Good morning,” I greeted the secretary before scanning in.

“Good morning, Dev.” She replied kindly.

I returned a smile and nod before heading to the elevator. I remember there were balloons with all sorts of prizes. One sign said, “Party Tonight at Frank’s Family Home! Win up to $100,000. Earn $10,000 for showing you care for the WinTyme family!” I stopped, reread it, then read it another dozen or so times before I chuckled at the absurdity of the company’s CEO offering ten thousand dollars to EVERY single person who showed up. I knew there had to be a catch, but what was it? There’s no way anything this good would just be handed out. I know some people in my position are spoiled and have absolutely no concept of money, just buying a new car and iPhone every year. But I did. At least, I’d like to think so. And there’s no way our CEO would’ve done this out of the goodness of his heart. Two years ago was our best year and he laid off anyone with 15 years of work experience at the company. I took the elevator up three floors and was excited to find even more weirdness that I didn’t understand. A sign hung from the ceiling with rushed print, “Take off today if you sign up to come tonight.”

Okay, something was up. I suspected we were all getting laid off. There were outings here and there, but this was a full-on shutdown if I’ve ever seen one. I muttered curses just thinking of applying for another job. Thankfully the house I bought was a fixer-upper or my money would run up dry faster than I could get another job. Health insurance wasn’t a huge worry for me since I did have the VA to a small extent, but- fuck this shit.

Me being early, there’s usually Russell from another team and Joyce, an older project manager who was far smarter than you’d initially assume. At least, more than I realized. She notices the dirtbags, the backstabbers, and the good workers, but she keeps it to herself. It wasn’t until she gave a bonus only to Russell. He was the only one who finished his work, taking on other tasks depending on how far behind the others were. The other team members talked like they were the smartest and hardest working people in the department, but I could see Gloria on her Twitter and Facebook anytime I passed her desk. 

So those two weren’t a surprise to see here. What was a surprise, however, were the four women and three men in the big boss’s office. He was there, too, and I swore I could see watery eyes. Was he crying? 

One woman's head turned sharply towards me with her eyes piercing into my own. I began to feel similar to how I had this morning. It would’ve triggered every alarm in my mind if she hadn’t formed a long smile, showing white teeth that seemed impossible for a normal person to have. I forced a nob and then continued towards my desk. Before I sat down, my phone beeped. Once seated, I opened it. 

Russell texted, “Frank had been crying before I arrived. See the 10,000-dollar prize for showing up to his party?”

Right now nothing made sense. An odd urge told me I’d be better off leaving, but I couldn’t. I needed a job and money. Hell, if they were going to lay us off, I’d want that 10k, assuming no stipulations were attached. If I had known.

“What are the chances we are all getting laid off,” I texted, then added, “most of us, at least.”

Though I was tempted to look over, I waited for his response, seeing he was already typing.

His next message had me puzzled, “Frank just told Joyce he brought on three new employees and wasn’t letting anyone go until next year. She said most teams aren’t in any position to lay any members off, though I think a couple in mine wouldn’t be missed.” 

I thought for a moment before responding, “But that doesn’t explain the money rewards and party.” I sent it right after the office door cracked.

Frank formed a big smile, but his eyes were still slightly red. “Mornin’, Dev! Today’s gonna be a great day!”

Bewildered and uncertain which of my dozen questions I should’ve asked first, I decided to nod and go straight to the point, while leaving out his crying, “Why the rewards celebration, Frank? Are we getting cut?” 

I really shouldn’t have just asked, but he chuckled at the question, “No, not at all! We’re doing great and I’ve finally decided the best employees are the ones that feel valued.”

It took all my will power and focus to hold back a laugh. There is no way this was happening. None! Something wasn’t right. Maybe I was being paranoid, but my gut told me that a man with three offices, a Yacht, and a Porsche would never do this. Hell, how could he afford to? 

“I can see this seems a bit far-fetched to you,” he looked at me with a concerned look.

“It just seems a little much,” I replied.

“How about I give you a check for the 10 thousand right now if you promise to come to the party tonight,” he replied. 

The thing is, I didn’t want a handout. All I wanted was to earn my money. Granted, it would’ve been nice to receive a large bonus no matter what, but it didn’t feel right. Just as I was about to say no, one of the women came over to his side. The same woman who smiled just a few minutes ago looked absolutely stunning. Almost unnaturally so. Her hair was an ash blonde with bright red lips. She was also tall. I don’t mean your normal tall woman that’s 5 foot 9, but taller than Frank. I’d once asked him how tall he was after he said he didn’t believe I was 5’11. 

‘6 foot 3,’ he had told me. Not only was she at least a couple of inches taller, but somewhat muscular, too. I was beginning to feel like a dwarf below two giants.

“This must be-Dev, yes?” She replied in an accent I hadn’t heard before. Something absolutely alien to me, but I understood what she said.

“You would be correct, Miss-?” I asked.

“Carmille,” she replied with a long smile. “I would like to invite you, as well. We’re going to be workin with you all and we should get to know one another. Th-Frank is happy to be you! He wants you all to be happy working together.

I nodded, “Okay, ya got me! I’ll be there tomorrow.” Both their smiles widened as more people began to enter. While Frank turned to the others, she winked at me. 

Other people suspected the same things I had, but Frank tried to settle their concerns. Though me and Russell weren’t convinced, everyone else went home. All except us, until Frank insisted we leave in a nice manner unbecoming of him. Another woman talked to Russell before Frank kicked us out, but Joyce refused to talk to any of the new people. However, the most important people to socialize with for a good start would be the senior developers, engineers, and managers. Joyce hadn’t been approached once. Her years gave her extensive experience. I'd think they’d at least pretend they care, especially since the others went home. 

Just to be clear, I had no intention of going, but I needed to get out. To put it frankly, I had almost no family, no date for almost a year, and spent most of my time doing more computer work. Though I lifted and ran almost daily, I was a hermit. That gave me the thought to call an old friend, who I explained the situation to.

“Yup! You’re all getting canned, Johnson! Hate to break it to you,” that wasn’t exactly the input I was looking for.

“Then who are these other people? How experienced are these models? Something doesn’t add up,” I replied.

“I don’t know man, but you said the woman winked. I know she tall, but who cares?”

“Easy for your 6’4 ass to say,” he laughed at my response. 

“Treat yourself, man! What’s the worst that could happen,” his would come back to bite me in the ass soon enough, but I was unaware of just how large this problem was. 

“Thanks! Hopefully, I’m just being paranoid, but if I am getting laid off, a night out might not be so bad.”

“See, just start filling out applications the next day when they break the news,” he said and I chuckled.

That afternoon I bought protein pasta, chicken, and rice. I also snagged some Trojans and wine. Who knows what would happen? There were other women I barely talked to, so I decided this was the time to break out of my bubble. 

Frank's home was marked by a huge gate with a long driveway. I’ll say it was anything but modest. Now my anxiety was stronger than ever, wondering what this was about. I was beginning to think we were going to be scammed, but that seemed a bit much. Despite my reservations, I drove to the house. The snow had melted, so there was no problem. I was one of the first ones, again. At least there was no trouble parking here. Strangely, I remember Frank having pictures of him and his family outside his house and I could’ve sworn this wasn’t it. Was this a wealthier CEO’s place he knew? There was an unreasonable amount of parking space, even for a wealthy family. Then again, it wouldn’t have been the first time a rich family bought far more than they needed.

Still gawking, I followed a man waving towards the left side near a large lot. Past the side was a pool with a dive board, two boats, and a few cars. Nice of the owner to move his expensive stuff in the dirt. I had to be overthinking this whole thing. 

So I relaxed, let the man guide me back, and parked my car. I smiled and waved and he returned the gesture. He appeared to be anxious, but it wasn’t a big deal.

After leaving putting on only my favorite cologne and combing my hair, I passed a few strangers and entered the house. My first order of business was to drink something to calm my nerves. Second was to look for people I knew, especially Russell, Joyce, or Mac. Mac didn’t come to the office much, but he was a solid guy. Also, a Marine that I could shit talk with.

I had found wine, cheese of all assortments, and delicious steak bites that I’d happily helped myself to. If this was my last day on the job, I was going to get everything I could. You might say, “You’re not working,” but I’d argue that anytime I have to see the faces of my coworkers is me working. Excluding the previously mentioned. Funny enough, I couldn’t even see the tall blonde from earlier. Just as I was about to message Russell and Mac, a young redhead approached me, smiling. Her stare almost pierced my soul with green eyes. Eyes that I would’ve sworn transformed to slits for a moment. 

“Hello! I have not met you, yet. Dev, is it?” She asked in a nice, but odd tone. She also had the same accent as Carmille. Not Slavic, Italian, Romanian, or Japanese. I’d heard quite a few in my thirty years and this seemed truly foreign to me. Almost alien.

“Carmille told you?” I asked.

“Yes! Yes, she did!” she reached her hand out, “call me Lilith!”

I chuckled, taking her hand, “Lilith, I don’t suppose you know what this is all about?”

“About what?” she asked giving me a confused look.

“This party and, well, everything. It’s not usual. At least, I’ve never seen a CEO invite his employees, and offer a 10K bonus while providing wine, steak, and cheese,” I remembered just how insane this all was, making me reconsider staying here. At the very least I decided to stop indulging in the wine.

“I don’t know. Carmille invited me, though I was playing Road of Exiles and watching corgi videos before I arrived here,” she said.

“One, Corgis are adorable and I want a couple. Two, I just started playing it again. Early access comes out this coming month.”

“I would love to play it sometime. Maybe you could make me a better player,” her words made me question so much. Was she implying what I thought she was?

After some more chatting, she gave me a number. The reason I say it’s a number instead of her number is because it wasn’t a real number. 666-1289. When I asked if the area code was the same as the area, she seemed confused, but eventually answered with a yes.

More and more guests piled in. Only a handful, however, were from my job. I asked a woman where her friends worked and she asked if I was invited, like I was a weirdo. All I wanted to do was to get an idea of where everyone was coming from, but I gave up. When I looked for someone I actually wanted to talk to, I noticed the stares of other tall and oddly perfect people. They are what I imagined an android to look like. One moment they’d converse with the guests, the next they’d scan the crowd like a cat would a field of mice. One of them licked his lips standing behind a decent-looking fellow that struck me as a sales and business guy. I turned to look behind me and there she was. 

“Mr. Dev. How are you this evening?”

“I was just about to leave, to be honest, but nice to see you,” I lied out of my teeth. 

By this time I had realized that there were two groups. Us and these strange people. I felt an urge to run. To leave this house, get in my car, and drive away.

“You can’t! The party is about to begin. Frank will be here any minute, now with your reward,” the way she said that felt inhuman. 

“Okay. I’ll stay,” I replied.

Her grin became wide. Almost unnaturally so, “Good! I promise this will be an unforgettable night.”

I nodded with a smile, then turned around. I had absolutely no intention of staying. I just wanted her off my case. However, before I made it to the door, Russell flagged me down, possibly drawing attention I didn’t want. 

“How’s the night, Dev?” he asked.

“Russell, something’s not right here. I think we should leave immediately.”

“I can’t! I met a woman and,” he turned his words to whispers, “I think I might be onto something.”

“Oh, yeah? You know her name?” I asked hoping it wasn’t one of the perfect people.

“Lilith,” he smiled. “She said she didn’t know anyone, so I introduced her to a few people, even the woman from this morning.”

My heart dropped. Everything seemed more wrong than ever, but I still couldn’t put my finger on what was about to happen. “Carmille,” I replied, slowly.

“Yep! That’s her name! I keep forgetting it,” he said. “She also loves cats and The Expanse of Space.”

“Russell. She told me she likes Corgis. I’ve been looking into getting one or two for the past week. You like cats. She’s also interested in things, I’m sorry, most women do not like. Also, there are others like her that look too,” I struggled to finish my sentence, but he understood what I was saying.

”Perfect. Too perfect,” he replied. We looked at each other before looking towards the door.

“I still have my Glock, Russell. Follow me to my car. I’ll drop you off next to your car then we can drive the fuck outta here,” I said and he nodded. 

When we got to the exit, those men and women stared at us. Smiling. If you thought a McDonald’s employee's smile was fake, you haven’t seen anything yet. It creeped me out enough to pick up my pace. Russell followed my lead without hesitation. We exited into the night. Men began to trail us. I pulled my coworker to the right. As we picked up our pace, they did theirs. By the time we passed the first set of cars, we were power walking to my vehicle.

“Get in my car and I’ll get us out of here,” I told him.

“My car’s closer, Dev. I should just go to mine and you yours,” I didn’t like the idea of separating, but I didn’t have time to debate or think. 

“Alright. Go!” I responded.

He began veering to the left, as did one of our pursuers. Then I noticed them. There were a dozen or so people surrounding the lot. And the house. Russell pressed the unlock button for his car, but the man sprinted towards Russell. That run was like no other I had ever seen. I wasn’t even sure if we had running so much as gliding after a point. I didn’t bother to look behind me. I just ran, hoping to make it to my car in time. Then I panicked. I didn’t have a round in the chamber. I focused as I closed the distance to my car. The chasing footsteps behind me disappeared, and then a scream erupted. 

“Help,” Russell cried.

I wanted to help, but I couldn’t stop. I slowed down just to grab the door handle. As soon as the door opened, I reached into my side seat and pulled the gun. I reached to remove the holster still attached, but the thing pulled me away. The thing’s face changed. Its teeth were now razor sharp. 

“Where are you going, human?” After he finished taunting me, his mouth opened, darting towards my neck. 

But not before I chambered a round and began firing. The first rounds were in the chest. The last four rounds were placed in his skull while I pushed my gun from under his head. Though he dropped to the ground, his chest wounds were healing. At that point, I was shivering and my nerves were firing on all cylinders as I struggled to get inside my car. That’s when all the creatures began to converge. My foot hit the brake then I turned the key. As I put my car in reverse, I reached into my glove compartment for another magazine, preferably the one with ten rounds. 

My car tilted and grazed a few others in my attempt to escape. Screams erupted from inside the mansion. Tears were flowing down my eyes. I couldn’t help them. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. That’s when one of those things ran into my car, causing it to spin before flipping in the air. I held onto my gun for dear life feeling it was my only chance of making it out alive. Everything after that became dark.

The first thing I remember from when I regained consciousness was a salty smell. One vaguely familiar. Once my eyes opened, I saw the reason for this extreme stench. It was blood. An arm in front of me. I felt sick. My body was already weak, but this was almost too much. I closed my eyes for a moment to help myself cope, processing the events that had transpired. I took a deep breath.

“Alas, he is awake,” I knew that voice all too well by now.

“Fuck you,” I said. Then I remembered hearing Russell scream, “Where’s Russell?”

“He was an appetizer before the feast,” she replied in a disgustingly seductive manner.

“So you’re just going to eat people?”

“What can we do? There’s got to be something-” I man pleaded, but was cut off quickly.

“Please! We will do anything to save ourselves. That’s what your leaders said. Just before we had lunch,” she said followed by the creatures laughing. 

“Then why are we still alive?” a woman asked. 

I don’t know why she asked that. Probably fear and panic, but I had no desire to find out. Unfortunately, none of us were that lucky.

“You shall be sent to our reality at midnight, darling. There, you’ll see absolute beauty!” she replied like a mad woman on a high.

I wasn’t restrained, but my glock was gone. I had no idea how I would escape. My mind began to race with all sorts of ideas. I couldn’t have imagined what awaited on the other side and if I had known, I would’ve fought tooth and nail against those creatures.

Another said something in another language. It fit their accents perfectly, but I swore it wasn’t a language made by humans.

“Are you vampires? Aliens?” I asked, trying to stall.

She chuckled and ignored my question, responding in the language.

Looking around me, I saw at least a few dozen people. Granted, evidence all around us said some met a grisly end, but they spared most of us. Though I hated the question a minute ago, I was beginning to wonder what they had blamed for us. Looking around I saw more blood, limbs, vomit, smashed furniture, and those vampires staring at us. Everything except a weapon. I just realized I killed one with rounds to the head. But he could’ve healed. Then again, bullets to the head make more sense than a stake to the heart. I wasn’t sure what I should use, but I could snag a piece of a wood table leg broken off. Then I saw a kitchen knife against my leg. 

I realized looking around I couldn’t retrieve it just yet or one of those things would notice. Unfortunately, Carmille began a ritualistic chant, cutting her henchman’s throat before tossing it into a weird mist. It absorbs the creature, and then explodes everywhere. Some sort of particles fly outward, sending a dry warmth everywhere. A whole wall formed in front of us. When I noticed the vampires were looking at the portal, I grabbed the knife, and tucked it into my sleeve. People were being lifted on their feet before being dragged to the entrance. 

Though I desperately didn’t want to go through, I waited for the right moment to strike, but it never came. One of them began pushing me forward and I didn’t know if I could take him, let alone the others. Once at the edge, my skin began to tingle in pain. I turned while pulling the knife, but one of them kicked me through. 

The first time I saw the Bluefin Diner, it was exactly the kind of place I expected to find in a wasteland like this. Route 66 stretched ahead like a ribbon of asphalt through the barren desert, the air shimmering with heat under the relentless afternoon sun. The road seemed endless, with nothing but barren land and the occasional cactus breaking the monotony. It was the kind of desolation that made you feel small, insignificant, just another speck in the vastness of the universe.

I’d been on the move for weeks, drifting from town to town, with nothing but my old duffel bag and a sense of hollowness that had settled in my chest like a stone. After losing my job and falling out with the few friends I had, it felt like there was nothing left for me anywhere. The nights were the hardest-sleepless hours spent staring at motel ceilings, wondering if I would ever find a place where I belonged. I had no family to turn to, and each new town was just another place to pass through, another attempt to escape the emptiness inside. I have no family, no friends, and no place to call home. The kind of person who could disappear without a trace, and no one would even notice. It was as if I was a ghost already, drifting aimlessly, waiting for anything to give me a reason to stay.

When I pulled into the parking lot, there wasn’t a soul in sight … just a faded sign hanging by a single rusty chain that read 'Help Wanted' and an old gas pump out front that looked like it hadn’t worked in decades. The diner itself looked like it had been forgotten by time, the paint peeling, the windows dusty and streaked. It was a relic of a bygone era, a place that seemed to exist out of sheer stubbornness.

I paused for a moment, staring at the sign. Maybe this was what I needed. I had nowhere else to go, no direction, just a longing for a place to belong, even if just for a few nights. The thought of having something to do, even if it was just washing dishes or sweeping floors, was enough to make me consider it. I pushed the thought away, taking a deep breath, and made my way inside, the bell above the door chiming softly as I stepped inside.

The dim interior was a mix of peeling wallpaper, cracked linoleum floors, and flickering neon lights that cast eerie shadows across the empty booths. The air was thick with the smell of grease and old coffee, a mix that clung to my senses, making my stomach turn slightly. A single man stood behind the counter, his face lined and weathered, with hollow eyes that seemed to look right through me. He was the owner, though he never bothered to tell me his name.

I hesitated for a moment before making my way to a booth in the corner. I slid into the cracked vinyl seat, the material sticking to my skin as I settled in. The owner watched me, his expression unreadable, his hollow eyes following my every move as if sizing me up.

After a moment, he shuffled over, a notepad in hand. "What'll it be?" he asked, his voice gruff, his tone making it clear he wasn't interested in small talk.

I glanced at the faded menu lying on the table, the pages yellowed with age and stained with coffee rings. There wasn't much to choose from, and everything looked like it had been there since the place first opened. "Just a coffee, please," I replied, offering a small, tentative smile, though I doubted it would make any difference.

He nodded, turning away without a word. I watched as he moved behind the counter, the sound of the coffee machine breaking the silence. It felt strange, almost surreal, sitting there in the empty diner, the hum of the old refrigerator the only other noise. The neon sign outside flickered, casting brief flashes of red and blue across the room, adding to the sense of unease that seemed to permeate the place.

He returned a moment later, setting the chipped mug in front of me. I wrapped my hands around it, savoring the warmth, even if the coffee itself tasted burnt and bitter. It was something tangible, something to hold on to in the unsettling quiet of the diner.

"Thanks," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. He gave a curt nod, his eyes lingering on me for a moment longer before he turned away, his footsteps echoing across the empty floor as he retreated behind the counter. I couldn't shake the feeling that he was still watching me, even when his back was turned.

I cleared my throat, pointing towards the sign outside. "You hiring?" I asked, my voice sounding smaller than I intended, the words barely carrying across the empty room.

He looked at me for a moment, his gaze weighing on me, then nodded slowly, as if the decision wasn’t really his to make, as if he was resigned to whatever fate had brought me here.

"Need a job?" he asked, his voice flat and devoid of any warmth, like he had heard the same request a hundred times before and knew how it would end.

I nodded. The truth was, I needed money-enough to get me out of this place, to the next town, and maybe a little further. He didn’t ask any questions, didn’t want to know where I was from or what had brought me here. He just nodded back, a small, almost imperceptible movement of his head, like he understood more than he was letting on.

“Ok. You'll start tonight,” he muttered, his voice carrying a hint of something I couldn't quite place-was it pity, or maybe just indifference?

He hesitated for a moment, then gestured for me to follow him. “Let me show you around,” he said, his voice still gruff but with a hint of resignation, as if he knew that neither of us had much of a choice in the matter.

I got up from the booth, the seat creaking as I stood, and followed him through the diner. He moved slowly, pointing out the essentials with a practiced efficiency, his voice a monotonous drone as he spoke. “The counter, where you'll be serving. Coffee machine-temperamental, but it works if you treat it right. Kitchen's back here,” he said, pushing open the swinging door to reveal a grimy room filled with old pots and pans. His words were clipped, like he was simply going through the motions.

There was a weariness to him, an exhaustion that seemed to seep into every word he spoke. He showed me the storage room, the restrooms, and even the back exit, his explanations brief and to the point. There was no warmth in his words, no attempt to make me feel at ease. Just the basics, like he’d done this before, like he knew I wouldn't be here long.

After a while, he turned back to the front, pausing by the door. “That’s about it. Good luck, kid,” he said, his hollow eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. There was something in his gaze, something unsaid, but before I could make sense of it, he grabbed his coat from behind the counter and walked out, the door closing with a jingle of the bell.

I watched him disappear into the night, something about the way he’d said those words making my skin prickle. There was an emptiness in the diner now, a void that seemed to expand in his absence. But I ignored it. I needed this. I needed something to keep me grounded, even if it was just for a little while.

I walked around the diner, taking in the peeling wallpaper, the cracked vinyl booths, and the flickering neon lights that cast an eerie glow over everything. There was something unsettling about the place, something that felt… wrong, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe it was just the isolation, the sense of being completely cut off from the rest of the world.

I went to the kitchen in the back, a grimy little room filled with pots and pans that had seen better days. The air was thick with the scent of stale grease and something metallic, and I could hear the faint drip of water echoing from a leaking pipe. The floor creaked under my weight, and every surface seemed to carry a layer of grime that spoke of years of neglect. There was a window above the sink, looking out over the parking lot and beyond that, a lake. It was the only thing that broke the monotony of the desert, a dark, still body of water that seemed to go on forever.

I settled in behind the counter, a cup of lukewarm coffee in front of me as I tried to stay awake. The hours dragged on, the silence pressing in on me, until I heard it : a soft, haunting melody, drifting through the air.

At first, I thought it might have been the wind, but as the sound grew clearer, I realized it wasn't natural. There was a rhythm to it, an eerie beauty that seemed almost deliberate. It tugged at something inside me, urging me to move, to follow. I frowned, looking around, but there was no one else in the diner. The sound seemed to be coming from outside, from the direction of the lake. I glanced out the window, catching a glimpse of the dark water. The lake lay still, its surface unnaturally smooth, reflecting the pale light of the moon. It looked almost lifeless, an expanse of inky black that seemed to swallow all light and sound. There was something about it that made my skin crawl, a sense of wrongness that I couldn't quite shake.

I shook my head, trying to ignore it, but the melody grew louder, more insistent, until I found myself standing up, my feet moving almost as if they had a mind of their own. It was as if the sound was pulling me, dragging me towards the door, and I felt an overwhelming urge to step outside and find its source. I walked to the door, my hand reaching for the handle, when something caught my eye . A crumpled note, stuffed inside the lining of one of the cracked vinyl booth seats, the tear just big enough to hide it.

The paper was creased, torn at the edges, and in scrawled handwriting, it read: 

Do not, under any circumstances, go near the lake.

If you see wet footprints leading from the lake to the diner, clean them immediately with hot water.

If you hear scratching on the windows, keep your eyes on your work.

The diner lights must remain dim but never off.

I looked back at the door, the melody still calling to me, but I forced myself to step back, to sit down. I couldn’t explain it, but something about the note felt true.

The note was unsigned, but I felt a chill run down my spine as I read it. The old man hadn’t mentioned any of this. As I looked at the stains, the smudges of dark red that could only be blood, I felt something twist inside me … a sense that this wasn’t just some elaborate joke.

As dawn broke, I saw the owner return, his hollow eyes glancing at me without a word. He looked more tired than before, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than seemed necessary. He didn’t ask if I’d heard anything, didn’t seem to care how my shift went.

I watched him for a moment, wondering what secrets lay behind those tired eyes, before returning to my car to tried and get some sleep. Exhaustion weighed heavy on me, but sleep was elusive. When I finally dozed off, I dreamed I was drowning in the nearby lake, the dark water wrapping around me, pulling me under while the haunting melody echoed all around, muffled and relentless. I jolted awake, my heart pounding, the fear lingering even as I tried to shake it off. It wasn't much, but it was all I had-a few hours of uneasy rest before the next night began.

I found an old, half-stale sandwich that tasted like cardboard, and washed it down with a cup of coffee so bitter it almost made me gag. I forced it down anyway, needing the energy.

The next night was different.

I was wiping down the counter, the old man gone home for the night, leaving me alone in the dimly lit diner. The air was thick, the oppressive silence broken only by the faint buzz of the flickering neon sign outside. It was almost one in the morning, and the road outside was empty . Nothing but darkness stretching into oblivion.

The hum of the old refrigerator seemed to grow louder in the quiet, a low, unsettling drone that made the hairs on my neck stand on end. I could hear the occasional creak of the building settling, the soft rustle of something brushing against the outside walls , maybe the wind, or maybe something else. The air felt colder now, the chill creeping in, making me shiver.

I decided to take a break from the unnerving quiet and clean the restrooms. I grabbed a rag and some cleaning supplies and made my way to the back. The restrooms were just as grimy as the rest of the diner, the tiles cracked and stained, the mirror above the sink coated in a layer of grime that made my reflection look ghostly. I scrubbed at the sink and wiped down the counters, trying to ignore the growing sense of unease that seemed to be pressing in on me. The sound of dripping water echoed off the walls, each drop seeming louder than the last.

When I finally finished, I took a deep breath and made my way back to the front of the diner. But as soon as I stepped out of the restroom, my heart froze. There, on the floor, were wet footprints. I dropped the rag I was holding, the sound of it hitting the ground barely registering in my ears. The footprints led from the door, across the diner floor, and toward the counter where I stood. They were elongated, almost human but not quite, with webbed impressions that suggested something unnatural. My heart pounded as I backed away, my eyes tracing the eerie shape, each step seeming deliberate, as if whatever made them had been searching for me.

I remembered the second rule : clean them immediately with hot water. My heart pounded in my chest as I rushed to the back, my footsteps echoing through the empty diner. I fumbled with the bucket, my hands trembling as I turned on the tap, the hot water rushing out and steaming up in the cold air of the kitchen. Every second felt like an eternity, the feeling of something closing in on me growing stronger. I could almost sense eyes watching, waiting. I filled the bucket to the brim, the hot water scalding my hands as I picked it up, my grip shaky.

As I hurried back to the front, my nerves got the best of me. I stumbled, the bucket slipping from my grip, hot water sloshing over the sides and splashing across the floor. Panic surged through me, my breath catching in my throat as I scrambled to pick it up. The scalding water burned my hands, but I barely felt the pain . My only focus was on those wet footprints. They were growing darker, spreading across the floor like an ink stain, each print more defined, more deliberate. It was as if whatever had made them was gaining strength, its presence becoming more real, more solid.

I grabbed the rag, my hands trembling as I dipped it into the bucket and began scrubbing at the prints. The hot water steamed as it hit the floor, the vapor rising around me like a fog. I swore I heard something-a hiss, low and menacing, like the sound of steam escaping from a valve. It was followed by a whisper, faint but unmistakable, as if something was speaking to me, taunting me.

I scrubbed harder, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the fear clawing at my insides. The footprints slowly began to fade, the dark impressions dissolving under the hot water, but the feeling of being watched only grew stronger. My eyes darted to the windows, half-expecting to see something staring back at me, but there was nothing-only darkness and my own reflection, pale and terrified. For a brief moment, I thought I saw movement in the reflection, a flicker of something shifting behind me. I spun around, my heart in my throat, but there was nothing there … only the empty diner, silent and still.

I forced myself to breathe, to calm down, but the fear lingered, gnawing at me, refusing to let go. It was as if the darkness itself was alive, pressing in on me, waiting for me to slip up, to make a mistake. By the time I was done, the diner felt colder, the air heavy and oppressive, the silence almost deafening. I set the bucket down, my hands aching from the burns, and took a step back, staring at the floor. The footprints were gone, but the sense of unease remained, an invisible weight pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe. Something wrong was going on here and I knew this wasn't the last time I would see something like this.

I glanced at the windows, half-expecting to see something staring back at me, but there was nothing …just darkness and my own reflection, pale and frightened. For a brief moment, I thought I saw movement in the reflection, a flicker of something shifting behind me, but when I turned, there was nothing there. I forced myself to breathe, to calm down, but the fear lingered, gnawing at me.

When the owner came in to begin his shift, I told him about the strange things that had been happening : the footprints, the whispers, the movement in the reflection. He listened with an expression that seemed almost indifferent, his eyes tired and hollow. When I finished, he let out a long sigh and shook his head.

"You’re just tired," he said dismissively, his voice flat. "Working nights can mess with your mind. You start imagining things, seeing things that aren't there." He gave me a half-hearted smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Get some rest. You'll feel better."

His response left me feeling uneasy, like he knew more than he was letting on. There was something in the way he spoke, the way he avoided my gaze, that made my skin crawl. But I nodded, forcing a smile, pretending to believe him. Deep down, I knew what I had experienced wasn't just in my head. Something was wrong with this place, and he knew it.

I told him that I was only staying for this night and expected to get paid tomorrow morning so I could leave. He gave me a strange look, then smirked, his eyes cold. "Sure, kid," he said, his voice dripping with something I couldn't quite place. "Tonight will be your last night." I tried to rest during the day, catching whatever sleep I could. It wasn't much…if someone could even call it sleep but it was just enough to get me through the final night.

The following night brought a darker, heavier atmosphere to the diner. Shadows pooled in every corner, stretching long across the floors, as if something unseen was lurking within them. I held my breath, the silence thick, waiting for the familiar yet dreadful sounds that had haunted my nights here. Suddenly, the jukebox crackled to life without warning, spilling out a warped, haunting melody that didn’t belong in this world. The song was unrecognizable, distorted-echoed off the walls, grating against my mind like nails on a chalkboard. I rushed toward it, fingers fumbling over the buttons, desperate to shut it off. But the buttons wouldn't respond, as if they were locked in place. No matter what I did, the music only grew louder, more chaotic, each dissonant note stabbing through my head, making it impossible to think. It was as if the jukebox itself was alive, feeding off my fear.

Then, I heard it...

It started soft, almost like a gentle brush against the glass, but I knew better. I knew it meant that something was out there : something dangerous, something that had found me and wasn't going to leave until it got what it wanted. The scraping grew louder, more insistent, and with each drag of a nail against the windowpane, I could feel the weight of something… waiting. Rule three echoed in my mind: If you hear scratching on the windows, keep your eyes on your work. Swallowing hard, I forced myself to stare at the counter, at the dishes I was drying, moving my hands in a mindless rhythm to keep myself grounded. My pulse thundered in my ears, but I kept my gaze fixed, my fingers clutching the plates tightly as though they were my lifeline. The scratching continued, scraping deeper into the glass with each pass, filling the silence with a maddening rhythm.

The jukebox went quiet just as abruptly as it had started, and the scratching stopped. The diner fell silent, but I knew the danger hadn’t passed. I let out a slow, shaky breath, my heart still racing. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it.

A figure stood by the window. Tall and gaunt, with matted hair falling over a face that was half-hidden in shadow, except for its eyes. Those eyes gleamed through the glass, piercing, like they could see straight through me. Its lips curved into a cruel smile, revealing teeth jagged and sharp, too sharp, as if they were meant to tear through something soft and fragile.

My hands trembled as I clutched the counter, fighting the urge to look, to meet those eyes. But I could feel it calling me, its voice slithering into my mind like a twisted lullaby, a hum that carried with it the weight of everything I’d tried to escape. The creature knew me. It whispered my name, my secrets, my regrets, each word laced with venom, each syllable pulling me closer to the breaking point.

Just as I felt myself slipping, the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a force that snapped me back to reality. The old man stood there, his eyes wild, his face twisted in terror. He looked at me, and in that moment, I saw more fear in him than I had ever seen in anyone. His voice trembled as he spoke.

"Sorry, kid," he whispered, his words thick with guilt. "You weren't supposed to make it this far."

Before I could react, he strode toward the window, his hands shaking as he reached for the latch. My heart sank, fear twisting in my gut as I realized what was happening. He was letting it inside. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind : Why was he doing this, and what would happen if he succeeded? The sense of betrayal and desperation made my pulse quicken, and I felt utterly powerless, my feet glued to the floor as the horror unfolded in front of me.

As the old man’s trembling fingers fumbled with the latch, the creature’s grin widened, its sharp teeth glinting as though it could already taste what was to come. I took a step back, dread coiling in my gut, every fiber of my being screaming at me to run. But I couldn’t move, my legs frozen in place as the man turned back to me, his face hollow and filled with a strange mix of desperation and surrender.

"I didn’t want this," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, as if trying to convince himself more than me. "But I had no choice. It keeps her satisfied and it keeps me safe.” He swallowed, his voice dropping to a ragged whisper. “But it’s never enough.”

The horror of his words crashed over me. I was just one more in a long line of sacrifices, lured here to save his miserable life. The disgust was overwhelming, but there was no time to think. Behind him, the creature’s fingers curled over the window frame, long and dripping with a dark, murky substance that trailed down the glass like ink.

A rush of panic surged through me. I had to stop him, to prevent whatever horror was clawing its way into the diner. Desperate, I charged at the old man, my body colliding with his as I tried to stop him from opening the window. He grunted, his eyes flashing with a wild fury as he shoved me back. "You don't understand!" he shouted, his voice cracking, filled with both fear and anger. He lunged at me, his hands outstretched, trying to pin me down for the creature that was now moving steadily towards us.

We struggled, our bodies crashing into tables and chairs, the metal legs scraping loudly against the floor. His hands wrapped around my wrists, his strength surprising for someone who looked so frail. I could feel his nails digging into my skin, his breath hot and ragged against my face. My heart thundered in my chest as I glanced over his shoulder. The creature was inside now, its twisted form moving with a sickening fluidity, its pale skin glistening, its mouth stretched wide, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth.

With a surge of adrenaline, I twisted my body, managing to free one hand. My fingers scrambled across the counter until they closed around something cold and metallic : a kitchen knife. Without thinking, I plunged it into the old man's side. He let out a choked gasp, his grip loosening as his eyes widened in shock and pain. I pushed him away from me, his body stumbling backward, directly towards the creature.

The creature's eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger as it reached out, its long, wet fingers wrapping around the old man's shoulders. He barely had time to scream before the creature sank its teeth into his neck, the sharp fangs tearing through flesh with a sickening crunch.

His body went rigid, his eyes wide with terror as the creature dragged him down, its teeth still embedded in his neck.

I could see the blood trailing behind them, dark and slick, leaving a gruesome path as it pulled him closer to the open window. His screams echoed through the diner, a desperate, haunting sound that sent shivers down my spine. His eyes locked onto mine one last time, filled with a pleading, terrified look, but there was nothing I could do. He was beyond saving.

They reached the window, and with a final, jerking motion, the creature dragged him into the shadows outside. The old man’s screams were cut off abruptly, leaving only the sound of the creature’s rasping breath and the faint crunch of his body being pulled over the gravel outside. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. My heart hammered as I listened to the horrible, wet sounds fading into the distance.

Without looking back, I turned and ran, my footsteps pounding against the linoleum as I burst through the front door and into the cool night air.

Outside, the world was still and silent, a stark contrast to the chaos I had left behind. The cold air bit into my skin, grounding me as I staggered forward, trying to shake the horrifying images from my mind.

I kept walking, my steps unsteady, my heart still pounding. I started the car and floored it. I had survived, but I knew I would never be the same. Her whispers would always be there, a reminder of what I had faced, of the darkness that lurked just beyond the surface of the lake.

I'd heard about all these drones flying around all over the place. Some people thought they were UFO's. I saw a few of the videos and pictures on the internet, but they just looked like planes to me. Little did I know that I'd soon find out something about those drones. Something evil.

That was about a week ago I guess. It's still going on supposedly, but it was only a few days into the whole affair when I was whisked into the story myself. I'd forgotten all about the news story by then to be honest. I was just sitting there one morning drinking my coffee at the kitchen table and playing Angry Birds on my laptop when I felt a strange sensation in the pit of my stomach.

It felt like that tingling feeling you get in your gut when you go down a drop on a roller-coaster. Only there was no logical reason for it. I thought maybe the coffee was bad so I dumped it out. I use milk as a creamer so I opened up the milk jug and gave the contents a sniff. Didn't smell bad.

Then I heard something. It was a deep vibrating tone. So deep it was barely noticeable but it seemed to cause the spot in my tummy where that feeling was to tremble. I walked around the kitchen a little bit and on one side of the room it seemed to be stronger.

I peeked out the kitchen window there, and above some tall bushes next to the window was something black that looked like a metal pole that might be part of some kind of lawn equipment. I couldn't see what it was attached to because the bush was in the way.

"Oh, that damn Perry Goodmyer," I said out loud, "he's always trimming and edging his dang lawn. Think I'll have a word with him."

When I opened the front door of the house and stepped outside, the tone and the sensation got a bit stronger. I closed the door behind me and trounced across the grass and rounded the corner of the house to get a look at Perry's latest contraption.

I was expecting some kind of wood chipper for branches but when I saw what was there I stopped dead in my tracks and just stared for a moment, stunned into suspended confusion.

It was black in color all over. It had metal poles of some kind protruding out and bending around it's exterior. It wasn't obvious what they were for. It's over all appearance reminded me of a bug, only this thing was the size of an SUV. Just like they said on the News. It's body was squarish or more like a rectangular block with all sorts of fins and strange indentations all around it. And it was hovering about three feet off the ground.

The grass just under it was vibrating. You could see it moving. The deep tone was loud and permeated everything. Even my bones felt like they were shaking to the frequency.

But see, the thing is I don't think it was actually a machine at all. It seemed more to me to be mimicking what a machine might look like. There was nothing on it that seemed to have a function. No windows or cameras or antenna. No wings or propellers, or exhaust ports. It was like a floating power transformer but with all kinds of extra junk randomly attached to it.

That wasn't really why I came to believe it wasn't a machine though. It was the feeling it gave off. It literally emitted an emotion and an intent. It was just as strong and obvious that that was what it was doing as the tone was obvious. It was literally broadcasting it's conscious state of mind to everything around it.

It was gut wrenching. The feeling I mean. It was a mixture of total malevolence, total lack of compassion, and a feeling of certain and absolute doom. The thing was an abomination. It was unholy and it knew it.

All I wanted to do was flee, but I was paralyzed in terror and mortification. I couldn't even scream. I just stood there in total dis-empowered helplessness.

It intended me to approach it but I didn't want to. It demanded I walk up to it and touch a small flat area on the side facing me. I started to step forward just to appease it and get some relief from it's incessant psychic demand.

It was buzzing like an old fashioned space heater and the sound was both frightening and sickening. The air felt like static electricity as I got closer. I noticed goose bumps across my arm as I reached out for it. With a gut full of dread I made contact with only the tips of my index and middle fingers.

At that moment and in a single moment, everything seemed to drop away. It's hard to describe. It was like my mind fell downwards through my body, turning me inside out as it did. The world seemed to turn upside down but I knew I was still standing upright and still with my hand on the damned thing.

There were some spiny things on it above where I was touching it which opened up into a circular gaping wound. That's right. Wound. Instead of a hatch or window opening, it presented the same function to me as an injury. I could tell it did so for the sole purpose of disturbing me.

Inside it showed me a vision of horrific suffering. A display of small animals lay inside it's belly. All alive but grotesquely injured. They writhed in pain and strained at getting out. The poor things reached out to me with their paws in desperate hope for salvation. And I wanted to save them. I tried to force myself to thrust my arm into the opening and rescue as many as I could. I pushed hard to move my limbs to do this but they would not budge.

Tears were streaming down my face. I could feel them. Hot air bellowed out of the thing scorching my face like summer day's sun. I strained even harder to move. I had to save at least one of these little guys.

Just as I broke the spell and my arm flung in towards the animals, a large metal device of some kind rotated from the side and brought an anvil sized block of metal down into them, smashing their bodies into a bloody mess before my eyes.

The thing did this just to sicken me. To demoralize me.

I was shaking in fear and absolute terror. Was I next?

Whatever sent this thing was the embodiment of evil. An evil so complete that it had no desire for it's own benefit, like a thief, or even a rapist might have. No, it wasn't out for it's own gain. It's only purpose was to cause harm and suffering. But not merely physical pain, it was more interested in inflicting psychological and emotional pain. It was built specifically to do just that.

I sensed it's satisfaction at my internal response and it began to lift into the air. I fell to the ground and watched it ascend, now utterly bawling my eyes out.

"Don't you ever come back here!" I shouted between sobs. "Don't you ever come back, you bastard!"

It rose way up into the sky and then headed Northward until it disappeared behind some trees and I could no longer see it.

That night when my third grade daughter and my husband got home, I gathered them together in the living room. We watched my favorite Christmas movie and cuddled under a blanket with our little dog Squiggly. I held them all tight. So tight. I'll never ever let them go.

Deep in the Bavarian Forest, where storms toppled trees decades ago and nature let them rot undisturbed, lies the Rachelgebiet—a place so untouched by humanity that sunlight struggles to pierce the canopy. There are no trails here, no clearings, no way to orient yourself if you’re lost. Just an endless expanse of shadow and silence where time itself feels irrelevant. It’s a place few dare to speak of, let alone enter. But they should have—because that’s where people started disappearing.

I didn’t know any of this when I took the job.

I'd just been fired from a warehouse logistics role. My interim boss at the time was a twenty-four year old nepo plant, running the place whilst his father was on vacation. The heir apparent was short-tempered and arrogant. One of those types who think they know everything about running a business because they've read “Rich Dad Poor Dad” and follow Gary Vee on Instagram.

So when I warned him that scheduling the bulk wine deliveries during vintage season would overwhelm our already maxed-out cold storage—three hundred containers of temperature-sensitive stock with nowhere to go but the forty-degree loading bay—I did so with the kind of numb acceptance that comes from watching a train wreck in slow motion. The numbers were clear as day: our facility could handle maybe sixty containers max, and that's if we Tetris'd them in there like our lives depended on it. The rest would sit out in the Queensland sun, slowly cooking into very expensive vinegar. But my words just floated through that empty chasm between his ears and disappeared into the nether, probably to join all the other ignored warnings from people who actually knew what they were talking about.

So come five, the workers walked, leaving behind a ghost town of half-stacked pallets and beeping forklifts low on charge. The first trucks were already lined up outside, drivers getting antsy in their cabs, paperwork clutched in sweaty hands. By morning, it’d be a shit show. I remember standing in that empty warehouse, looking up at the mountains of boxes we'd somehow have to deal with, and knew if I came in tomorrow my ass would be handed to me by some private educated ponce with a business degree I'd bet good money he paid someone else to earn.

So I left my vest and company-issued hardhat in my office, dropped my pass and forklift keys into the after hours post slot, and walked out. Drove home in my beat-up Commodore, windows down because the AC had died two summers ago and I'd never bothered fixing it. Blocked every number in my phone still related to that place, cracked open a beer, and started looking for a new job.

That's when I found the listing for the watchtower position.

The job listing was sparse on details but heavy on requirements. Posted by the Brides of Christendom—a religious organization I'd heard whispers about, mostly the kind you'd expect from people who think anything more organized than a Sunday service must be hiding something. They had deep pockets, that much was clear from the salary they were offering. Six figures for what amounted to glorified data collection in the middle of nowhere? I'd have been suspicious if I wasn't so desperate. If I'd been thinking clearly, I might have wondered why they needed someone so far from their usual territory.

I remembered that mess with Kirby Leedy a few years back. Everyone did. She'd gone out to their compound in Warlpiri country to do an exposé on what she called “Australia's most dangerous cult.” Years later, they found what was left of her buried under the red dirt. The investigation went nowhere—no evidence, they said. Just circumstantial links that weren't enough for charges. The compound shut down soon after, leaving nothing but empty buildings and unanswered questions baking in the outback sun.

But here's the thing: I knew a guy called Mason, who'd done their grocery deliveries out there for years. Real straight-shooter type, not the kind to sugar-coat anything. He swore up and down that the women there were nothing but kind. “Just trying to live their faith,” he'd said over beers one night. “Media got it all wrong, mate. Those ladies wouldn't hurt a fly.”

Besides, this position wasn't even in Australia. It was halfway across the world in a forest I'd never heard of until now.

The requirements were specific. They wanted someone strong, with mountaineering experience. Fair enough, given the location. But then they went on about “extraordinary attention to detail” and the ability to take scientific readings. The listing emphasized—almost defensively—that no science background was necessary, however. They were more interested in someone with “passion for nature” and “dedication to environmental preservation.”

“We believe that true understanding of nature comes from devotion rather than education,” the posting read. “The right candidate will share our commitment to protecting God's creation through careful observation and documentation.”

It was a twelve-month contract, no renewals possible. That struck me as odd—usually these kinds of positions want someone they can train up and keep. But they were clear: one year, no exceptions. The job involved manning one of their watchtowers solo, taking regular readings that they didn’t specify. They'd provide training, they said. Every second weekend, I'd meet with a Brides of Christendom representative to hand over my data, which would supposedly help with their environmental conservation efforts.

“Your work will contribute to our understanding of natural cycles and help preserve the delicate balance of God's creation,” the listing continued.

It was vague enough to sound meaningful while saying absolutely nothing concrete. Like a horoscope, or a prophecy—words you could pour any meaning into, depending on what you wanted to hear.

The isolation part didn't bother me. After dealing with that walking management disaster at the warehouse, a year of minimal human contact sounded like heaven. They'd provide food, accommodation, and all necessary equipment. The pay was enough to set me up nicely afterward, maybe start that ginger beer line I’d had brewing for a while. I was a pretty experienced hiker, was familiar with most of the major peaks in the world—even taught an abseiling class in Croatia for a while in my mid-twenties.

I took another swig of beer and started filling out the application. Sometimes the devil you don't know is better than the one you do—even if that devil happens to be a religious organization with a questionable past and very specific requirements for watching trees in Germany.

Radio silence followed my application. Two weeks of refreshing my email and jumping every time my phone buzzed. I picked up temp work loading trucks—the irony wasn't lost on me—and tried not to think about how quickly my savings were dwindling. In hindsight, they were probably waiting, watching, assessing my desperation level. Making sure I was in exactly the right state of mind when they made their offer.

“Your application was very strong,” she said cheerfully, after introducing herself as Sister Katherine. “Tell me a little more about your background.”

I mentioned my warehouse work, inventory management, quality control. Heavily stressed a life-long interest in nature, even found a way to mention that one time I backed up an entire highway to save a yellow-tailed cockatoo from pancake city. Eventually she prodded:

“And your scientific background?”

“None, really. Basic high school stuff. Bit of chemistry in first year uni before I dropped out.”

There was a pause, then a sound I could've sworn was satisfaction. “Good. Very good. We find those with too much formal education often struggle with our methods. Our approach is more holistic, but we’re confident in the results we’ve seen so far.”

The questions continued. Had I ever lived alone for extended periods? Was I comfortable with isolation? Could I follow precise instructions without deviation? Then, almost casually: “Are you a man of faith, Mr. Davies?”

“No,” I admitted. “Never really took to it.”

She laughed, a warm sound that seemed genuinely amused. “That's quite common among our watchmen. Though they all leave believing, one way or another.”

The call ended abruptly with a promise to be in touch. A week later, an email arrived from their HR department—I had the job. A woman (another Katherine, oddly) handled the logistics: plane tickets, necessary paperwork, a list of what to bring. I spent the next month wrapping up my life. Found someone to take over my lease, stored my furniture at my parents' place, sold what I couldn't store.

The flight to Munich felt surreal. From there, I caught a train to Zwiesel, a small town that serves as one of the main gateways to the Bavarian Forest. A woman in a white robe was waiting at the station, holding a sign with my name. Sister Mary, she introduced herself, all smiles and enthusiastic German-accented English.

We drove for hours in a sensible Volkswagen, deeper and deeper into the forest. The roads got narrower, the trees taller, until the canopy above formed an unbroken ceiling that turned afternoon into perpetual twilight. Sister Elsa chatted the whole way about the forest's history, the Bride of Christendom’s conservation work, how blessed they were to have another watchman.

The tower appeared suddenly—a stark silhouette against the darkening sky. Modern construction despite its isolated location, rising maybe forty meters above the trees. My home for the next year.

“Now,” Sister Elsa said, unfolding a map on the tower's small table. “You have twelve locations to monitor.” She traced a perfect circle around the tower, marking each point. “Each requires different readings.”

The next two hours were a crash course in data collection. Soil samples at points one through four, using a special probe that measured something she called “resonance.” Air quality readings at points five through eight, with a device that looked more like an antique compass than any scientific instrument I'd seen. The last four points needed water samples from streams, tested with strips that changed colors in patterns I was told to document but not interpret.

“Every Sunday,” she explained, “you will take the trail to Spiegelau. Five hours each way. You'll meet one of our sisters at the Waldkirche at noon to deliver your readings and receive supplies.”

The training felt rushed, inadequate for the precision they seemed to want. But before I could ask for clarification, Sister Elsa was heading for her car. “The Lord's work awaits,” she said cheerfully. “You'll do fine.”

Then she was gone, leaving me alone in a tower that suddenly felt very tall and very isolated. The single room at the top was sparse but functional—bed, kitchenette, bathroom behind a partition. The windows wrapped all the way around, giving me a 360-degree view of absolutely nothing but darkening forest. Perfect visibility in every direction. Like a fishbowl.

I unpacked my bags, trying to make the space feel more like home. Everything felt fresh, almost surgically so—this place had plenty of fresh air, but I could smell the lingering after-burn of rubbing alcohol, as if this place had received a deep clean before I moved in. Thoughtful. Once I made my bed, I tried to settle in for the night. But as the last enduring rays of the sun disappeared and the forest plunged into absolute darkness, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching from those trees. Looking up at my brightly lit box in the sky. At the time, I laughed it off. I’d spent a good chunk of my life camping and scaring myself shitless. The human imagination is inexorably linked with our primate brain. The mind feeds you images of moving shadows and ghouls under beds and murderers in darkened alleyways. It’s a way of keeping you on your toes, keeping you alive.

So I summed up those feelings of unease that night to little more than my imagination.

As always, I should have listened to my gut.

The first month passed easily enough. I developed a routine: wake at dawn, make coffee, check the weather. The readings took most of the morning—a perfect circle through the forest, each point marked by a small metal stake driven into the ground. I'd document everything in a leather-bound logbook they'd provided, filling page after page with numbers I didn't understand.

The soil probe would hum at different frequencies, displaying readings in units I'd never heard of. Sometimes I'd catch myself staring at it for minutes at a time, watching the needle bounce meaninglessly back and forth, until the damp from the ground would seep through my pants and snap me back to awareness. The air quality device looked like something from a steampunk novel, with brass dials that moved in patterns that seemed to follow no logical system I could discern. The water test strips would bloom in complex color patterns—not just changing to a single shade, but developing intricate designs like tiny abstract paintings. Beautiful, really. I'd find myself mesmerized by them, watching the colors swirl and merge until the morning light had somehow slipped into afternoon.

Sundays became my favorite day. I'd leave before sunrise for the long trek to Spiegelau, watching the forest wake up around me. Sometimes I'd pass clearings that seemed too perfectly circular, or stumble upon old equipment I assumed belonged to previous watchmen—a rusted thermos here, a torn backpack there, once even what looked like a full set of clothes laid out as if their owner had simply evaporated. The town itself was small but alive, a shock of civilization after six days of solitude. I'd submit my readings to whichever Sister was assigned that week, trying not to notice how intently they studied my face, my movements, before they even glanced at the logbook. Then I'd treat myself to a proper meal at the local Gasthaus—something that wasn't from a can or the tower's cramped freezer. I was four weeks in, and never wanted to touch spam again in my life. The owner of the restaurant we would meet in never seemed to remember me from week to week, though I was surely one of his few regular customers. Maybe all us watchmen just looked the same to him after a while.

I tried googling the devices I used for the readings during these brief windows of connectivity, but found nothing even remotely similar. Searches for other watchmen's experiences came up empty. When I casually asked one of the Sisters about previous watchmen, she smiled that serene smile they all seemed to share and said, “The watchtower is new, and so is your position. There weren’t any watchmen before you.”

They also sprung health checks on me. Took longer than submitting the readings.

The health checks were exhaustive. Blood pressure, reflexes, muscle tone, coordination tests. They'd shine lights in my eyes, test my hearing, measure my heart rate after basic exercises. One Sister would take detailed notes while another performed the tests, their pens scratching against paper with the same methodical precision as my measurement devices in the forest. Sometimes I'd catch them exchanging glances, making small marks in margins.

Then came the questions, always the same:

“How is your motivation level?”

“Are you maintaining your energy throughout the day?”

“Describe your sleep patterns.”

“Rate your overall sense of purpose from one to ten.”

They'd inspect everything I bought before I headed back—food, supplies, even magazines. “Certain materials can interfere with the readings,” they'd explain. “Modern chemicals, electronic devices, some dyes. We must protect the purity of our work.” Once, when I bought an extra coffee maker for the tower, Sister Agnes almost seemed alarmed. She confiscated it immediately, muttering something about “artificial stimulation corrupting natural patterns.”

I learned to line my socks with sachets of instant coffee. Some things I just wasn’t willing to give up.

It all seemed excessive but well-intentioned. Until things started to change.

It began with sleep. I'd always been an early riser, but suddenly I was sleeping through my alarms. I'd wake groggy, disoriented, sometimes well past noon. The Sisters noticed—of course they did. “Quite normal,” they assured me during the health checks, making those little marks in their notebooks. “The forest has its own rhythm. Best not to fight it.”

My appetite disappeared. Dishes piled up in the sink because the thought of washing them felt overwhelming. My daily hikes became shorter, then stopped altogether. I'd sit in the tower's single chair for hours, staring at the trees, thinking nothing. Sometimes I'd “wake up” to find I'd been sitting there so long the sun had set, though I couldn't remember what I'd been thinking about or even if I'd been thinking at all.

Depression, I thought. I’d experienced it, once. It was something like this.

The caffeine pills and energy drinks I smuggled back helped, but only barely. The Sisters never found them in their inspections—I'd gotten good at hiding things—but sometimes I wondered if they knew anyway. They'd give me these knowing looks during the health checks, especially when testing my reflexes or measuring my pulse. The younger ones would seem almost excited, while the older Sisters would nod with grim satisfaction, as if I were confirming something they'd suspected all along.

I told myself it was the altitude, or seasonal affect disorder, or simple isolation. But I'd done solo work before. I'd lived alone. This was different. It wasn't just tiredness—it was like something was slowly draining away my will to do anything at all. Even writing in my personal journal became an effort. The entries grew shorter, then stopped altogether. The last one before this just trails off mid-sentence, as if I'd forgotten what I was trying to say.

Or why I was trying to say it at all.

Then came the nights.

The first time I saw one, I was about to head out for a late evening reading. Just a figure at first, moving between the trees. It looked like a man, but something was wrong about the way it moved—sluggish, dreamlike, as if every step required immense effort. One foot dragging itself after the other, stumbling over roots and through thickets. It would stop for long periods, head limp and lolling against its shoulder, swaying slightly, as if it had forgotten what it was doing or where it was going.

I watched through the tower windows, telling myself it was just another hiker, though I knew no one else was supposed to be out here. But there was something familiar about the way it was dressed—heavy boots, weatherproof jacket, the kind of gear I wore for my readings. With the aid of a pair of binoculars, I could see dark stains on their clothing, patches where the fabric had started to rot.

They kept appearing. Always at the edge of my vision, always just as the sun set. Sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs. Just lingering among the tree line. Their movements seemed wrong. Like people moving through thick syrup, or a video played at quarter speed. Sometimes they'd just stop mid-step and stay there, swaying slightly, for hours. I know because I watched one once, unable to look away, until dawn started creeping over the trees. As the light touched him, he seemed to stir slightly before shuffling deeper into the forest.

I found their traces during my daily readings. Bootprints walking in aimless circles. Old equipment scattered about—rusted soil probes, torn backpacks, logbooks so water-damaged the pages had fused together. Once, I found a jacket identical to mine draped over a tree branch. The name tag was still legible: “Richard K. - Tower 4.” The fabric crumbled when I touched it.

The worst part was the silence. The forest should have been full of night sounds—owls, small animals, wind in the trees. But whenever they appeared, everything went quiet. Like the whole forest was holding its breath. Or like these wandering figures had somehow drawn all the life and energy from the air itself.

I stopped going out after dark.

Started double-checking my locks.

Tried to convince myself I was imagining things.

Then came the crackle from beneath the floorboards.

At first, I thought I was imagining it—another trick of an increasingly unreliable mind. But no, there it was again. A static burst, followed by what sounded like a voice. I found the loose board near my bed, and underneath it, wrapped in oilcloth: an old walkie-talkie and a pack of fresh batteries.

“Hello?” The voice was clear, accented, but eerily tired. “New guy? You there?”

I hesitated before responding. My fingers felt clumsy on the talk button, like they were forgetting how to work. “Who is this?”

“Jabari. I'm in Tower Seven, about fifteen kilometers northeast. Been here ten months now.” His voice had an urgency to it, but also a heaviness, like each word was an effort. “Had a relationship with your predecessor, but he just... disappeared one day.”

“Disappeared? What do you mean?”

‘You’re tower 6. You won’t last long, either. They never do.”

None of his words made sense to me at the time, but they still put the fear of God into me.

‘He left all his stuff,’ Jabari continued, as though to himself. ‘Even his readings. Thought I think I saw him last week, wandering near my tower. He didn't... he couldn't...” He trailed off.

My heart was pounding, though the effort of holding the walkie-talkie was already making my arm tired. “We're not supposed to have contact with other watchmen.”

“No shit.” A dry laugh, followed by a long pause—so long I thought he'd fallen asleep. Finally: “But there are things in this forest they don't tell us about. Things you've probably started to notice. Share your readings with me. I've got a theory—”

“This could be a test,” I cut him off. “From the Sisters.”

Another laugh, but harder this time. “Fine. But when you start to see them—really see them—and you start to suspect what I suspect, I'm here until the end of September. I'll keep my walkie close.” His voice dropped lower. “If I'm still here.”

The transmission ended. I sat there in the darkness, staring at the device in my hands, trying to convince myself I'd imagined the whole thing. Outside, the forest had gone quiet again. And in the distance, barely visible in the moonlight, a figure in a weatherproof jacket stood perfectly still between the trees, head tilted at an odd angle, as if it had forgotten where it was going. Or what it once was.

It’s wild how fiercely your mind fights to rationalize things, even when every instinct in your gut is screaming that something’s wrong. I clung to denial, desperate to believe that ignoring the signs might somehow strip away the horror and leave behind a mundane, harmless explanation. So I turned off the walkie-talkie, yanked out the battery for good measure, and forced myself—through sheer, Herculean effort—to complete my tasks each day. All the while, my energy and will seemed to drain away, hour by hour, as if the very act of existing was bleeding me dry.

Looking back, I should have noticed sooner how wrong the forest was. Not dead—everything was technically alive—but existing in a kind of half-life. Birds would perch on branches for hours, barely moving. Foxes wouldn't chase rabbits but simply wait, conserving energy, until their prey grew too lethargic to hop away. Even the insects seemed sluggish, their wingbeats visible in the thick air. I once watched a wolf pack take down a deer. They didn't chase it. Just followed, walking, for days until it forgot how to run.

My own decline was becoming impossible to ignore. Yesterday, I noticed with growing horror how dark my urine had become and realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had water—two days? Three? The fear that came with that realization was enough to push me into forcing down two liters in one sitting. I felt the water soothe my raw, parched throat, but the expected satisfaction never came. No relief, no gratitude from my body—just a hollow, almost mournful acceptance, as though it knew this vital resource was far too little, far too late.

Last Sunday, after what should have been a leisurely, five-hour trek took me almost eight, I broke down and told Sister Agnes I was scared. She didn't seem surprised. Just asked me to hold on one more week while they “arranged a replacement.” Her calm felt rehearsed like she'd had this conversation before.

That was five days ago. I haven't taken a reading since. The devices sit in their case, humming their meaningless songs to no one. This morning, I tried to make it to Spiegelau. I couldn't wait for Sunday. Not after another night of those things circling the tower, their rotting faces turned up toward my windows. Not after I noticed my fingernails had started turning black at the beds, or how my gums bled when I bothered to brush my teeth. The human body can only go so long without proper nutrition before it starts eating itself.

I packed a day bag with what felt like lead weights. Every item—water bottle, compass, emergency kit—seemed to weigh ten times what it should. My hands shook so badly it took three tries to zip the bag closed. The mirror caught my reflection as I headed for the door: sunken eyes in a gray face, cheekbones sharp enough to cast shadows. I didn't recognize myself.

The forest was bright when I set out, morning sun streaming through the canopy. I'd made this trek dozens of times before. Five hours to town. Five hours to help. Simple.

The first kilometer was like walking through wet cement. Each step required conscious effort—lift foot, move forward, place down, repeat. My muscles felt like they were filled with sand. I kept checking behind me, certain I'd see them following, but there was only empty forest. The silence felt anticipatory, like the whole woods was holding its breath, watching.

By the second kilometer, I was stopping every few minutes to rest. My vision would blur, then clear, then blur again. The path seemed to stretch endlessly ahead, twisting in ways I didn't remember. Had it always been this steep? This winding? My heart pounded with effort that would have been nothing a month ago.

I started talking to myself, trying to maintain focus. “One foot. Then the other. Just like that. Keep moving.” My voice sounded wrong in the thick air, like it was coming from somewhere else. Someone else.

The weight came gradually. Not physical—something deeper. Like gravity itself was increasing, pulling me toward the earth. My shoulders curved under it. My spine wanted to bend. Every few steps, I had to remind myself why I was walking. Where I was going. Who I was.

I don't remember falling. Just the suddenly close view of dead leaves, the damp smell of soil. My cheek pressed against the earth, and I could have sworn I felt it pulling at me, trying to draw me down and deep*. I should get up,* I thought. Should keep moving.

But why? The thought came with strange clarity. Why fight it? The ground was soft. The air was warm. I was so, so tired.

My eyes closed.

When they opened again, it was night.

I've never been in these woods after dark. Never really understood why that was such a strict rule until now.

The panic gave me enough energy to stumble to my feet. The tower was closer than town—maybe forty minutes in my current state. I pulled out my flashlight and forced myself to move. The beam seemed weak, as if the darkness here was something physical, something that could push back against the light.

That's when I heard them.

Footsteps. All around me. Not coordinated enough to be walking, but not random enough to be stumbling. The sound of dragging feet through dead leaves, coming from every direction at once. The beam of my flashlight caught glimpses: figures in various states of decay, wearing the tattered remains of weatherproof gear. Their skin was gray where it wasn't black with rot, stretched tight over bones. Some still had name tags. Some still had faces.

I recognized one—Richard K. from Tower 4, whose jacket I'd found. His flesh had the waxy texture of a corpse, but his chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths. His eyes were clouded but aware, tracking my movement with terrible recognition. His mouth moved, forming words without sound. Then I realized—he was warning me. They all were. Their mouths moved in silent unison: “Run.”

I ran. Somehow. Each step felt like moving through a physical barrier, but terror is a hell of a motivator. Behind me, they followed. Not chasing—they couldn't move fast enough for that. Just inexorably following. Like they knew I'd tire eventually. Like they remembered doing this very thing when they were still fully human, still capable of fear.

One was closer than the others. The remains of a blonde beard clung to his chin in patches. His uniform was newer than the others—couldn't have been out here more than a few months. His eyes met mine as I passed, and there was still something there. Something that remembered being someone. He reached for me with blackened fingers, not grabbing, but beseeching. Wanting to tell me something. Wanting to warn me.

The sound that came from his throat wasn't words. Just a low, continuous moan that might have been despair.

I made it back to the tower. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped the walkie-talkie twice before getting the new batteries in. Behind me, through the windows, I could see them gathering. Some stood perfectly still, faces upturned to my light. Others swayed gently, like seaweed in a current. A few simply sat where they stopped, as if they'd forgotten how to stand.

“Jabari? Jabari, please...”

Static. Then: “...here.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Bad... night?”

“What the fuck is happening here?”

A long pause. Just breathing. Then: “Should tell you... truth. I lied. On application. Have PhD... biochemistry. Knew they didn't want... scientists. But needed job.”

“The readings—”

“Bullshit. All of it.” Each sentence seemed to cost him enormous effort. “Soil resonance... meaningless term. Air quality devices... just pretty toys. Water test patterns... random. Found old records... in floorboards. Letters. Notes from... previous watchmen.”

His breathing was getting worse. “Eight generations. Eight... towers. Always moving... getting closer together. Triangulating.”

“Triangulating what?”

“The source. Why we're all... like this.” A wet cough. “They're measuring us... not the forest. Instruments are red herrings. Our dying bodies are… the true reading. How fast we fade. How quickly we... join them. The quicker we…fade…the closer they are…to finding it.’

Through the static, I heard papers rustling. “Wrote it all down... proper analysis. Soil probe generates random frequencies... air quality meter just... runs on clockwork. No actual... sensors. But us? They measure everything. Weight loss... cognitive decline... energy depletion...”

The sound of something heavy falling. Jabari cursing weakly.

“Pattern in tower movements... over decades. They take them down…rebuild…with every missing watchman. Spiraling inward. Getting closer to... finding what they’re looking for. Watchmen in…tower two…last barely a week before they…fade.”

A sound from outside made me jump. I stood and peeked through the expansive window. The watchmen were walking away now, disappearing into the thicket of the forest. Like they’d given up. Or knew it was too late for me. I tried to believe it was the former.

“Have to... tell you.” Jabari's voice was fading. “Overheard Sisters... talking. One word. Belphegor. Do you know…who that is? ‘Cause it’s not good.”

The name hit me like ice water. Catholic school lessons from years ago. Sister Mary Catherine's stern voice: “Belphegor, demon prince of Sloth, who draws men into the sin of spiritual apathy...”

“Jabari, listen. We need to get out. Meet halfway. Help each other—”

“Too late for me.” His laugh turned into a wet cough. “Haven't eaten... two weeks. Legs don't work anymore. Been using dexies to stay... awake. Almost out. Run. While you can. Get help.”

“I can't leave you—”

“Already gone. Just... fighting the inevitable. Run.”

The static took over. I called his name three more times. Nothing.

I threw whatever I could reach into my bag. Caffeine pills. Water. The journal I'd been keeping. My hands moved like they belonged to someone else, clumsy and slow. Each item felt impossibly heavy.

Made it maybe twenty minutes into the forest before I found them. Or they found me. A perfect circle of former watchmen, standing in the pre-dawn light. Waiting. Some wore uniforms from different decades—a catalog of the Brides' victims through the years. Most were so still they might have been statues, but a few swayed gently, like they were listening to some distant music only they could hear.

The exhaustion hits me like a physical wave, but it's different this time. Final. It starts in my bones and radiates outward, turning my muscles to water, my thoughts to mist. My legs fold under me, and I know with terrible certainty that I will never stand again.

I recognize this feeling now. It's not just tiredness. It's surrender. The same thing I've seen in the eyes of every wanderer in these woods. That moment when the last ember of will gutters out, when even breathing feels like too much effort. When existence itself becomes an unbearable weight.

I should be terrified. Should be fighting. But I understand now why none of them run, why they just stand and sway and wait. Fighting requires caring, and whatever's in these woods has drained that from me drop by drop, day by day. All that's left is a vast, empty acceptance.

My mind is already starting to drift. Thoughts slip away before I can grasp them, like trying to hold smoke. But I have enough left—just enough—to write this down. To warn whoever finds it.

The caffeine pills aren't working anymore. My hand can barely hold the pen. Looking at the page, I can see my handwriting deteriorating, the letters becoming shapeless, like my mind is forgetting how they're supposed to look.

I think I'm going to rest now.

Just for a minute.

There's a woman in white standing among the trees. She's watching me, smiling that serene smile they all share. It’s like she knew I wouldn’t make it ‘til Sunday.

Now that I know what they’re looking for, I hope they don’t find it.