Storytelling isn't something that I am good at, although my anthropology professor confidently stated that all humans are natural-born storytellers. I've always felt that such statements must be inherently incorrect. It would be like saying that all humans naturally love their mother and father. Ridiculous.

It is when we share an experience unique to our individual life that we suddenly become this great storyteller - and only because the audience says so, not because any particular story is objectively well told. As someone with a philosopher's degree in library science, I intimately know all the classics, and I can assure you that they are entirely overrated, except Elvira by Giuseppe Folliero de Luna - that book is actually objectively flawless. Everybody has read that book and agrees it is second only to the King James Bible in its contribution to bookshelves. I'm just kidding, I know you haven't read Elvira and you probably wouldn't appreciate it the same way I did. That's called 'subjectivity', because it is subject to my opinion, instead of the object obviously being of universal observation (objective).

Humans, we all agree, are especially mischievous. Telling each other stories is probably the most useful use of our language. Our stories are sometimes more important than the entire life of someone if the experience we relate could make the lives of everyone who hears it better. What is one wasted life compared to generations who know a moment of peace, as they are comforted and informed about the very nature of humanity?

Now what am I talking about, with all this? What does all this have to do with the deaths of several people, the horrors lurking in the darkness of a library and the traps - both those set by humans - and those set by them - the others - what? They chose the library, and specifically the one I was put in charge of. They were there to learn our stories, to take all that we say, to steal our knowledge.

I suppose by now, wherever they are, they've found what they were looking for. Answers to their questions. I'm not sure what we are to them: enemies, giants, creators - perhaps they have concluded they are actually smarter than we are. After all, long before they became intelligent, they were already outwitting us at every turn. Every non-Canadian effort to eradicate them from anywhere has always failed. And that was when they were still just animals.

It is hard to say exactly what they are now, or if there will be more of them. I hope not, for judging by their ruthless cunning and sadistic mind games, they would love to destroy all of humanity. A war between our species would not go well for us.

No, it is the only thing that lets me sleep at night, past the trauma of living in terror of them, to believe they were the only ones of their kind. Some kind of drug or virus or something must have changed them. Wherever they are now, I pray it is the providence of their isolation. No god meant for humanity to be threatened by such creatures, nor to pity them, for the cruelty of their survival.

I've spent the last year and a half at home with my son and my dog, just dealing with the events that led to the closure of an entire branch. There's the trauma of finding your friend and coworker frozen and stabbed maybe three hundred times after following the trail of blood through the breakroom like walking through the red mist of some kind of nightmare. Then there's the terror of being threatened by some unseen killer, something lurking in your library, some unseen eyes watching you, studying you and knowing what will frighten you into submission.

Desi's death was horrifying, and when we reopened I had new employees, as Theron and Arrow both quit after she was killed. I was somehow always alone back there, the new carpet in the breakroom somehow had her bloodstains, although only I could see it.

I'd be sitting there and get a scare when I'd hear her shrieking and I'd turn and look and see her flailing, as though on fire, being stabbed simultaneously all over her body by invisible attackers, like there were dozens of them and they were small and they were all over her. She clambered into the freezer and they'd leapt off of her, letting her escape. I'd had to unlatch the old door, as they had locked her in.

I'm not sure why Desi fled to the freezer and climbed in. She was being stabbed all over her body by her attackers, she'd panicked. It was some kind of panicked thought, and it had caused her death. The stab wounds, although numerous, were all very shallow and made with tiny blades. While she was covered in blood and in dire agony, they hadn't yet gotten any of her major arteries or organs. The wounds were too shallow and inaccurate to be fatal, and if she hadn't suffocated, she would have lived.

I hated them, knowing instinctively they were all around me, watching. I just knew, but there was nothing I could do with that thought. I had to keep my job and care for my son and pay my rent. I just didn't understand how dangerous they were, or what they were capable of.

Besides Desi's ghost frightening me and the paranoid feeling that something was watching me at all times in the library, I was able to do my job.

I'd do all sorts of research for patrons, looking up Charlotte Perkins Gillman for some budding horror novelist to read her essays about women's rights. Big intersection between horror stories and those who are marginalized or oppressed. Stories become a kind of empowerment, a kind of catharsis and realignment of who is actually important to society. The usual suspects for a story's hero don't fit into horror stories, which are more realistic than adventure stories, even if Horror often has fantastic elements - if they are terrifying and dangerous then they are plausible.

Life is dangerous - and scary. We all know that - except those of us who earn Darwin Awards or eat two lunches. I'm not afraid, are you? Just kidding.

I don't know why they suddenly attacked and killed Desi. It seems very desperate and sloppy, compared to what they did next. They also learned to be more efficient with their knives, after they became experts on human anatomy, learning where to make their cuts and stabs to do maximum damage. I know they studied because I found the book on the cart, still opened to the page, a book with illustrations on human anatomy. They didn't just look at the pictures, they operated at some high-school level of reading, I instinctively knew, finding they liked to read and if they couldn't get a book back on the shelf they'd just leave it for me on the cart.

Their modus operandi was to consult the Dewey Decimal System, since the network was turned off, and then go do their reading for the night. They'd push the lightweight library book cart empty to where their book was and clamber up the shelves, push it off onto the cart from above and read it on top the cart. If they could return the book to the shelf they would, otherwise if it was positioned to high up, they'd just leave it on the cart, sometimes where they had left the book open.

I was more than a little creeped out. We already had a new security system after Desi was murdered. I called the police maybe half a dozen times, suspecting that someone was in the library hiding somewhere.

Nobody on the security footage, just shadows and carts and books moving around in dark. I thought maybe it was Desi haunting us. I am terrified of ghosts and the encounters I'd had with her troubled spirit in the breakroom had already severely unnerved me. Except I had enough sense to notice there was something else among us.

I was reading Esther in the breakroom, facing towards the middle of the room and the window that faces our employee parking when they towed away Desi's car. Strange, that is the moment the tears started.

I'd always tease her about her bumper sticker "Wortcraft Not Warcraft" and somehow the little purple thing too small to read as it left was enough to shake me out of my denial that she was gone. Although I knew she was dead, some part of me expected this all to end and for things to go back to normal. No, things got much worse, and I had not yet experienced true and maddening horror.

Sashi ate both lunches in the new fridge we had, and neither of them were hers. I don't know if they were both poisoned, or if they had only targeted one of us. She got very sick very fast and was taken to the hospital. The doctors were able to treat her - figure out what the little killers had slipped in. I'm guessing a concentration of stolen medication, something tasteless like Advelin. The overdose nearly killed Sashi. I hate to say that although she lived, she lost the baby.

When it was just down to me and Marconi, I warned him something was going on. I was watching the security footage of the breakroom when the police arrived. They had questions for us, suspicious one of us had poisoned our coworker. I saw some disturbance in their eyes, those detectives, like they knew something I didn't, and weren't really considering us as suspects; they just wanted to snoop around. They were looking for something else, although I could see they weren't really sure what.

I wasn't sure, but I sure was scared, and I would have quit except I've always known some kind of fear at work. I had to keep working, I'm a single mother and I can't just be unemployed. I tried instead to weather the storm and tough it out.

I had enough saved up I could have quit and I should have, but being responsible and showing up to work even when you are scared are both habits that define me. I've got some kind of life path that says something like "always the first and the last to face danger" which is weirdly specific, I discovered, as I finished Desi' book on numerology. It was a different teacher, but she'd liked that kind of New Age stuff a lot, but I think hers was called Accostica, or something like that.

"I think we need to call some exterminators." Marconi had said. There was this weird silence after he said it, like we had a white noise whispering all around us that suddenly went silent and now they were listening to our conversation with total attention. I could see he had noticed the sensation too, as he shuddered and glanced around a little.

"For what?" I asked.

"It is this smell, I recognize it. I've lived in some bad places." Marconi said in an almost conspiratorial tone. I felt it too, like they were in the walls listening to us, and we best not provoke them.

"I'll call, anything else?" I asked him.

"I was wondering if you'd go out with me?" He asked, his voice breaking. I shook my head, and he was suddenly gone in a hot flash. It was the last I ever saw of him. While I was on the phone scheduling for pest control to come give us an appraisal, Marconi was alone in the bathroom.

I don't believe it was a suicide. I think they knocked him out somehow before they cut him. The police gave me a strange look.

Again, we were open just a few days later, except now I was alone. The phone was ringing, and Thorn Valley Gotcha asked if it was now a good time to come take a look, after the branch was closed for several days.

While I was waiting for them to arrive, I found the note. I was just going to share the note they left, scrawled in strangely pressed letters, describing their terms. I thought about giving it to the police, but only for a second. I was so terrified I just sat there trembling, holding the note they had left on my desk.

I did lose my mind, at the realization of what I was up against, and how much danger I was in. Terror took over and I was theirs. They owned me, and I became predictable and easy for them to deal with.

How I burned that note, my only evidence, is just a reaction I can point to show I was too frightened to do anything to try to stop them.

They had used such antiquated words, like Biblical words, to describe the horrors they would visit upon me if I didn't cooperate. They'd killed everyone else, and spared me, because they had concluded they needed me alive. They wanted something horrible from me, besides my complete unconditional surrender.

The note.

It said they had tried to kill Desi, but she had accidentally killed herself. Then they said that they had tried to kill me and Marconi, but Sashi had eaten both of our lunches for us. Then they said they had killed Marconi and made it look like a suicide. They wanted me to understand that each of these killings was more advanced and careful than the last and that mine would include my dog and also my son. They assured me that if Thorn Valley Gotcha learned where they lived, then I would learn they already knew where I lived.

"You will help us, and in exchange, you will be spared our wrath. You tried to call down the cloud of judgment, that Arafel, from exterminators. We shall forgive you when you send them back upon the road, turned at the door, without consignment. Then, tonight, the internet will be left on for us, the keys to the kingdom. You will create a user account for us so that we can log in. This is all we ask of you, and when you sleep beside your son, remember we can punish you at any time if you do not help us."

I was entirely horrified, and I was still sitting there, as though my feet were made of concrete and unable to stand up, my whole body shutting down like I was facing my worst death, and they had threatened my son.

At the door I did as I was told, and I sent Thorn Valley Gotcha away.

"You sure? You look really worried about something."

"All my employees were killed by vermin." I said, my voice sounding mocking and hollow. I didn't recognize my own words. They looked at me like I might be crazy, but I'd already made it clear we had no business together.

I did what I was told, I gave them what they wanted. That night I went home and packed our things, and we left for my sister's house. She was angry with me for all the craziness of leaving my job and my apartment, but she let us stay. I promised her the killer of my coworkers was after me and her nephew. It was a whole year and a half until she decided that wasn't good enough for us to stay any longer.

It's fine, I've had time to process all of this. I moved out here where she lives and got a job teaching at the school. I've got my own son in my class, which is outstandingly good for me, to keep an eye on him all day.

I still live in fear, feeling stalked and exiled. Perhaps that is why they let me live, in the end. Something about my life made them show mercy, like they wanted to be recognized, but not so that they would be threatened. No, this is some kind of Stockholm's I've got, feeling like they were anything but sinister evil.

They just made a bargain with me and when I kept my end, they seemingly kept theirs. I am not certain I am safe, though. I worry, what if I am a loose end? But I cannot live in fear like this. It is somehow like being dead anyway. My son: I see the toll it is taking on him.

No, we are free, and we must be free of fear to live freely. I cannot drink from the cup of terror, not one more sip, I cannot. I must defy them somehow; I must speak out and say what they did. I must tell the world the story.

The first time I heard it, I was just practicing. Just doing my usual thing—hand up, hand down, keeping my movements soft, careful, letting the sound drift out like silk. The theremin’s tone is so fragile, like a breath that could stop at any moment if you’re not gentle with it. That's what I loved about it, I think. It was just me and the air, and the tiny vibrations between us. No one to see, no one to judge.

I was alone in my practice spot, this clearing out in the trees. It was quiet, with sunlight slipping through the branches, turning the dust into tiny golden stars. The first notes floated up, high and thin, and I started to feel that warmth inside, the one that made me feel like maybe I was safe, even here in these woods, even with all the other campers wandering around.

But then—no, this sounds ridiculous I'd say—then I thought I heard something. Just… a whisper, faint and shivering, almost like it was hiding behind the music.

I lowered my hand, the note slipping away, and listened. Nothing but the wind stirring through the pines, and yet I felt something…not so much watching as listening. I took a deep breath, told myself to shake it off. Still, I kept glancing over my shoulder the whole way back to camp.

That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, my nerves buzzing. I couldn’t stop thinking about the whisper, replaying it in my mind even though it was just a sound, barely even there. I’d convinced myself it was all in my head until Sam leaned over her bunk and asked, “You heard it, didn’t you?”

I turned, and she was looking at me with this weird little smile, like she knew exactly what I’d been thinking about. “Heard what?” I mumbled.

“The Weaver.” Her voice was just a whisper. “Everyone knows about it. The Weaver’s… a thing that lives in the forest, a kind of creature, or maybe a spirit, no one knows for sure. It’s supposed to prey on people like us—on musicians. Especially musicians with… well, you know. Secrets.”

She didn’t know about my secrets, of course, but I felt a chill slip over me anyway. “What… what does it do?”

She leaned in closer, her eyes wide. “It can take on any shape, any form, anything you’re afraid of. And if it finds you, if it latches onto you… it starts to play you. Your fears, your thoughts, your music. It turns it all into its song, and you can’t do anything but listen as it twists you into… whatever it wants.” She sat back, smirking, like it was just another campfire story.

But I didn’t sleep that night. The idea of something that could twist my music, make it into something I’d never choose, something that wasn’t me—I hated it. And worse, I couldn’t help feeling like Sam had been right, like the Weaver had already noticed me. Like it had already begun.

The next day, everything felt… wrong. The sunlight was too bright, the forest too still. My theremin, normally my only source of comfort, felt heavy in my hands, and my music… my music didn’t sound like mine anymore. Each note came out different than I wanted, the sounds drifting into strange, unsettling tones, like they were being stretched and pulled by something invisible. And the whispers—they were back, too, sliding between the notes, too faint for anyone else to hear.

I told myself it was just nerves, just my stupid imagination. But then I heard it: my name.

Amelia.

My blood ran cold. The voice was soft, distant, like it had been carried on the wind, but I knew it was real. I knew it was calling me.

That night, I lay in bed, too scared to close my eyes. But the whispers came anyway, slipping into my thoughts like they’d waited for me. And then, faintly, I heard my theremin. A single note, low and eerie, drifting through the cabin like a dark lullaby. My heart pounded, and I squeezed my eyes shut, but the music grew louder, twisting itself into something awful, something wrong.

It was my music, but it wasn’t. The notes coiled and warped, bending into a melody I’d never played. A horrible, hollow feeling washed over me, as though the Weaver was reaching inside, taking my hands, making me play its song. I tried to move, to scream, but my body wouldn’t obey.

It was as if I’d become an instrument myself.

The Weaver’s instrument.

And as the music wrapped around me, filling me with dread, I felt myself slipping, like I was being pulled into the sound, becoming part of it, disappearing into its song.

I thought maybe it was just me. The whispers, the eerie twists in my music, that creeping feeling of something watching. But by the third day, it was clear I wasn’t the only one. Strange things were happening all around camp, things no one could explain.

First, there was Ethan, the cellist, normally so calm and unflappable. He’d been fine that morning, practicing in the open field by the lake. But when he came back to the cabin after lunch, he looked pale, his hands shaking as he set down his cello. He tried to play through it, but his fingers stumbled, scratching out sour notes, as if something in his music had gone wrong. Later, I heard him mumbling to himself in the cabin, words I couldn’t make out, like he was arguing with someone who wasn’t there.

Then, one of the flute players, Sarah, had a breakdown during a rehearsal. She’d played fine—beautifully, even—but suddenly she just stopped, her eyes wide and unfocused, clutching her flute like it was the only thing keeping her safe. She claimed she’d seen someone in the woods watching her, someone that looked exactly like her, only with hollow, empty eyes. By the time the counselors reached her, she was sobbing, completely inconsolable.

The Weaver had started weaving its web.

I tried not to think about Sam’s story, the one about the Weaver preying on musicians with 'secrets'. But the more I saw, the harder it became to ignore. It was like the whole camp had fallen under a spell. Each day, someone else would drift off, or stumble back from their practice spot looking dazed, hollow, like they’d left something behind in the woods that they couldn’t get back.

And at night, the whispers grew louder.

Every time I closed my eyes, I heard it—the faint, taunting hum of my theremin. Notes I didn’t remember playing echoed in my mind, low and twisted, wrapping around my thoughts like spider silk. My dreams were filled with shadows, each one tugging at my hands, pulling at my voice, trapping me in endless, dark corridors filled with music I didn’t recognize as my own.

By the fifth day, I couldn’t even bring myself to practice. I stayed in my cabin, but even there, I could feel the Weaver’s presence. It had found its way into our minds, spinning webs made of our fears and memories, as though each of us were an instrument for it to pluck and pull.

There was that night, Sam woke up screaming, gasping for breath like she’d been drowning. “It… it was here,” she whispered, her face ashen. “I saw it. It took my face, Amelia. It looked just like me.”

None of us could sleep after that.

Later that night, I found Sam sitting by herself near the fire pit, her face pale and drawn. She hadn’t spoken much about the whispers, but I could see the strain in her eyes, the way she avoided making eye contact with anyone.

I sat next to her, uncertain of what to say, but something in me pushed past the fear. “Sam?” I asked softly. “You don’t have to hide it, you know. I’m… I’m scared too.”

Her eyes flickered up at me, and I saw something raw there—a vulnerability, like she had been carrying it all alone. “I didn’t want to tell anyone,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I thought if I did, it would just make it worse. But… I hear the music, Amelia. I hear it, and I feel like I’m losing myself. Like I’m becoming a part of it.”

I felt my heart ache for her. I understood that fear more than she knew. That fear of being consumed by something you couldn’t control, something that played with your mind until you couldn’t tell what was real anymore. I put a hand on her shoulder, my own voice trembling. “You’re not alone, Sam. We can face it together. All of us.”

Over the next few days, I saw the same fear in the faces of other campers, the quiet ones who kept to themselves. Slowly, they began to open up. And each time they did, I realized how much I had in common with them—the same vulnerability, the same fear, the same dread of being controlled, manipulated by something we couldn’t understand.

Together, we started talking more, sharing our experiences. Some of the others had heard the music, too. Some had felt the shadows closing in. One girl, Eliza, spoke about the feeling of being watched while playing her flute, and how every note felt like it was being pulled out of her, twisted in the air before it could reach its proper pitch. Another camper, Marcus, said he’d seen the shadows follow him, the way they slipped behind trees, always lurking just out of sight.

I listened, I absorbed, and for the first time since arriving, I felt a flicker of strength deep inside me. These were my people. We weren’t alone in this. There was something in the way they shared their fears that made them all seem less like victims, and more like fighters. And I knew that I had to do everything in my power to help them fight back against The Weaver.

When I finally spoke, my voice was steadier than I’d expected. “The Weaver, it’s controlling us, manipulating us. But it only has power because we’re afraid. We have to face it, together. We can’t let it win.”

The group rallied around me, and I saw a spark of hope in their eyes. My sensitivity, the very thing I had always viewed as a weakness, had become a bridge—connecting me to them, and them to each other. It wasn’t just fear we were sharing. It was strength. It was understanding. We were all in this fight together.

Then that moment sorta leaked away, and the reality of our daily nightmare rolled in. Where I'd felt strong and supported I suddenly felt alone and weak. Maybe this was just because I felt like I was reliving the helpless silence that I had suffered through when I was younger, my secret, or maybe it was the Weaver exploiting those feelings of helplessness. It felt like some kind of trap either way.

We were trapped, like flies caught in a web, held by invisible threads that tugged at us in the dead of night. The Weaver didn’t just watch us—it played us, each of us caught in its dark, twisted melody. And the more it pulled, the emptier we felt, as though something inside us was slipping away, being stolen note by note.

At one point I actually tried to tell myself I was imagining it, that it was just a story, but deep down, I knew the truth. The Weaver was no myth. It was real. And it was here, lurking in the shadows, taking pieces of each of us until there would be nothing left but silence.

I was shaking when I walked into the big counselor’s office. Everything in me wanted to turn back, to go back to the cabin and pretend that none of this was happening. But the silence—the way nobody would talk to the adults about the strange things happening around camp—reminded me too much of before. Of the times things had happened, and everyone had just… kept quiet about it.

The counselor looked up, a little surprised to see me. “Amelia? What’s going on?” Her voice was calm, but I saw her eyes narrow a bit as I started to explain.

“It’s just that…” I hesitated, forcing myself to keep talking. “I keep hearing weird music. Not mine. It… it comes from somewhere else. And there are shadows that move when no one’s there. I feel like… like something’s watching us.”

She studied me, and for a brief second, I thought she might believe me. But her expression shifted, her brows knitting together like I was saying something embarrassing. “That’s… quite an imagination you have, Amelia. Why don’t we call your aunt? Maybe she’d like to come pick you up.”

“No! I’m not making this up!” My voice came out louder than I’d meant, and the surprise in her eyes twisted into something closer to pity. The look that told me she thought I was just a troubled kid, a problem to be solved by sending me home.

My stomach turned in knots. She didn’t believe me. Nobody ever did.

The big counselor went to the front of camp's office, to use the phone there, with her back to me. She was already dialing my aunt’s number, speaking in that soft, careful tone people use when they think you’re just overreacting. I could practically feel the walls closing in around me, the way they had before, the same way they did whenever people refused to see what was right in front of them.

"It's going to be okay, Amelia. This happens to a lot of new campers. It's her option to come get you if you're having a problem."

Desperation clawed up my spine, and as her voice droned on into the phone, my eyes wandered to the bookshelf. That’s when I saw it—a small, leather-bound journal with “Camp Black Hollow – 1963” written on the cover. Something about it made my heart skip. Sam had mentioned a journal she’d seen once in the counselor’s office, one that held old, forgotten stories about the camp. Stories she’d overheard the counselor say shouldn’t be read by 'impressionable kids'.

Before I could second-guess myself, I slid over to the shelf, slipped the journal out, and tucked it under my sweater. I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and in one quick movement, I climbed out the open window and darted away from the office, my heart racing as I ran back to my cabin.

Inside, the world felt quiet again, but I couldn’t shake the pounding in my chest. I held the journal close, feeling its rough edges press into my hands. I could just leave. I could run from this, let my aunt come and pick me up, leave the other campers to… whatever this was.

But I knew what happened when I ignored the things that frightened me. I knew how silence and ignorance could allow an atrocity continue. I couldn’t leave Sam and the others alone with whatever was out there. Not if I could do something—anything—to stop it.

Hands trembling, I opened the journal. The pages were filled with spidery, slanted handwriting. My breath caught as I read the first few entries, which described strange dreams and music that echoed in the dark, voices that whispered in the trees. The final pages were even more frantic, describing a creature called the Weaver, a thing that preyed on musicians, wrapping its threads around their minds until they became something twisted, something broken.

August 10th. There’s a talisman in the woods, hidden at the edge of the lake. They say it can repel the Weaver and seal its portal. I don’t know if I can find it, but I have to try. I can’t let it take any more of us.

I felt a chill run down my spine as I closed the journal, gripping it tightly. I didn’t know if I could find this talisman, or if it was even real. But I knew one thing: I couldn’t just run away. I had to try.

Tomorrow, at dawn, I’d go to the lake.

I woke with a start, shivering in the cold. The cabin was still dark, and the air felt heavy, like the night was clinging to the walls, refusing to let go. I couldn't remember when I had fallen asleep, only that I hadn't slept well, not really. My head was a mess—thoughts and whispers all tangled together, so much uncertainty. The terror of what I had seen... what I had almost become... it still clung to me like a fog. I was shivering, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or something deeper, something wrong inside me.

The faint light of dawn had barely broken through the windows, casting pale, fragmented patterns across the floor. I felt disconnected from myself, as if I were watching my own hands move as I dressed, each motion slow and deliberate, as if I could stop time if I willed it. The chill outside seemed to creep into my bones as I stepped out of the cabin, the cold air biting at my skin. The ground was damp from the night, but I barely felt the earth beneath me as I walked, my mind too focused on what I needed to do.

I had to find the talisman.

But as I stepped into the clearing, something felt off. Like I wasn’t entirely there. My body moved as if it had a mind of its own, and I was only an observer. Was I really awake? Was this real, or was I watching myself as I had watched myself fall into this nightmare?

I couldn’t tell anymore.

The camp around me was still mostly silent. The cabins were dark, the campers still asleep, unaware of what had happened the night before—or maybe they did, but they couldn’t bring themselves to speak of it. The darkness that hung over the camp, like a cloud, seemed to block out the early morning light, the patches of midnight lingering like black cobwebs in the corners of my mind. The air was thick with something I couldn’t explain, and it made my stomach churn.

I couldn’t stop. I had to keep going.

I pushed through the forest, each step slower than the last, until I reached the edge of the lake. The journal had said something about the talisman being near here, but how could I find it? What was I even looking for? A stone? A charm? The description was maddeningly vague. The earth felt cold beneath my feet, and the trees loomed over me like silent witnesses to the horrors I couldn’t escape.

The silence was suffocating. The only sound was the rustling of leaves in the breeze, and my breath—ragged, shallow—as I tried to make sense of everything. But there was no sense. I was grasping at shadows.

And then, I felt it.

The air grew thick, pressing against my skin, my chest tightening. A whisper, faint but unmistakable, like a breath in the dark.

“Amelia…”

I froze. The whisper was inside my head, too close to my ear, like it was coming from behind me. My heart began to pound as I turned, my eyes straining to find the source. But the forest was still, eerily so. No movement. No shape. No sound—except for the one that crept into my thoughts, slithering, growing louder.

“Amelia…” The voice was colder now, more insistent, as though it had been waiting for me. Waiting for me to hear it.

I could feel it. The Weaver.

It was watching me. Waiting. The very air seemed to twist around me, bending to its will. The shadows stretched out, shifting, pooling into shapes I couldn’t quite understand. I wanted to scream, but the words caught in my throat. My body was frozen, each movement sluggish, like the very forest was holding me in place.

And then, I heard my aunt’s voice—louder this time, sharp and real.

“Amelia!”

I snapped my head to the side, blinking, confused. She was there, standing just outside the clearing, her figure framed by the dim, early light. She was real. She was here.

“Amelia, come here! NOW!”

Her voice was cutting through the fog of terror, pulling me back. Without thinking, I turned and ran toward her, the fear still hot on my heels, but her voice was my anchor, pulling me away from the nightmare. The ground seemed to push against me as I ran, as if the earth itself was reluctant to let me go. The dark trees whispered, reaching for me, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t look back.

I stumbled into my aunt’s arms, and she wrapped them around me so tightly, I could hardly breathe, but it didn’t matter. I needed her. I needed her warmth. Her presence was the only thing that felt real anymore.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re safe now,” she murmured, her voice steady, grounded. She didn’t ask me anything. She didn’t need to.

I couldn’t look at the camp again, couldn’t bear to think about it. The Weaver was still there. Still waiting for me to return, to fall into its grip again.

I let my aunt guide me away from the woods, away from the camp. The first light of dawn was creeping through the trees, but it didn’t feel like morning. It felt like the world was holding its breath, suspended between night and day, waiting for something terrible to happen. But I wasn’t going to let it.

I left everyone behind. I knew I had. Sam, Eliza, Marcus—they were still there, still in the grip of whatever had taken them. Whatever had almost taken me.

But I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t save them.

As the car pulled away, I looked out the window, my chest tight, knowing that something terrible was still out there, in the shadows, and I was leaving it behind.

But as my aunt squeezed my hand, I couldn’t shake the thought that I would be okay. For now.

When I was around six or seven (maybe even eight), I had a next door neighbour, called Mindy.

I had moved to a small town just north of El Dorado, Kansas, and was waiting for the new school year to start. Mindy was my age, and, on one warm summer morning, she’d knocked on our door to ask if I would like to come over and play. She said she’d seen me moving in, and was delighted that another little girl had moved in on the street. She’d wanted to be my friend.

After my parent’s divorce, I had moved in with my Dad. He was a quiet, meek man, who didn’t do much but garden and watch old reruns of “All in the Family.” My Mom lost custody because of her drug abuse, and I suppose that he hadn’t really known what to do with me when I’d first moved in. I hadn’t lived with him in my formative years, and it was only once my grandmother got wind of things that he’d pushed to be a part of my life again, having been disillusioned that I was living in some stately house up north. I think, in the beginning at least, he wasn’t prepared to start raising up a little girl, particularly one he’d last seen as a toddler, and so the option of letting me play with the girl from the nice family next door must’ve been a relief. A way for him to get his life in order to step in as the Dad he needed to be. And I’m grateful to say that he really, truly did.

Mindy was a bit spoilt, but a good kid. From what I recall, she had long, blonde hair that her Mother always tied into pigtails, and a sweet, chocolate-box pretty face. Like Shirley Temple. I’m afraid there aren’t many more details I can give on her appearance—my memory is hazy. Even when I try my best to recall her face, all I can see is a blur, but that initial feeling—that impression, still remains.

She always wore the nicest clothes, and despite my reserved jealousy that she and I were not cut from the same cloth, she nevertheless tried her best to make me feel like her equal. She’d ask her Mother to teach us how to bake, and her Father would always let us stay up late to watch television. She’d give me her old dresses and shoes so that I’d have nice things to wear for the first day of school, which seemed to be an eternity away at that age. Although we only ever knew each other for several weeks, her memory is something I would never forget. I can’t forget it.

The best thing about Mindy’s home was a little playhouse she had, tucked right at the end of the backyard. It was big enough for the two of us to be in, but any adult would have a hard time bending down and minding their head on the doorframe. Her Grandfather had built it for her when she was just a baby, and it was truly a gorgeous thing; cream painted wood, with a coral-pinkish roof, clad with real tiles. Painted ivy and roses adorned the outdoors, and the duck egg green door held a sweet, heart shaped doorknob. The windows had proper glass, and matching green shutters on the outside.

Inside were two wooden stools, and a toy box filled with make-believe kitchenware. A faux-stove, completely covered with painted appliances, and a rocking horse in the corner. Floral curtains to draw out the light. It was every little girls’ dream. And Mindy let it be mine as much as it was hers. Ours.

Sometimes we’d have sleepovers in there. The door had a hatch key lock on the inside, so it felt like we really were adults; pretending to be roommates in our own grown up apartment. Telling each other stories over make-believe tea, and leaving the curtains open to stare at the stars in the sky. The warm, summer nights left us comfortable in our sleeping bags, and I truly thought I’d never be happier.

My therapist says trauma can hide a lot of things from you. It’s a tricky thing; leaving you with the dread and anxiety without ever revealing the extent of it all. I suppose PTSD is the phrase I should be using. My fond memories of Mindy’s house are still there, untouched—untainted. Maybe my own childhood experiences with my Mom didn’t allow me to realise the cracks that were forming in Mindy’s home.

I never thought Mr Howard was a bad man. He was nice, and looked all cleaned up. He had a white-collar job, and I never considered that, with his income, he shouldn’t have been living in our rundown neighbourhood, let alone be my next door neighbour. He always came home from work with a smile on his face and a kiss for his wife, and treated me as he treated Mindy. In my eyes, they were the perfect, nuclear family. Compared to just me and my Dad, who—bless his heart, was trying to make ends meet, they seemed so comfortable. So cosy.

It was only years after that I’d come to understand the lengths some people will go to keep up a facade. What I had perceived as a healthy, happy lifestyle was nothing more than a perfectly practiced production; a play put on a stage where the actors couldn’t leave. They couldn’t stop playing pretend, as Mindy and I had done so many times in her playhouse. The real playhouse was their own home, and despite their food and water and appliances all being very real, they’d manufactured themselves to be nothing more than puppets on a stage; marionettes controlled by the overwhelming desire to not let a tear slip, or issue be revealed. A waltz of souls tethered to an unattainable dream.

Mr Howard was a gambler. His savings whittled away down to mere pennies in his pockets. But he never stopped his grandiose spending. Mindy always got a new gift whenever he went away for ‘business’, and Mrs Howard was always presented with some fabulous flowers. Sometimes, she’d send me home with her bouquet, telling me that she’d not need them with all the wonderful flowers he’d bought her before. She’d seen my Dad gardening on the small, shameful plot of land we called a garden, and he’d always been grateful to try and plant them back there.

It really was strange how it happened. Mr Howard, despite all his flaws, loved his family. He loved them so much. But perhaps love confused him.

It was only a few weeks before school when Mindy invited me around for a sleepover. It was the usual routine; her Mother made a fantastic meal, and we stayed up a bit to watch the television, laughing at whatever risqué scene was portrayed past 9pm. Then, around 10pm, her Mother ushered up to get ready for bed, having set up our little camp in the playhouse outside. It was all the same. The same old passage of events. Mindy and I were tucked away in the playhouse, and as we grew sleepy from chatting about god knows what, we heard a large bang.

Mindy shot up, and looked concerned. I was extremely tired, and, whilst rubbing my eyes, I asked her what the matter was. She didn’t speak, but put a finger to her mouth, beckoning me to stay quiet. She said she’d go in and see what was happening. She left, and then whispered a final few words.

“Lock the door, Kelly. Don’t let me in unless I say the password. Promise?”

I did as she said, and waited. Then; screaming.

There’s not much else to remember from that. My Dad said that I refused to come out of the playhouse, even when the police had tried to calm me down and tell me I was ok, that I was safe. I screamed and wailed that I couldn’t leave until Mindy gave me the password. That I needed to wait for Mindy to come back.

A child’s brain is such a fickle thing. Once I’d heard my Dad’s voice, I’d forgotten about any promises sworn to Mindy, and leapt out of the playhouse and into his arms, sobbing from a concoction of fear and comfort that felt oh-so crushing upon the weight of my tiny shoulders.

Although I was young, I wasn’t stupid. I’d known what the implications of those screams were, and those sounds. I knew why I was carried out through the side gate and not through the house. I knew what the men in white overalls were doing, moving in and around the property. I knew that my participation in the Howard’s charade was over, and that my friend wouldn’t ever come knocking on the front door of her playhouse again.

Even if we wanted to, my Dad and I couldn’t leave. We had no money, and we were forever cursed to live next to the house of the tragedy. I started school without her, and I cried on the first day when I walked into class with an old pair of Mindy’s shoes and a dress she’d given me. It never looked as nice on me as it did her.

I came to learn that Mindy’s grandiose tales of her popularity amongst classmates was a fairytale. She was a nobody to them; a sad, lonely girl with no one to talk to. Perhaps that’s why she’d latched onto me—someone who had it worse, or at least, she’d thought they did. Someone she could continue to spread the plague of perfectionism passed down so unceremoniously onto her. And I wondered if her parents thought the same thing. That I wouldn’t be able to see the chipped paint on the walls of their home, because mine ran so much deeper.

Dad and I never really spoke about it much after I turned 10 (I think). Years of therapy had taught me to repress those memories, but sometimes they pulled themselves out from the back of my scalp, and grasped hold in the front of my mind. I could never truly forget it. My first friend after such a traumatic time in my life, and how wonderfully crafted it had all been; how I, in all my naivety and desperation, had been so blinded by gratitude that I took part in the illusion without any inkling to help her back.

No one ever moved into Mindy’s old home. It lay there, derelict, and as did the playhouse at the back of the garden. I must’ve been sixteen when I’d decided to try my chance at hopping the fence, to go and see the playhouse up close again. It was too hard to see from my bedroom window, though I could tell it was worse for wear. It had always fascinated me, and with a bit of dutch courage from my Dad’s unlocked whisky cabinet, I clambered over, ignoring the scrapes and splinters that mottled my palms. My Dad wouldn’t be back for at least a few hours, so I figured I’d be in the clear; particularly since no one dared come close to the place of such a tragedy.

I started to feel uneasy as I grew closer to the playhouse. It truly was decrepit; tiles once vibrant and perfect, lay slathered in moss and slime. Grass, unkempt, grew into the cracked paint of the walls, and cobwebs glistened with moonlight. Wind whistled through the eroded adhesive of the widowsills, and the once gorgeous floral curtains were frayed and rotten. I remember my breath hitching. Perhaps I hadn’t wanted to sully the wonderful memories that remained. Did I want to unearth the past that I’d so soundly put to sleep in my subconscious?

I couldn’t have dwelled on it too long. Before I knew it, my knuckles rapt on the small, faded-green door. The password.

Of course, there was no response. I almost laughed at myself—what was I thinking? That Mindy would suddenly pop out, jaw blown off and ready to pounce on me for not waiting for her? A zombie to take me to the grave for breaking our promise, and drag me down to the pits of Hell?

I started to walk away, until I heard a small, meek voice.

“Mindy?”

I froze. That voice. It wasn’t…

“M-Mindy? Is that you?”

I turned, half horrified, and half confused. It didn’t sound like me, not how I remembered. It was too young, too small. I don’t remember being that small.

I knocked again, the same password. Then, I heard crying. Soft, heartbroken sobs that rattled my brain.

“Mindy, please come back…”

“I-It’s me, Mindy!” I couldn’t stop myself. I placed a hand on the door, and peered inside through the small window. I couldn’t see anything but pitch, black nothingness. “Can you let me in?”

The crying turned to some small sniffles, and after a moment, the door unlatched, creaking slightly. I pushed it open, and winced from the sudden appearance of light.

Despite having ducked down through the doorway, the interior of the playhouse seemed much, much larger than it did from outside. It wasn’t mouldy, or dank, but pristine and fresh, like it had once been. The small flickers of candles danced around the room, and a warm, vanilla scent danced around my nose. And nestled in the corner, was a little head peaking out from under a sleeping bag; nose snotty and eyes plump and reddened with tears. Suddenly, the figure burst out from the sleeping bag and rushed toward me, wrapping arms around my torso with what felt to be relief.

“M-Mindy! You were gone for so long! I was worried…” It trailed off, before looking up at me with tear filled eyes.

It was me.

A much smaller, scruffier version of me. From what I could tell anyway—my mind racked with images of photographs hung on Dad’s fridge. Looking at them, I don’t think I’d even be able to recognise my likeness in the street. I was flabbergasted, and couldn’t speak; that chillingly familiar scent of vanilla candles sickened me to the point of bile rushing up my throat, and I’d known that had I dared open my mouth to respond, I’d surely expel the contents of all the whisky I’d forced down onto the clean, carpeted floor.

Carpet? I never remembered the floor to be carpeted. My eyes darted around the room, cold flooding my bones despite the cosy temperature. It wasn’t exactly how I’d remembered it to be. The pristine, painted interior had chips in it, and the faux stove seemed a lot more shoddily painted. The former glory of the playhouse, despite being close to the memory I held of it, was askew; amiss. Different, as if from a more grownup lens—maturity dampening the magic that I’d conjured up in my dreams.

“Mindy?” The small girl asked again, and she clasped my hands with her own. I looked down, and saw that, unlike my tanned skin that should’ve bore resemblance to hers, I instead had small, pale ones, fingernails painted with a light pink sheen. I quickly pulled away, grasping at my face. My nose was smaller, pointier; lips thinner. I scrambled to the window, and saw…Mindy.

Six, or Seven (or perhaps even eight) year old Mindy Howard, staring back at me. My face wasn’t mine, it was hers. My hair was pulled back into long, blonde pigtails, and my hoodie and jeans replaced with a pink pinafore dress. I looked down at the hem of the dress, and noticed a slight fraying; stitching that hadn’t quite been made correctly and threatened to expose the split seam. It wasn’t right.

Words began to tumble out of my mouth; a voice much gentler and higher pitched than my own, and didn’t match the thoughts that swirled murkily in my head. My body moved on its own, and I pulled the girl—me—her, into my arms.

“Hey! Don’t cry, everything’s fine. Mommy just dropped some laundry on the ground.” I spoke—Mindy spoke. The girl cried softly, and after a few moments of sniffle broken silence, she began to calm down. I continued. “Let’s go to sleep now, I’m pretty tired. Mommy said she’ll make us pancakes in the morning.”

I felt my face stretch into a small smile, and, hand in hand, we moved to the sleeping bags, nestling under them together. Eventually heavy breaths turned into light snores, and I looked at myself—her, and a warmth blossomed in my chest. And somehow, I knew.

Mindy felt a genuine love for me, for the little, scruffy kid who looked at her with pure adoration. It wasn’t pity, or anger, or anything else I had concocted up in my guilt-ridden stupor. She loved me, and she forgave me. And in that little, less-than-perfect playhouse, we could forget those bleak and colourless moments that loomed outside, and be comfortable together, in our own small world of make believe.

I woke up early in the morning to water dripping from the tiles in the ceiling. Vanilla was replaced with mildew and rot, and the warmth of those sleeping bags gone, in favour of the icy, damp wooden floor. It had been stripped of everything entirely; just the shell of the playhouse standing around me. I stood up, and hit my head on the ceiling, my jeans returned and hoodie sodden. I checked my cellphone, and it was 5am, with the early morning sun peering through the dirtied windows. Yet, despite how miserable I should’ve been, waking up in such a decrepit place, I was in a state of bliss. Peace.

I sat there for a moment, wondering if I’d been far drunker than I’d realised, and had simply passed out the moment I entered the tiny playhouse and dreamt up the entire experience. My head wasn’t pounding, though, at that age, hangovers felt like a slight headache, rather than severely crippling. My back did ache from the hard floor, and I felt a sense of foolishness wash over me. What was I doing, going into my deceased childhood friend’s playhouse? Back to the sight of the tragedy?

It was only when I looked at my surroundings that I noticed the small scribbling on the floor. Like chicken stretches, but blue and waxy. It was hard to read; barely legible childish scribbles.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come back. Thank you for being my friend.”

I sobbed for a very long time on the floor of that playhouse. Not out of sorrow, or dread, like the last time I’d been in there. It was out of pure, absolute gratitude. I knew that, wherever Mindy was, she was finally at peace, and that rotted, tainted part of my childhood had slowly begun to repair itself, healing over like a scar that would always remain, but slowly fade. She’d saved a part of me again.

A few months later, Mindy’s old home was demolished. Something to do with a big buyer wanting to convert the lot into a care home. It was quite poetic, in a strange sort of way. The house of the little girl who helped me would now be the home to people who needed care in the last few stages of their life. The playhouse went too, of course, but it didn’t really affect me as much as I’d thought it would. I had the fond memories to go by, now, and it was better to see it removed before the image of its depleted self replaced the one frozen in my mind.

I have my own home now, in a much nicer area. My husband and I are preparing for a new guest; a little baby girl, just 6 months along. My husband is quite the craftsman, and when I suggested he build a small playhouse for her, to play in with her friends when she grows up, he was delighted with the idea. I can see it now, as I’m typing this from my bedroom window. Cream painted wood, with a coral-pinkish roof, clad with real tiles. Painted ivy and roses adorn the outdoors, and a duck egg green door with a sweet, heart shaped doorknob. The windows are proper glass, and have matching green shutters on the outside.

It’s carpeted inside too.

Mai hate working late and being one of few people to leave the office late. Today was supposed to be her off but she was called in because one of her colleagues called in sick. It’s almost 7:40pm and she has to walk to the bus stop because the her phone went off. Some shops were still open and people were on the street so she felt safe.After waiting for more than 15 minutes, the bus finally arrived but sadly it was full so she had to wait for the next one. Not too long after the bus left, a woman joined her at bus stop. She was wearing a trench coat and a surgical mask. She stood at the far end without saying a word. After sometime she faced Mai and said “ Not to bother you much but can you tell me if I look ok. I’m meeting up with my mother in law later”

Mai politely responded and told her she looks fine. Mai turned to see whether the bus was coming or not. And within a flash, the woman moved closer to her and said

“Not to bother you much but do you think my hair is properly kept ?”

Mai was frightened by how quickly the woman moved towards her but again she replied

“ it’s perfectly fine “

She felt uneasy and remembered the stories about Kuchisake-Onna the slit mouth woman. Before she could make any sudden movements, she was hit with the stench of decay coming from the woman who was now standing right in front of her. She took the surgical mask off revealing a deep cut on her face from ear to ear and asked

“ one more thing, do you think I’m beautiful?”

Mai was shocked and terrified and in the mixed of that, the Kuchiaske-Onna jumped on her with a sharp blade. While cutting Mai’s face in the same manner as hers, she was repeatedly saying

“ you will be as beautiful as I am “

https://jztstory.blogspot.com/?m=1

When you see a homeless person holding a sign on the street corner begging for food or money, homeless veteran and whatnot, what do you think? Scam? Legit? Where do they sleep at night?

Are you a sympathetic person? I want to believe that's enough for anybody, like it was for me. Not that I know for sure where I'm going. I just know it's kind.

I'm in just my mid twenties, but through dedication and sheer whatever, I landed the prestigious position of pawn shop manager at the edge of town. Maybe you've heard of it. Darnell's Electroknickknacks. Yeah. Well, Darnell, the owner, is a dad, so at least we know where his sense of humor comes from.

I'm just boring old Donald, yeah our store's name is weird, I can give you thirty for this flat screen TV.

I got calls at that job from time to time, but not often. Just someone asking me for a ballpark figure on a price for something they wanted to sell. Most of the time it's sorry, gotta bring it in or else we can't give a number. Why are you cursing at me. Get off the damn phone.

Sorry, I probably sound soulless and bored. I'm actually the opposite. I'm in shock. Good? Bad? You decide.

I got a call on Friday, but it wasn't the usual. The voice on the other end was a woman's voice, very gentle and smooth as though she were a topnotch therapist trying to reassure me that I would be able to get through some horrible trauma. The phone didn't have her number on it.

"Hello," she said immediately when I picked up, before I could say it first. "Donald Carlson?"

"That's me. Are we getting popular?" I was a bit surprised at the thought. I was content working here, it helped with my naturally laid back lifestyle, but we were kind of on the dead end side of things. Quiet in the store half the time.

"I didn't call about your store, Donny. I wanted to ask you something very important."

I frowned into the phone. "Is this about taxes or something? I'm only the store manager. I don't own it."

"Donny, please, try to focus. Not your store. This is about you. It's very important."

I was beginning to feel nervous. "What's going on? Who are you?"

"My name is Emelie. Donny, I need to ask for something from you. A donation, if you're willing."

Oh. It was THAT kind of call. But how had Emelie known my name? If she'd guessed Darnell, that would be no surprise, but I just worked here. How had she known I would be the one to answer the phone?

"Really," I muttered. Why not at least see what she meant? "What do you have in mind?" A hundred bucks I'm not willing to shovel away, I thought. I'm not selfish, but I'm not giving anything to some weirdo caller like this, and definitely not anything substantial.

"Would you be willing to give just one dollar to someone who needs it more, Donny?"

I furrowed my brow. "You want my card number for a dollar? Get real."

"I don't need your information. Just a yes or a no, and that's all." She sounded painstakingly patient, and I had to admit, that was pretty dedicated. Most scammers would give up at overdone sarcasm, or at least be cussing me out by now.

"Oh. Uh, I don't know how that works, but sure. Fine by me." I was smirking. How in the world would she get it without any of my account info?

"Yes, Donny? Is that your answer?"

"Yes." I rolled my eyes, but kept the impatience out of my voice.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much." And she hung up.

For about five seconds I tried not to burst out laughing in the middle of the store. What the hell had that been?

And suddenly a cold pit filled my stomach. The YES. There was a scam out there for collecting voice clips, wasn't there? And the word "yes" in someone's voice could be used to make a purchase in their name? I didn't have any apps or accounts that operated off of me doing that, and the whole rumor could have just been fearmongering and stupidity, but suddenly I felt like I didn't want to take a chance.

I logged into my bank account at once, looking for the support number to see if I could ask them about the possibility of the scam, and change my cards if need be.

There was a small message just below the big display of the few hundred bucks in my checking account.

Thank you Donny.

I clicked on my checking account, feeling a sharp zing in my chest, that mini heart attack feeling that something real bad's about to happen.

The latest transaction...it was one dollar.

No description. No destination.

Just one dollar taken. By someone or something invisible.

Who the hell...suddenly I heard a tapping on the window next to the counter. I turned in confusion, and saw a young girl standing outside. She was a little scuffed up, as though she'd been outside for a long time. Messy dark hair. Faint smears of dirt on her face. Clothes stained, some edges frayed. Face a little gaunt, not alarmingly so as though she were truly starving, but she definitely looked a bit malnourished.

She had both hands behind her back, smiling up at me, her face the very picture of admiration, as though she'd found a long lost friend, or a guardian angel. I blinked and stared at her, then slowly raised my hand in an awkward, short wave.

In response, she reached into her pocket, keeping the other hand still behind her back, and pulled out a white rectangle of paper. A receipt. I leaned forward to read it.

Hubert's Hot Dogs! Get 'em while they're hot!

Jumbo Frankie Meal Deal! One dollar for the Big Bread Frankie with chili and cheese and a bottle of ice water! One lucky day a month only!

She reached out with her other hidden hand.

A white shopping bag. She reached in and pulled out a large, long aluminum foil wrapped hot dog. A jumbo sized bottle of water with ice cubes in it came out next.

She was staring at me with her hot dog and water, smiling so big she could have been on a Christmas card. Tears flowing down her cheeks.

Thank you. Her lips formed the words. Staring at me as though I were her hero.

Then she turned and ran off.

I'll admit, I was shocked. I logged back into my account and looked at the transaction again.

It was no longer blank. Now the destination was HuDog+MainTrans+Carolina, and the description was Hubert's Jumbo Frankie Meal Deal.

As though the money had gone through right away, but to whom, had been decided only after it had already been paid.

I logged out, stunned. I looked at the window again, and there was nothing. She was, I figured, probably gone forever, and I'd never see her again. She couldn't have been the voice on the phone, though. That had been a grown woman. Maybe my age, maybe ten years older, no idea from just a voice. But that tiny kid? No way it had been her.

But my heart was kind of glowing, though. You ever get that feeling, when you do something wonderful and can actually see the gratitude from someone? The way you keep that with you for a while? Not an egotistical I'm a freakin' saint kind of feeling, but more of an oh damn, I actually made a homeless child's day kind of feeling.

And then it hit me. A homeless child. Shit, I couldn't just let her run off like that! Couldn't I call someone? Maybe take her to the police? Could they help find her a home? Or did she already have parents and a home and only looked bad because things weren't so good for her? The more I thought about it, the more mixed up I became. I'd never been in a situation like this.

So I told Ernie, one of my floor employees. He was a few years younger than me, paying for college, but wise beyond his years. He seemed as baffled as I was, and I guess I'm just grateful he believed the story.

"Nothing you can do, dude. The cops might go searching for a kid like what you describe, maybe they'll find her, maybe they won't. But the system, it fails kids more often than we want to acknowledge. Besides, if that chick knew this was going to happen, then that kid probably already has her watching over her. Maybe it was her mom or something. I dunno. Maybe this was just some cheapo feel-good scam."

I hadn't considered that. The little girl probably already had a guardian. That woman on the phone could have been her mom, or her older sister, and besides, she had known my money was going to the kid, hadn't she?

Was leaving it there the right choice? I don't know. I'm not filled with worldly knowledge or a KFC-sized bucketful of common sense about every possible difficult situation I could find myself in. But that was what I did. If anything, if she had really needed my help, she wouldn't have run off with such joy on her face, would she?

For a week, nothing else happened. And then, Friday again, right after I came back from lunch, the phone rang.

I opened my mouth to greet the customer, and got the instant "Hello? Donald Carlson?"

My stomach sort of squeezed in on itself. Her again. Was this a good thing? Was I going to help another child get a meal somehow? Everything happening around me was perfectly mundane, almost completely ordinary, but I was filled with the sense of something wonderful, almost supernatural.

"It's me." My voice sounded dry and hoarse.

"Donny, it's me again. Emelie. Everything worked out well before, and I was wondering if we could do this again. Would you be willing to make a donation?"

I paused for a moment. "Sure, a bit more this time?"

She seemed to hesitate. I could almost hear her holding her breath; the other side of the line had suddenly gone quiet.

"One minute," she said softly.

"Oh. Uh yeah, no problem," I stammered. "I'll be here."

"No, Donny, I mean...one minute. Can you donate that?"

"Wh...what? I don't know what you mean." My heart raced.

"I'm sorry. I can't explain. Can you trust me, Donny? Are you willing to give one minute?"

The little girl's face flashed into my mind. She hadn't gone to sleep with a hurting tummy that night because I had given one dollar. Whatever her situation, however good or bad things were for her, I'd at least put a little light into her day and made that night a bit easier.

So what miracle could a single minute pull off? Could I help someone even more?

"Yes. I'll donate a minute." I felt stupid saying that, having no clue what it meant. But I knew it meant something important.

Suddenly, I went stiff, and the phone slipped out of my hand, clattering onto the table. Hardy land lines, it didn't even crack, and luckily, neither did my head.

I opened my eyes, panting and sweating, to see my three floor associates gathered around me behind the counter.

"I said call 911!" Ernie was insisting, and then he leaped a foot in the air as I shot up into a sitting position.

"Ey yo!" Tyrone said. "The hell you nappin' down there for, man?" He was smiling, sort of, but his eyes looked terrified, as though I'd just dodged a bullet.

"You just fell right to the ground out of nowhere, Donny," Leslie chimed in. "Just a second ago."

I tried to speak, but they were all over me, helping me into a chair, handing me a glass of water. It pays to not be a shit manager, I guess. Your people care about you. Leslie was still debating about calling an ambulance for me, but I thanked them all and insisted I'd be fine.

We went back to business as usual after everyone was assured I wouldn't pass out again (call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure I'd been out exactly sixty seconds and was in no danger of it happening again). There was nobody at the window.

But two hours later, there was someone at the door.

A policewoman came in, dark blue suit, coffee colored skin, black ponytail, thirty at most. She looked almost as though she were in a trance, seeing something ethereal. She barely glanced around before seeing me, and gravitating right toward my counter.

"Donald Carlson?" she whispered, and a flash of deja vu hit me. But she had a different voice; she wasn't the woman from the phone.

I nodded, and felt the color drain out of my face. Was it something bad this time? What had happened? Was the whole thing a gamble, and I'd landed on Bankrupt this time? Who had gotten hurt because of this little game I'd decided to play?

But her lips were trembling, and she was beaming at me, looking as though she were trying not to cry. She reached out to me, and I clumsily offered her my hand. She took it with the gentleness of a mother comforting her child, and led me out of the store. Jesus Christ, was I under arrest? What could I have done by giving up a minute of my time?

There was an unmarked bus waiting outside by a couple of police cars. Three more officers stood by, along with a small group of maybe twenty people. Young women, from children about the age of the girl from yesterday, up to college aged, all stood outside the bus. Some looked nervous. Some looked relieved enough to have been reborn.

"What's going on?" I asked stupidly.

"Mr. Carlson," the officer next to me said, her voice shaking, "we traced the call back to the phone at your counter in this pawn shop. A call lasting exactly one minute. A man with your voice, identifying himself with your full name, gave to our police force not a few hours ago, the address of a human trafficking house you claimed you had been anonymously informed of by an unknown caller with no callback number."

My eyes were as wide as dinner plates by then. Of course I'd done no such thing; didn't she know that from the way the news was hitting me? But...then suddenly, I realized.

WHAT had I been doing in that one minute that I'd been out? Had I fallen right away? Had I...first dialed someone?

What had Leslie said? Just a second ago. They'd gotten to me in a second. A full minute had not passed from the moment I'd fallen and woken up. Only a few seconds.

I had dialed the police first, and then passed out, and woken back up instantly.

I tried to speak. Tears were clogging my throat. Several of the young women and a few of the children were right in front of me now, holding me, crying, and I felt like I was going to fall apart. Like a Jenga puzzle you've removed too many blocks from.

I couldn't have done something this meaningful. Not me. I just couldn't have. I mean, I've always wanted to be able to help someone in a profound, meaningful way, I dunno why. Because I'm nice? Because I'm some feel-good sap?

I'll spare you the rest of the waterworks. I didn't hold together too well after a few seconds of being hugged and hearing them cry at their rescue. I sank to my knees and kind of became a mess. The officers turned away, their faces twisted a bit painfully, and I had never felt anything so beautiful as this moment of wonder, that just giving one minute had done something so good. I didn't feel like I deserved to feel this kind of...whatever it was.

Pride? No. I didn't feel satisfied, I didn't feel proud, I didn't feel like it was all a job well done. I felt something that made my chest so warm, made me so weak that I could barely stand back up.

Over the next week or so, I got calls from dozens of parents, older siblings, relatives, people sending me flowers, presents, cards, visiting me in person. An old lady actually showed up to kneel as soon as I opened the door, and bless my soul in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior, for the rescue of her granddaughter, amen.

I just couldn't possibly deserve any of this. I already had enough trouble just taking a compliment. I wasn't really some kind of hero just because...because I'd given one minute to a telephone stranger and then been possessed...right?

Well, next Friday.

The phone rang. It was evening, almost time for closing, and I'd actually felt a bit hollow that day, as there had been no call. I felt like that had become a side job, almost. Some kind of miracle puppet, for the mysterious stranger to pull my strings and make me do wonderful things only she knew could happen. Together we were making a difference. Somehow. Don't ask, I'm still baffled. But if I was some kind of benign meat puppet with a kind master who worked with me to save innocent lives so easily, was I going to ever say no to her calls? You know the answer.

"Donny." She spoke the moment I picked up the phone. She sounded different.

She sounded so sad.

"Hey...Emelie?" I asked. "Are you all right?"

She was quiet for a moment.

"It went...pretty well last time," I admitted, blushing. I didn't want to really acknowledge the weight of it all, and besides, didn't she deserve more credit than me? She must have been the one making things happen. At least I thought she was.

"I'm sorry, Donny," she whispered. "Oh God, I'm so, so sorry."

My heart sank. NOW it had to be something bad, I just knew it. Was there going to be an occasional mishap? A price to pay for such easily done good deeds?

"Em...Emelie?"

"Would you like...to make a donation?" she asked, with great difficulty. It sounded like each word weighed a ton on her heart.

"Of----of course. What kind?" I blurted before I could lose my nerve.

"Could y..." she paused, and I could hear her voice momentarily flatten as she quieted down. That small, heart-wrenching sound of someone cutting their voice off to stifle a sob.

She was crying.

"Would...you..." I heard her moan softly in a quivering voice, and she sniffed a few times, trying to gather a little composure.

"Would you...be willing...to...give....yourself?" she was trying so hard to hold on. I waited for her to finish, but then I realized her sentence was already done.

"Me?" I didn't get it.

Then I did.

She was breathing so shakily, waiting for that moment when I would say something that destroyed her, either for this reason, or that other one.

But I knew what this must mean. I knew what was at stake. If it wasn't for me, it would be for someone else.

For a moment, I was filled with terror. In fact, I still am. I haven't stopped being scared. Was it worth it? How would it happen? What was in store for me exactly? When, down to the second?

Everything seemed to get darker. Color faded from my vision for a few seconds as I considered the weight of the horrifying choice. A choice I'm still afraid of, even now as I wait for the inevitable. It had to come down to this. This ultimate test. To see if I really could be willing to do that much.

I'm not sure why I gave the answer I did.

"Yes. I accept."

Emelie burst into tears. I heard her long, drawn out, shaking sobs as she struggled to speak. But she only managed one last word.

"D-Donny."

Then the sound ended as she hung up.

Nothing was happening. But I knew something would.

Saturday, we were only open in the morning. Closed at twelve. No phone call, of course.

But there was a young woman standing across the street, visible from the window. She was wearing a pale blue dress, an elegant, wonderful thing that at the same time looked so comfortable, even from a distance, she might wear it to bed. Shoulder length wavy black hair. A lovely, kind face.

She was staring at me. Her face gleamed in the sun, and even from far away I could tell she was crying. Ernie asked me at one point what I was looking at, and glanced out there in confusion.

Only I could see her. Emelie would appear for nobody but me.

She was gone by noon, when we closed.

Monday, I was back. So was she. Now on our side of the street, standing on the sidewalk a little ways from the building. No longer crying. But still looking miserable as she stared at me. Now closer, she couldn't even meet my eyes. But she stayed there the whole day.

I was a little more scared then. I had made the choice. I couldn't take it back. But I was more scared than I'd ever been in my life.

Tuesday. She was further down the sidewalk a bit. Closer to the window than before. She managed to look me in the eyes a few times, and every time, I could see the apology there. The back of her dress, I noticed, seemed to be moving, as if something was hiding in there.

I almost hadn't come in to work. I'd wanted to stay huddling in my bed, hoping it would all go away, but I had managed to force myself. I had chosen this. I had to see it through. I had to have the resolve to do what needed to be done.

Wednesday. She was on the grass now, halfway to the window. Watching me. She managed a small smile at one point, and later, a shy wave, though tears still ran down her cheeks. Her dress was fluttering and moving, though there was no breeze.

I was shaking a little on and off that day. Leslie asked me if I was all right. She said I looked pale and sick. I tried to wave off her concerns.

Thursday. She was right outside the window, palms pressed against the glass, looking longingly at me all day. I took out my phone, knowing what was coming for me. I should have done it earlier, I guess, but better late than never. I started this post, and typed out most of it, saving it as a draft. It was the only thing that kept me from leaving early. Just reminding myself what I was doing.

Friday.

The doors unlocked at 7:30 in the morning. The open sign turned on automatically. The doors opened.

My heart stopped as I saw her face. It was too late to run. Too late to change my mind. It had been since the moment I'd said yes. Did I regret it? Did I want to beg her to let me take it back?

Even still, even then, somehow the answer was no. Maybe I'm just half softie, half coward, but I couldn't do it. What that would have done to someone, if I could have changed it...I didn't have that in me.

She walked in slowly, her eyes on me, and came up to the counter. I was the only one there. Nobody else came in till eight. She came closer and closer, and I felt like I would pass out, as though she were projecting the fear from her very being, fear mixed with darkness, that feeling of the unknown approaching, the very word I've been too afraid to acknowledge this whole time, just because I can't bring myself to actually write down that I've willingly brought that particular fate to myself.

She stood on the other side of the counter, staring into my eyes, into my soul. Then she reached forward and took my hands in hers. Tears filled her eyes.

As we stared at each other, it felt as though a lifetime of conversation passed between us in the span of lovely silence. There was nothing but the ticking of the clock on the wall behind me, and the beating of my heart. Her dress fluttered a little, and I thought I saw something white peek out from the side.

Finally, it was almost eight. She closed her eyes, turned, and walked to the door. She paused and looked back at me. We both understood.

As soon as I clocked out for the day...that was it.

She left, and I made more phone calls than I'd ever made in one day. Calls to family. Old friends, new friends, anyone on my contact list. My parents.

I couldn't really explain. But saying goodbye, even veiling it as something they would understand soon, was the hardest thing I've ever done. Even in that one moment before I'd told Emelie yes, I had realized this would be difficult for me, had known it would come, would be necessary. Somehow, I'd put it off. Somehow, she had known I would need to anyway.

Would she have taken me away instantly otherwise, as soon as she'd come in?

Maybe.

Or maybe she'd have given me this last day still anyway, standing outside the window after the short visit. The dress now fluttering in the breeze around her wings, large white feathery wings about as long as she was tall. Flapping slowly, silently, as she watched me, and waited for the clock to wind down. Still occasionally letting a tear escape.

Why?

I wasn't depressed or anything. I wasn't dissatisfied with what I had. I was content, comfortable for the time being, unsure of what the future would bring. But I'd never done anything really, really good, or important, and never made a huge name for myself. What harm could it do? People would miss me, and I was sad to hurt them that way, but they would move on eventually. The world would.

I'm not necessary. Not that mundane way. But in this way, at least I can know I did something right, no matter what it took.

Don't be selfish. Don't be cruel. If Emelie or one of the other sisters finds you, calls you, visits you, you'll know it's one of them when you see her. You'll know she came to you because you're that kind of person who would give.

It doesn't have to always be yes. You aren't a bad person for saying no.

But just pause for a moment and think. Why did they come to you? It isn't a personal attack. It isn't a mind game.

They just know you're the kind of person who can make a difference.

Just give what you can. It doesn't have to be everything. Please don't think you absolutely have to. Maybe I shouldn't have. I'm still afraid of the unknown, even though it's minutes away now. When there's no turning back, no matter how kind she is, no matter how she cries for you, she will make sure you keep your word.

Give what you're willing to, and don't feel obligated to give more. Just do what's right, if you can. You have no idea how much it means until after the fact.

The TV. What's it saying?

We interrupt this broadcast to bring you news of a miracle. Every single person at St. Sharif's Hospital who was dying in the terminal illness ward has suddenly, miraculously recovered. They're claiming they all see angels and that they've all been cured, and are being told they'll live long, happy lives, and all because of one...because of...one person...one...

I don't need to see any more.

When did the day go?

I forgot. We're off today. It's a holiday. Nobody came in at all. The hours flew by. I spent the day making calls, clocked in uselessly on a machine that wasn't connected to the internet, wasn't recording my hours today because it was all turned off. Nobody came in to switch things on out there on the floor. I was so preoccupied, I forgot...I didn't even have to come in.

But yes. I did have to.

Her face in the door now. The door's open. She's coming. Tears in her eyes again, but a small smile on her face.

She's walking slowly toward me, raising a hand. I know it's time. I agreed, after all.

Where am I going? What's coming next? I don't know. The fear's still there. I'm cold, I'm sweating, I'm barely standing. But somehow I know I can do this. I know I can honor my word.

I guess I'll see what's beyond.

[Post].

Considering today is Friday night and the probability of traffic jamming up on the street may be high, James decided to take his bicycle to visit his friend's place to avoid traffic. He took a shortcut off the road and through the abandoned park. About halfway through the park, he heard a whistle coming from behind, but he ignored it and rode quickly away. Finally, out of there and back on the street where there were people standing around, he looked back at the park from where the whistle had come and saw a man standing perfectly still, wearing a suit and looking right back at him. He assumed a bunch of no-brainers were playing a prank on him, so he shook his head and went straight to his friend’s house.

When he got to the house, his friend was in the shower, so he had to wait outside. Suddenly, there was the same whistle again, but this time it sounded closer than the last one. He turned around to find the suited man standing behind the locked main gate. A little frightened, he remained calm and warned the person to carry their joke elsewhere. He turned to call out to his friend to hurry up and open the door. When he turned back in the direction of the man, he found him standing inside the compound. Baffled by how quickly he got inside, James grew more concerned and alarmed. To avoid any surprises from the suited man, he kept his eyes fixed on him, but each time he blinked, the man moved a step closer. Unable to bear it anymore, James began to shout for his friend to come out.

Just when the suited figure was inches away from James, his friend opened the door to see what all the fuss was about. Right in front of him was James and a silhouette of a man jumping the gate and making an escape. The police were called, but there were no signs of a suited man in the area or at the park. The only trace of the man was the video from the CCTV camera from earlier that night.

I had no idea how my life would change when I woke up that morning. I lived with my Grandma, and while we were never rich, we had a roof and enough food in our bellies. She said we should be thankful. If I’d listened none of it would have happened.

I never knew my Father and my Mom was in jail for tax fraud. I was totally set up for great things. Ha. My Grandma refused to see me flounder or end up in foster care, though. Besides, my Mom had me young, so while Grams made for an older parent, she wasn't incapable of taking care of me. At 16, I was a bit of a little shit and definitely didn't appreciate her as I should have. I was walking home from school with my face in my phone when I stumbled. I turned to see what I tripped over, only to find a well-dressed older man adjusting his tie. What was this dude playing at walking around the hood like that? Hadn’t anyone bothered him? Before I had a chance to say something smart assed about his getup, he extended his hand.

"Briar, at your service. May I have your name?"

Maybe it was his sudden appearance, clothes, or the too-bright smile entirely out of place for a stranger in my city, but my instincts were screaming at me to run. I was a street-smart kid who couldn't identify why I was uncomfortable, but I wasn't about to give him my real name or anything that could be traced back to me.

"You can call me K2," I said, hooking my fingers in my belt loops and trying to look tough.

His smile faltered slightly, but he closed and withdrew his hand.

"Well, K2. I was going to offer you a... ah job. Work in exchange for pay, but I can't unless I have your name."

"In fact." He paused, rubbing his chin. "You could even call it a gift."

My instincts were still screaming that this was supremely weird and that I needed to be alert, but the mention of money piqued my interest. After all, Grams and I weren't rich, and if I could bring in some, life would get better. We could fix the leaky faucet that drove up our plumbing bill by about thirty bucks each month. The draft in my window that chilled my room so much I had to sleep on the living room couch during winter months could be mended. I'd even be able to fix my bike, so getting around would be so much easier. With thoughts of monetary sufficiency whirling in my head, I extended my hand.

"Kiren. My name's Kiren."

The man's smile widened even further as he gripped my hand in a surprisingly spry grip for an elderly man. Had he always had such sharp canines?

"Well, Kiren. I have some tasks for you."

He scribbled in a little black leather-bound book, and when he was done, he tore out the page and passed it to me with a flourish. In the split second it took me to look down at the paper and back up, he was gone. I looked back and forth. I could see for a good two blocks in each direction, but he was nowhere to be found. In fact, the only evidence he had ever been there was the little paper clutched in my hand.

The paper detailed that I needed to collect a sprig of silver vine, find five shiny trinkets, and an offering of fresh meat to be retrieved in one fortnight.

What kind of job was this anyway? Did I even want a job with that freak? Part of me wanted to throw away the paper and forget the whole interaction, but I shoved the paper back in my pocket anyway.

Shaking my head, I pulled out my earbuds, and plugged them into my phone. Turning on the music, I continued home, all the while thinking about the strange little man as the beat thudded in my ears.

I had no idea why I did it; it was almost automatic, but all the same, I found myself ordering silver vine off the internet only to discover it relatively close by. Frankly, I was surprised to find an obscure Japanese vine in the city but a place in China Town carried some. As I walked to school and the bodega around the corner from my house, I would see random trinkets on the ground. A key chain, a shiny rock, a single earring, a piece of a mirror, and even a diamond ring. I picked up the small items without even thinking and put them in my pockets. I only remembered finding them when I emptied my pockets at the end of the day.

Meat. I figured if I'd done the rest of it, I might as well finish it off and get some meat. If the weird man didn't appear, then at least I could give it to Grams to cook for dinner. I left the apartment and walked to the bodega. After buying the hamburger, I began walking home.

"So, did you do what was asked?" The voice came from behind me, and I fairly jumped out of my skin.

“I uh… I did,” I stuttered. “But I don’t have all the items with me right now.”

"Really?" He tilted his head. "Check your pockets."

I reached into my pocket, and something sliced my finger. Withdrawing my hand in surprise, I looked at the man, who only raised his eyebrows expectantly. With more caution this time, I reached back into my pocket and withdrew the mirror, still sparkling with my blood. One by one, I placed the trinkets into my hand. He continued looking at me as I reached into the other withdrawing the plant that I could’ve sworn I’d left on my desk before going shopping, in fact all of it had been on my desk.

He smiled brightly and grabbed for the lot greedily. Then he tilted his head.

"And the meat?"

I extended the package of hamburger meat, and his expression soured.

"This... is your offering? THIS PITTANCE?" He spat, and his eyes flashed.

"You couldn't even kill it yourself?!"

I stepped back in shock, "Well... uh... people don't usually kill their meat anymore. At least not when in cities."

After half a second, he composed himself.

"True enough." His eyes still held a glint that made me pause, not to mention his personality flip.

"Well, I guess we better get down to business, " he said, withdrawing the black book from his coat. He scribbled, looked at me as I stood awkwardly, pursed his lips, and wrote more. Finally satisfied, he handed me the book.

He’d written a contract in a complicated, scrawling script that I couldn’t decipher, but the critical part was readable.

"You're... You're... going to give me this?"

“Every two weeks. If you complete the requirements every two weeks, you’ll receive two ounces of gold, written under that is the current estimate of the price of gold for two ounces. Should you fail to accomplish the job, the deal will be… revised.”

“But… You didn’t like the meat I purchased.”

He shrugged with a small smile that raised the hair on the back of my neck.

“Indeed, but you followed directions as you understood them. That is to be rewarded."

"Simply sign the contract and receive your reward."

I looked at him, then back down to the soft leather book. It was too good to be true. But at the same time, he didn't have any of my information other than my first name—no social security number or anything. I signed.

"This is amazing." I gushed as I handed the book back. "Thank you!"

"You are most welcome, and here's your payment." He passed me an envelope containing an unidentifiable lump.

“But Kiren," my stomach roiled with stabbing pain.

"Don't think I've forgotten the slight of cheap meat. You may have stuck to the letter of the offer but not the spirit. You'll remember for the future, though," He grinned wolfishly.

"After all, your name is mine. And you so kindly provided blood too.” He waggled the mirror in his fingers. “I think two years' punishment should suffice."

Before I could reply, he waved his hand, and my body began to shrink, and thick black fur sprouted. No one else milling around reacted as I cried out. It was as though they no longer saw me. My body contorted, and within a minute, I was low to the ground and felt decidedly light on my feet. Walking over to a deli window, I realized with a start that I was looking at myself with feline eyes. I was a freaking cat! A small black one.

"Now,” the man bent down to my eye level. “Don't forget to give me choice offerings, lest you become my prey." His own feline eyes stared into mine.

It’s been five years since then. I hid the gold in the basement of our brownstone after I was turned, getting in through the wonky window, and would do so every two weeks until I could return as myself. I would’ve tried to live with Grams, but I was terrified that she’d try to either make me an indoor pet or take me to the pound. Neither were options for obvious reasons.

Living as a cat wasn’t so bad, in fact it’s the thing that made the job easier to do. My new instincts overcame a lot of the squeamishness over a kill. The man didn’t seem to care that much about what type of prey I gave him, as long as I worked for it and killed it myself. Being cat sized the silver vine was the hardest to acquire because I’d have to spend a day making my way across the city and back with a delightfully smelling plant clutched gently in my jaws. I didn’t dare eat a piece or roll in it because I wasn’t repeating the experience of not delivering precisely as he expected. The trinkets were especially easy to find being so low to the ground and having wonderful night vision. The man would pop up as soon as I had the final requirement on the fourteenth day. Whatever I had collected would also instantly (and conveniently) appear with him. He always gave me a scratch behind the ear that made me want to stretch and purr in reflex and then just as quickly as I closed my eyes to enjoy the sensation he’d be gone.

When I was finally able to return to Grams, she was already sick. It was touch and go for a while, but we quickly discovered money solved many health problems. She was surprised when I returned from “abroad” well off and confused by my new fixations on hunting and fishing, but she finally agreed to move six months after I came back. I specifically asked him if it would violate the contract and he gave me that familiar ferocious and toothy grin and said he could find me anywhere we went. After we moved I no longer saw him but the offerings continue to disappear on schedule, and the payment is always left in their place.

Now, I have a small farm and green house. I grow silver vine as one of the plants year round and offerings are much easier to provide now that I don’t have to find a way to supply the kill in the off-season. It was awkward trying to explain to slaughterhouses that I wanted to kill my own animal, and I’m pretty sure more than one farmer decided I was a psychopath in the making. Couldn’t exactly explain that I need to do so because a weird little man gives me gold and doesn’t decide to eat me because I provide him fresh meat, but beyond that, it's a good life. Grams is happy; she’s building connections at the senior center, and I even went on a date two nights ago, one I met because I was doing my regular around town wandering for trinkets.

Even though that day was scary and those two years as a homeless cat were rough, I don’t regret it. I do have a small population of cats that live on the property. One even has a little white mark resembling a bow tie on his chest, but I’m sure that’s not Briar. Probably.

I’m extra nice to him though and always scratch behind his ears. Just in case.

This takes place in late 2023, for some background information I moved to Utah with my family in Late August 2023, my grandpa died 2 days later on August 29, 2023. My grandpa’s health was deteriorating for awhile, his heart and lungs was severely damaged. He was 82 years old.

The Early Morning of August 29, 2023 he passed away in his sleep, peacefully. He died as he wanted, he wanted a funeral, and everyone to be there.

His death was mostly caused by his lungs, he was a firefighter and served the fire department around Seattle Utah, he saved many lives. The many years of the toxic fumes and everything from the fire weakened his lungs. His death was expected. He served in the US army In WW2 as a pilot, and saved lives. His funeral was accompanied by his family, me, my cousins, my aunts, his children. His son, my uncle died in a car crash 20 years prior. He was with his family.

I do wish I said more things at his funeral, but what I did say I’m glad I said it. He was a great grandpa, he was a goofy outgoing guy, wholesome, many people loved him. He was buried on September 7th, 2023.

Anyway into the story.

It was a few days before his funeral, and we had traveled 17 hours from Utah to get to Washington.

My cousins where over, I only have two in my moms side. Anyway, I was in the family room with my younger Cousin (14), and we were playing chess I think. My older cousin called us into the living room hallway thing. There was a sign, and it was moving, no one brushed passed, it there was no wind or anything. My sister, and my two cousins where the only one home, no one walked past it to make it move. We got to communicate with him a little.

I’m not sure when but I was upstairs folding my laundry when the laundry basket fell down. It was across the room, and I was the only one home, and no wind or anything. Also a poster that was secured to the wall fell down. I think it was him, telling me that he was still there.

He was there at his funeral, I felt him there, his presence. For me I can feel spirits energy, and other entities. He was there. I know he’s still there, watching over me. I hope he knows how much I loved him. I wish I spent more time with him.

Like you have probably heard many times before, let the people you love know how much you love them, you might regret it later, I saw him laying in his coffin, dead he looked like he would get up any moment. I loved him a lot, he was a great grandpa. It’s been over a year since he died, and I know he’s is there.

Spend time with them.

I don't feel that way anymore - like we don't fit in here. My new job is perfect, it really is. I don't think my boss is creepy or that they have weird rules about the edge of the forest - where we have those two mossy picnic benches and people come outside to smoke on their breaks. I'm really good with it now.

My husband wasn't doing anything wrong. I know I said I thought he was up to something, like maybe having an 'the A word' or something. He is a really great guy and I trust him completely. It's fine.

The kids are both doing really great in school, making lots of friends and everything. In fact, that's what's up, the whole thing with the kids and the school. It's just going so well, I have to talk about that.

I would complain about one thing, though, off-topic, and that's my new car. I really can't complain though, since my new car is just fine. Everything is just fine.

I know we had some trouble when we first got here, like with my job and my husband and my car and the school and the kids and everything, but it's all going so well. Nothing is wrong, and everything is just perfect now. You don't have to worry, I am doing great.

Mike took Samual hunting the other day, since it is hunting season out here and all the guys go hunting. I was worried, because Mike knows almost nothing about hunting or the woods, but they were fine out there. They didn't shoot anything, but they went out into the woods with their guns and camped and bonded and came home without even so much as a tick bite. So everything turned out fine with that.

Mike has lots of new friends in town, and he goes and does Karaoke every Saturday. I'd go with him, but there's no need, it's not like he doesn't want me to come or that he stays out all night with those girls at the bar or anything. I fully trust him and I don't mind him going out without me.

Samual asked out Sheila Steihl to the Junior Dance and she heard he'd gone hunting with his dad and totally said she'd go out with him. So Samual is doing great, he's all smiles. I think we are starting to really fit in around here.

I know Iris was having some trouble, with the kids and the playground. She's doing okay now, the vaccine took hold really well and she stopped seeing the sick things. You remember those childhood drawings that were pretty upsetting - stuff she was seeing. Well, I was seeing them too, of course, but my vaccine worked too, and now we are fine.

Porter's Grove is a nice place to live, and I am so glad we moved here. I couldn't find work doing the conduit job that pays like it does here. The whole town is built on the metric revenue of our work. You should see how the local economy flourishes. This place was dying before Orange got here.

Sometimes, now that I got my promotion, I feel like we sorta run this whole town. My family gets treated like royalty. Sheila Steihl's parents didn't want her to go to the dance at-all and she isn't allowed to have a boyfriend - except she told them it was Samual, my son, who wanted to go out with her and they changed their minds. We're royalty.

That's why I love it here. Our lives couldn't be going better.

Yes, I know it was scary, at first, living in a paper town like this, but we adjusted. The vaccine we got helped, as the sick stuff went away after that. Iris had it the worst, since she was too young for the whole first year after we moved here.

I almost forgot what's out there. I haven't seen anything for a long time. They are drawn to people, apparently, at least that's my understanding. I'm not sure what those sick things want, but it isn't good, since they might try to get inside you.

There is a rumor that when Orange got here, that's when they started coming out of the woods, attacking people and getting into them. I've heard that several people got so full of those things that they actually exploded. Like really gross.

I can only imagine, with some trepidation, how it would work. If just one of those things got into you, they would change you right away, you'd get sick too. Then, how could you stop more and more of them from coming to you, climbing up all over you, getting inside of you, and - well I guess when that happens the human body can only take so much of the viral overload. You'd simply detonate at some point, the fermentation process going totally nuclear.

I was very afraid for a long time. I was afraid for myself, since I did get infected with one of them when we first moved here. I had to wear a special suit for awhile, kinda like a beekeeper's suit, to keep any more of them from getting into me. Iris was terrified, I was terrified and the whole town ostracized us.

My car broke down and it was within the compound on the way to work. Those things found me out there, crawling all over the outside of my car, trying to get in. I was panicked and trapped. They started finding their way into the car, through the vents and cracks and from under the floor. I was covered in them. While I was paralyzed with dread, trapped in my car, my special suit covered in those things, I knew it wouldn't be long until they got into the suit and into me.

I must have fainted from sheer terror, and when I awoke I was in the facility and they had my stripped down and in a decontamination. My car got repairs and I was administered the new vaccine, since it was too late to inoculate me. The needle was about five inches long and they had to put it into my thymus, through my neck. I really hate needles, and I was somehow even more terrified by the cure than the disease.

Mike wasn't very supportive before the company reeducated him. After that he was great, since he was no longer able to ignore me or disobey me or lie to me. That's how I know he's fine out there with the waitresses at the bar and the Karaoke. I'm holding all the keys.

Our house is awesome. We moved out of the old haunted two-story one we moved here into. Orange paid it all off and bought me a new house, within the compound. It's like living in a gated community. I did mention that I got a promotion, and I didn't say they made me Senior Director. I only answer to Kinley himself.

Some people say terrible things about him. I know I was afraid of him for awhile, but he's really not some crazy mad scientist billionaire. He's just eccentric and misunderstood. You just have to get to know him a little. I love my boss he's hard-working and really provided for me and my family.

So, things in Porter's Grove are good, and great and just living the dream.

Iris had one last incident, involving an animal that wandered out onto the playground. I went the teacher's conference, nothing to be worried about or anything. My kids get very good grades and never get into trouble. It's just that one thing that happened.

Yes, I was scared to hear about it. It reminded me of some of the terrifying things I encountered here. I thought back about seeing all that sick stuff. The gross, deformed critters, half dead, attracted to me because of what the parasites had done to their brain stems. Modified hosts.

I guess it is like that nature video we watched that one time, the one with the zombified ants or the beetle with the worm in it that flips onto its back and kicks its legs until a bird eats it, or the slug that gets that thing in its eyestalk that also gets eaten by birds. Those sick things, those former animals, little more than robots controlled by the parasite inside them.

Before we were immunized they'd come for me, for Iris. So, it got pretty scary, when something all mangy and twitchy would limp and hop towards us. Like watching roadkill come towards you, knowing that it is dead and rotting. I told Iris not to let them come near her.

I'd watch those woods, couldn't take my eyes off the edge of the trees all around town. Something was watching me right back, sending its probes, its spores, whatever they are. Iris was sitting outside at recess and the rest of the kids fled from it.

Iris just sat there, too terrified to move. My worst fear was that she'd come in contact with one of the sick things we often saw. They aren't animals anymore. I guess this one was like a puppy to her, somehow, although it had empty eye sockets, it knew where she was and came straight for her, wagging what was left of its tail, trying to seem friendly.

I was told she had finally snapped out of it, that she had jumped up on the teeter totter and brought it crashing down on it before she got up and fled inside. It never got to her, didn't have a chance. She was like a hero. The teachers praised her and told her how brave and special she was.

Somehow Kinley heard about the incident and asked me about Iris personally. I told him she's my daughter, and that we might be scared, but we take action. He nodded and told me he appreciates both me and my family, and said there's a place for us here. So, we are doing better than great.

As to us moving back out there, or just packing up and leaving all this behind and staying with you, that's not going to happen. I appreciate that you were willing to put us up like that, but it isn't necessary. In fact, my new house is huge. If you and Charles start having problems again, you can just take the kids and come live with me out here.

I know you'll love it here, everything is just perfect.

"She’s too perfect. It’s unreal." Ben displayed our baby daughter's belly like it was a prize on a game show. Elva flashed me a toothless smile as if she understood the cue, kicking her legs and burbling happily. My husband and daughter were backlit by the nursery’s blue night light, casting gentle shadows across the room. The walls were lavender, covered in hand-painted clouds. Outlines of constellations wrapped the ceiling, as though the night sky had been pulled down to sit above us.

"Her crying’s real enough to keep us up at night," I teased. We were utterly obsessed with her. My focus shifted reluctantly back to the pile of baby clothes stacked on the armchair next to the crib. I picked up a onesie at random–blue, embroidered with planets and stars. We certainly have a theme going, I thought wryly. Everyone assumed that’s what former space researcher parents wanted, I supposed.

"You miss them?" Ben’s voice was soft, breaking through my thoughts. 

I blinked, realizing I had zoned out, lost track of time. Ben had already dressed Elva. That had happened more frequently since we had the baby. All the sleepless nights. I tried to recall what he said. I certainly didn't miss the person who dropped off the package the clothes had come in. Some nameless representative of the colony leadership. I couldn't even remember their face.

Ah. He had meant the stars. I met my husband's eyes, tired around the edges. We had both had to adjust since the baby arrived—since we’d traded the final frontier of space for the frozen, windswept plains of Keibor 8. The polar opposite, Ben liked to joke. Emphasis on the polar.

"Sometimes," My gaze went to the nursery’s window. Outside, the world was muted, covered in a blanket of snow that stretched beneath an infinite sky. The light of pylons seemed to scrape the clouds, illuminating the icy paths between homes, barely touching the surrounding darkness. Jagged cliffs rose in the distance, towering, frozen shards jutting out of the ground, their edges catching the moonslight. Above the cliffs, night unfolded, stars scattered in pinpricks of light cut from a black canvas. Keibor's dual moons glowed like a watchful stare. A nebula shimmered on the horizon, colors twisting in delicate aurora rainbows. A reminder of the galaxy we had once traveled through. I pointed to the stars, feeling that umbilical sense of connection, despite the distance.

"But they're not so far away," I murmured. "Not really."

Ben lifted Elva, showing her the vista through the frost-tinged glass. She burbled happily. 

"Not quite the same as when we could see them up close," he said with a wistful smile. "But gravity and solid food might be a fair trade."

"Definitely," I answered, more seriously than he had been. "We're lucky."

Ben and I had spent years in the deepest recesses of the galaxy, spending what little free time we had debating where we would finally settle down before deciding on this remote planet. The safest of all of them in this part of the system.

I left the folding and walked over to them, slipping my hand into Ben’s, resting my cheek against his shoulder as we looked out onto the wintry stillness. The colony was small, isolated, a frozen world light-years from Old Earth. The sky was a spectrum of perpetual gray, and the snow never melted, piling up in drifts so high it sometimes felt like the entire planet was buried beneath it. The technology here was advanced—geothermal power plants for heat, internal artificial light systems that simulated day cycles—but it sometimes still felt primitive in the face of such an unforgiving environment. I ran a protective hand along Elva's downy head.

"I couldn't do this without you both. You know that?"

“I know. I feel the same way.” Ben kissed me, but then gave me an odd look. He reached a hand to grip my chin, brushing the pad of his thumb under my eye.

"You okay? It's a little red," he said.

"Just an eyelash, I think," I rubbed at it self-consciously. He nodded thoughtfully and pulled me back into his arms, and we continued our reverie. This quadrant was composed of nearly identical homes, each constructed from the same utilitarian design, chosen for efficiency rather than aesthetics—a necessity in the planet’s climate. Squat structures, sloping roofs designed to shed the weight of snow, exteriors made from alloys that shimmered in the pylonic light. An industrial, brutalist feel. Wide, triple-paned windows reflected back the endless horizon and the occasional flicker of light, like the white, sightless eyes of insects. Our walls were insulated to withstand the winds that tore across the plains, howling like ghosts, and the sound of metal, expanding and contracting from the heat and the cold.

With a start, I noticed movement on the street-highly unusual for this time of evening. The paths were usually deserted after dark, the bitter winds keeping most people indoors. But there, undeniably, was a figure moving along the heated walkway.

"Oh no," Ben and I said, almost perfectly in unison, as we recognized Mrs. Graham, our relentlessly nosy neighbor. She trudged along, making her way toward our house, a tinfoil tray clutched tightly in her arms. On a planet where venturing outside was an ordeal, she never seemed to mind. At least not when it came to invading our space.

"I'm going to take a nap," Ben announced, handing Elva over to me with speedy precision. He was out of my arms before I could protest.

"Wow. That's messed up," I muttered, pulling Elva close as she nestled her head under my chin, her warm breath soft against my neck. For a second, she almost felt weightless, and I felt an odd flutter of panic. But then, like a program booting up, her tiny body relaxed into me. The utterly wonderful, familiar weight of her made me forget my frustration.

Ben turned to me, somehow already across the room, leaning against the open doorway, blinking mildly. "Those coupons were my favorite gift," he said, with feigned innocence. The homemade coupon booklet I had given him for Christmas, filled with ridiculous vouchers for things like kisses, back rubs, shopping trips. I hadn’t thought about it since we exchanged presents, but unsurprisingly, my scientist husband had kept close tabs.

"Hmm. Just remember, there was only one coupon for a nap, and it's used up after this," I grumbled, shifting Elva slightly. She let out a small, contented sigh. I shot him a look as he walked back to us to plant a kiss on my cheek, softening my annoyance. I knew how much he disliked Mrs. Graham. They couldn't even be in the same room together.

"I'll take the midnight shift, too," he offered, his tone sincere as he brushed one of Elva's cheeks, making her giggle. The doorbell rang. I raised an eyebrow.

"You'd better go before she sees you, or your escape plan is ruined," I said, inclining my head toward our bedroom door across the hall. Ben smiled, knowing he'd won this round, and slipped away, leaving me with Elva and the quiet hum of the white noise machine–a soft susurrus that usually had me nodding out long before my daughter did. It reminded me of being back on the Titanian, the comforting hum of the life support systems. 

I sighed wistfully, pressing a kiss to Elva’s ear, the gesture as much to calm myself as to soothe her. The room felt empty without Ben there. I debated following him inside, forgetting the rest of the world existed.

The doorbell rang again—this time with more urgency, Mrs. Graham leaning on it until it was more siren than chime. As if she had heard my thoughts. Rolling my eyes, I made my way down the darkened staircase, each step heavier than the last as I approached the front door. When I opened it, an icy blast of wind nearly knocked me back. 

"Oh, thank goodness, it's freezing out here," Mrs. Graham greeted me, as if Keiboran weather was ever anything but freezing. Her voice was as sharp as the cold air that flooded the doorway. It swept into the room, making Elva squirm against me. The air was the kind of brutal cold that stung your lungs, chilled any exposed skin within seconds. It wasn’t uncommon for temperatures to plummet well below human tolerance levels at night, making even short trips outside dangerous if you weren’t careful. Underground heat tunnels ran like arteries under our feet, connecting most of the colony’s main buildings, but Mrs. Graham, a proud Keibor-born native, preferred to take the frigid conditions on foot. Mrs. Graham stomped her boots on the welcome mat, sending snow and frost flying, and without a word of greeting, shoved the tray into my arms before pushing her way inside.

"Great to see you too, Mrs. Graham," I muttered, adjusting both the tray and my daughter as I quickly closed the door behind her. Outside, the snow continued to fall, delicate flakes swirling in the pylonic glow. 

Mrs. Graham blew on her hands, warming them with exaggerated puffs before shooting me an exasperated look. "I imagine it would’ve been even better to see me last week when I invited you to our Christmas party before all this snow hit," she said, blinking at me with a look of reproach, lips pursed in disapproval. As if I had forced her to come over here. I struggled to maintain a straight face as she peeled off her gloves, shaking off the layer of frost that had settled on her parka.

When Ben and I moved here after our last expedition, we had hoped to keep a low profile, content with the solitude that came from living on the outskirts of the known universe. But Mrs. Graham had a knack for ferreting out new arrivals and had made it her mission to pull us into the colony’s social orbit. Her Christmas party had been no exception, though we’d politely declined, preferring instead to spend the night tucked away together. We’d stayed upstairs, nestled under thick blankets as the wind howled outside, watching old holiday movies while Elva slept between us.

Mrs. Graham wasn’t the type to be ignored. I could feel her eyes on me as I struggled to hold onto the tray, bracing for the inevitable diatribe about community involvement that was sure to follow.

"We're being careful with Elva, you know," I said blandly, hoping to avoid a lecture. A polite excuse that had done me well in the past. Having a baby was a bit of a ‘get out of jail free’ card for colony social events. Everyone understood wanting to avoid the close, very possibly germ-ridden quarters. "Would you like some tea?"

Mrs. Graham held my gaze a moment longer, her expression hard, but her face finally softened. She nodded and reached out her arms for Elva. I hesitated only for a few seconds before I handed her over, my daughter wriggling slightly in the transfer. Surprisingly, Mrs. Graham had a way with Elva, always eager to hold her as though she were her own grandchild. And my daughter, eternally sweet, seemed to feel the same way. Mrs. Graham followed me into the kitchen, cooing gently to the baby as I led the way.

I flipped on the overhead light, illuminating the kitchen in a warm orange glow that bounced off the new checkerboard tiles. The kitchen was one of the few spaces in the house that felt truly like home—Ben and I had picked out the layout together, a small piece of historic Old Earth fashion brought with us to Keibor 8. It was like a snapshot of one of those black-and-white movies from the mid-twentieth century, defiantly bright and cozy against the crystalline backdrop of ice. 

I watched as Mrs. Graham put Elva in her highchair, quietly supervising, then I walked to the stove, filled the kettle at the sink, and set it on the burner, the soft hiss of the flame breaking the silence. I placed Mrs. Graham's tray on the counter and carefully peeled back the tinfoil lid. My eyes widened at the sight inside.

"I made those especially for you and your husband since it would have been your first Christmas party here," Mrs. Graham said, her voice dripping with forced casualness. "I froze the dough and baked them fresh to bring over today."

I nodded, speechless. The tray held an array of sugar cookies cut into stars, moons, and rocket ships, coated in layers of colored chocolate and sprinkles. The cookies were already cold and a little too hard—clearly no match for the frigid Keibor air during her trek over. 

"That's too kind of you, Mrs. Graham. I'm so glad to have this chance to try them," I replied, forcing a smile. I pulled a plate from the cabinet and began stacking the cookies, their stiff edges clinking softly against one another. I couldn’t wait to show Ben. He might never stop laughing. The local colonists' obsession with the space theme was unreal. It was like they couldn't think of a single thing about Ben and me aside from the fact that we had once been on a research vessel.

"Hello, Elva," Mrs. Graham cooed, ignoring my attempt at conversation, wholly focused on my daughter's burbling smile. "Such a beautiful name for such a beautiful baby. How did you come up with it?"

I began to answer. "It was…" 

A soft, insistent beeping reached my ears, stealing my attention. It was coming from somewhere just outside the kitchen. I craned my head around the wall, trying to identify the source. A faint red flicker of a light caught my eye—probably a dying carbon monoxide alarm. They were a staple in homes here. We all kept dozens of them to monitor the heating systems.

"I should check that," I murmured, more to myself than Mrs. Graham, who was still fully engrossed in entertaining Elva. I wandered toward the open doorway that looked out into the hallway, the beeping growing louder with each step.

I paused at the edge of the blackened doorway, staring into the hallway. There was something I couldn't quite put my finger on that was bothering me about it. I’d walked through the space hundreds of times, but now it felt… wrong. Almost as if it were stretched out. A trick of that strobing red light. My heart picked up its pace, almost syncing with the beeping. 

It’s just the damn alarm, I tried to reason with myself, but my feet felt leaden, like my legs didn’t want to carry me forward. The thought of stepping into that hallway made my chest tighten, as if the hallway would close in on me like a throat swallowing the second I did. Like I wasn't allowed in. There was a sharp, intense pain in the back of my eye, the one Ben had been looking at just moments earlier. I rubbed at it, stopped at the end of the kitchen.

Mrs. Graham's voice cut through the thick air, sharp and commanding. "You don’t need to do that right now."

I stopped walking forward, her words hitting me with unexpected force. I turned to look at her, a flicker of irritation sparking in my chest. She was still sitting with Elva, her face calm, but there was a razored edge to her expression that made me pause.

"I... was just going to—" I started, but she interrupted again, firmer this time.

"Sit down, dear. Focus on your daughter. That can wait until later."

A part of me bristled at being told what to do in my own home, but there was something convincing about the way she said it, as if she knew more than I did, as if it would be foolish to argue. I looked back towards the hallway. It still loomed ahead, dark and unnervingly quiet except for the steady beeping. 

I realized that a strange relief settled over me. I didn’t want to go in there. Not at all. And it would be rude to leave them.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, forcing a weak smile. "Sure... you’re right. Sorry." 

I walked back to the kitchen, feeling much lighter. I turned back to Mrs. Graham, ready to ask what kind of tea she preferred, but stopped when I saw her face. She was looking at me with a puzzled expression, her brow furrowed.

“You were telling me about how you came up with the name. Elva,” she prompted. I blinked rapidly, running a hand over my mouth. Had I? I had completely forgotten. The last minutes were just fuzzy impressions. Red light in a black hallway. Cold pressing in from outside, relentless, always there.

"She's named after Ben's grandmother, who passed away a few years ago," I said slowly. My mouth felt strange, like it was full of cotton. I definitely needed that tea.

"Cream with two sugars?" I offered, trying to steer the conversation back to something simple. God, it was pathetic that I already knew how she took her tea. Granted, it was the same way that Ben took it, but still. She was over here all the time, now. Mrs. Graham nodded, but the furrow in her brow deepened.

"That’s not what you said before," she said, tilting her head slightly. "I asked how you came up with the name, and you said something like 'Emergency Assistant.'"

I blinked, confused, replaying my words in my head. I hadn’t thought I said anything strange. I couldn’t remember saying anything at all, in fact. But then again, my mind had been all over the place lately. 

"Emergency Assistant?" I echoed, trying to figure out how that had slipped out. Then it hit me, and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

​"Oh! It must have been 'Emergency Logistics Virtual Assistant.' The ELVA. One of the security features on the Titanian station. An experimental AI." I shook my head, still chuckling at my mistake. "I haven’t thought about that in so long, now. Old habits and jargon die hard, I guess."

But almost as soon as the words left my mouth, I kicked myself. Mrs. Graham’s eyes lit up, and I knew exactly what that meant. She was obsessed with Ben’s and my time in orbit on the Titanian, as if we were protagonists of some interstellar romance novel. It was a mostly harmless curiosity, I supposed, but Ben and I were private about our time there, partially because our relationship had technically been against company rules. We had spoken about settling on Keibor for such a long time, but when it had finally happened, it had felt like falling through a portal into a different dimension, one where the gossipy rhythms of suburban life were utterly foreign. 

"So... the station had a virtual assistant?" Mrs. Graham asked, rousting me from my thoughts. She leaned in, her curiosity obviously piqued to sky-high levels. 

"Yeah," I said, trying to keep my tone casual as I grabbed the box of tea bags and put the kettle on. 

Wait. My hands froze in mid-air.

Hadn’t I already put the kettle on? I thought back on the last five minutes, trying to recall. Hadn't I heard it whistling? Or had that been the beeping in the hallway?

“The AI?” Mrs. Graham prompted again. I flexed my hands, turning the knob on the stove. 

"It handled all kinds of things—emergency protocols, communications, system diagnostics. The whole ship, really." I said, barely hearing my own voice. I placed the tea bags into the mugs, focusing all of my attention on the motion, trying to make a concrete memory of it.

Mrs. Graham was quiet for a moment. I imagined her absorbing the image of us floating through space, relying on nothing but a computer system to keep us alive. I could almost see her turning the story over in her mind, crafting the way she’d tell it at her next cocktail party. She’d transform it into a fairy tale of two people falling in love against the vastness of the universe. 

In truth, our time in space had been defined by long shifts, endless data logs, the constant pressure of volatile experiments that could go wrong at any moment. There were six of us crammed into the research station, each with our own tasks and regimented routines. Ben and I rarely saw each other except a few chance moments between shifts—an exhausted nod here, a half-hearted smile there as we passed each other in the narrow corridors. Deep space had a way of stretching time, making things feel different, slower. It didn’t happen all at once. We never really 'fell' in love. There were no sweeping gestures, no declarations. But it was remarkable in its own way, something that grew from shared moments—the side conversations during meal breaks, reassuring smiles exchanged across the control panels when a system check passed, the knowing looks when our colleagues' quirks were front and center. Slowly, in that strangely intimate environment, our connection evolved. We became each other’s constants. Anchors in an unstable universe.

But Mrs. Graham wouldn’t see that part. She wouldn’t understand that our story wasn’t about grand romance but the kind of closeness that comes from relying on each other, day in and day out, in a place where one mistake could cost you everything. 

"Must’ve been… quite the adjustment," she said, finally breaking the silence. Probably waiting on me for some romantic detail to confirm the fantasy she’d already constructed in her head.

A smile tugged at the corners of my lips. "It was," I admitted.

I turned to pour the boiling water over the tea bags–and froze, staring at my hand. When had I picked up the kettle? And shouldn't the handle be hot? It was hot, of course it was. I was wearing an oven mitt. But I hadn't been, a few seconds ago. Had I?

The beeping from the hallway returned, louder this time. A faint wash of flickering red, the light seeming to stretch all the way into the kitchen. That damned beeping–no, a screech. Shrill.  

No, that was the tea kettle. The water was ready now. I put on the oven mitt to protect my hand against the heat. Because that's what I needed to do, when the kettle was hot. The mitt went on first.

“So you didn’t think of the AI at all, when you named her?” Mrs. Graham asked. She tucked a wisp of Elva’s downy hair over her ear. I swallowed. My hand was shaking as I poured the water into the mugs. I must be completely exhausted, I thought. The kettle had only whistled once. I had only picked it up once. There were two mugs of tea, one tea bag in each. I took comfort in that simple math. One, one. Two, two.

"It was actually one of the first inside jokes Ben and I had. He loved his grandmother, but she could be… intrusive, always checking in, asking too many questions. The ELVA AI had the same energy." A busybody, if you know the type, I added silently. Come to think of it, Mrs. Graham even looked a lot like Ben’s grandmother, the picture Ben had showed me back when we were on the Titanian. The freckles. The pale pink lipstick. I wondered if maybe her family was originally from Halcyon Key, like Ben. Maybe they were even distantly related. He'd love that. 

Mrs. Graham’s eyebrows shot up. "What did it do that was nosy?" she asked eagerly, her eyes wide with anticipation. My daughter banged on her tray, tiny dimpled fists beating a rhythm, mimicking Mrs. Graham’s excitement.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The cookies were sitting on a plate in the center of the table. Mrs. Graham must have put them there while my back was turned, I reasoned. I sat down, picked up the mug, and blew on the tea to cool it.

"Well," I began. "It handled almost everything on the station—running diagnostics, keeping track of our vitals, overseeing environmental systems. That sort of stuff.” 

"So it monitored everything?" Mrs. Graham asked.

I nodded. "Yeah, pretty much. Us, our work, the ship’s status. It would alert us to anything off. You know- a drop in oxygen, systems malfunctions.”

I reached across the table and busied myself with cleaning bits of cookie from Elva’s tiny fingers, but I could still feel Mrs. Graham’s attention sharpen as I continued. 

"ELVA could create immersive simulations based on whatever data it collected—anything from routine mission exercises to… well, worst-case scenarios. It was set up for life support. Feeding tubes, watching your heartbeat, that kind of thing," I swallowed, the memory of it unnerving even now, all this time later. "To prep for disasters, ELVA could place you in a simulation, help you practice. The idea was that it could run you through the situations without actually putting you at risk. That was what we spent most of our time doing. Experimenting with generating realistic scenarios."

Mrs. Graham blinked. "So… you were testing it?" she asked, voice full of awe. I nodded.

"Everything on the Titanian was a test. The AI, the systems, us. The whole thing was an experiment in how technology and people can coexist in extreme isolation for long periods of time. To see how the ELVA could adapt to fit our needs. There were some minor limitations, but-"

I cut myself off from finishing the sentence and sat back in my chair, staring at the older woman who had coaxed me into discussing my deepest secrets. I wasn't supposed to talk about any of this. The clearance required to know even half of what I had just spilled out over tea...But damn, it did feel good. Almost like going to confession.

"It must have been comforting, though," Mrs. Graham prompted, her voice soft, "knowing it was always there."

I hesitated to continue. But it felt so good to talk to her.

"It was," I admitted. "There were times when it felt like it was always watching. But in the end, knowing it was there if something went wrong—that was comforting, in its own right."

"In the end?" Mrs. Graham asked, her tone hungry for more. A small pool of water had formed under the sleeve of her coat, which she hadn’t bothered to take off, giving the eerie impression that she was melting, slowly dissolving before me. I hesitated, struggling to find the words to explain something as abstract as the ELVA to a civilian for the first time. I really shouldn't go further.

I bit into a cookie, hoping to divert the conversation. "These are delicious," I said, but Mrs. Graham only nodded impatiently, waving me on, her eyes fixed on me.

"ELVA was designed to be highly intelligent and capable of making decisions on its own if the situation called for it, so they added a failsafe. It was to ensure that, if things improved, you could wake up and retake command before it… well, before it became too autonomous." I could still picture the dim red lights of the chamber, the steady hum of the Titanian’s inner machinery thrumming around me. 

The memory was suffocating. As if I were back in that tight, claustrophobic space, feeling sweat bead at my temple.

Mrs. Graham gave an exaggerated shiver, the overly dramatic kind meant to draw attention, like her whole body was rippling. The gesture struck a little too close. I could barely keep one from running down my own spine. 

"Like something out of one of those old science fiction movies," she said with a theatrical flair, dipping a cookie into her tea, her voice light and playful. "How terribly exciting."

Exciting didn’t begin to cover it. Frightening was a better word, although I had rarely said it out loud. I hadn’t even told Ben about the nightmares. He didn’t need to know how real they felt, how sometimes, even now, I would wake up gasping, convinced for just a moment that I was still out there, still floating in a sea of wreckage. But for some reason, I kept talking.

"It was a last-resort," I said out loud, keeping it simple, trying to keep my voice steady as I wiped crumbs from Elva’s chin. But the spiral had started.

My mind drifted, slipping back to the nightmares I tried so hard to forget, the vivid horrors that had haunted me ever since we left the Titanian. I could still see flashes of it: the cold, the endless void pressing in, the alarms blaring as everything crumbled around me. The dreams never let me wake up until I’d seen everything fall apart.

"If you were put in that situation… it’s not something you’d want to be conscious of," I said, like I was explaining a technical detail, trying to keep my terror out of it. 

But the fear had become something I couldn’t shake, even now, in the warmth of the kitchen with a plate of cookies in front of me, tea in my hand, feet firmly on the ground, Elva chewing softly in her highchair.

"You’d want to sleep through it." I finished. My voice was shaking. The wailing alarms, the fractured hull, the final moment of failure before it all went dark. The worst nightmare I had ever had came rushing back, unbidden, as all-consuming as the day it first crept into my mind. 

I could feel it—every grating sound, every jolt of terror. The Titanian was tearing itself apart. A critical malfunction. The dull groan of metal being wrenched and twisted by the unforgiving physics of the vacuum of space. Alarms were blaring, deafening, the shrill sound of warnings we could no longer address, couldn't fix, couldn't outrun. 

The hull was fracturing, cracks spidering across the glass, the walls, the floor. I could see the frigid black void of space creeping through the gaps like some insidious, living thing. It wasn’t just darkness. There was no word for what it had become, in this moment. A hungry beast, stretching into the ship, devouring everything in its path. Inevitable. 

Flames erupted around the edges of my vision, a frantic red glow. Everything was collapsing. The walls of the station were a molten death trap. Hellish. Oxygen hissed from unseen breaches, feeding the fire, disappearing into the unforgiving blackness. Every breath felt thinner, colder, like space was siphoning life inch by painful inch.

I was beyond panic. Ben was limp in my arms, his weight pulling me down with every step as I dragged him across the floor. His blood slicked beneath my bare feet, his breathing was shallow, and his eyes were half-lidded, unfocused. I screamed his name, but my voice was swallowed by the alarms, the groaning ship.

I had one last thought pounding in my skull—to get to the last escape pod. 

It was the only way out. Naomi, Yvonne, Caro, the twins-they were gone. All of them. Everyone, everything else was gone. I could still hear their screams, my hands reaching futilely towards them as the wall disappeared behind them. Their faces, frozen in wordless howls, drifting into the black. 

The pod loomed ahead, its hatch worryingly half-open. But nothing else was left. The corridors leading to the other pods were destroyed, some shorn off entirely. What hadn’t been engulfed by flames was gutted, ripped open, exposed to the black vacuum of space.

My muscles screamed with the effort of dragging Ben's prone body. I couldn't see at all in one eye, burned from melted steel. My hands fumbled with the controls. The hatch fully opened with a tired hiss. I stared at the fully-exposed interior. Panic surged through me, mind-numbing in its intensity.

The realization hit me like a blow. It was too damaged. Jagged edges where panels had come loose, one seat barely intact, wires dangling like torn veins. It couldn’t support both of us. The systems would overload, the weight distribution would fail. 

​If we both got inside, neither of us would make it.

My mind spun. Reality closed in. I propped Ben against a wall, his breathing barely perceptible. A trail of blood gleamed across the metal floor where I’d dragged him. My teeth bit into my cheeks, and I tasted iron as I looked from him to the pod, my body shaking with the horror of the choice before me. The void of space pressed against what was left of the hull, a steady hiss of air escaping, ticking down the seconds we had left.

There was no time. The alarms were growing fainter now. Everywhere, the Titanian’s metallic screaming. The choice loomed before me, suffocating, unbearable. I couldn’t choose. 

I couldn’t do this without him.

And then, like the voice of a god, ELVA spoke.

“Critical Error Detected.”

It sliced through the chaos, calm, calculating-unfazed by the destruction around us. The horror of the moment was momentarily eclipsed by the AI’s intrusion, nearly comical in its utter lack of emotion. We had thought ELVA failed along with the other critical systems. The smoldering circuitry must have resurrected itself.

“Total system failure imminent. Evacuation recommended. Queuing suspension stasis.” 

My mind was sluggish, but the ELVA’s protocol was burned into my brain. Our most prized experiment, the one we all knew inside and out. Designed to do anything it needed to do to preserve the crew and itself. Anything.

“ELVA, stand down,” I said forcefully. No response.

“ELVA, STAND DOWN.” I screamed it this time, whirling in a circle, looking for someone to blame. I lurched my way to a console, scrambling at the biometrics reader, preparing to override the AI’s command, but it was too late. The system was butchered. ELVA wasn’t programmed to stop in moments like this. It was programmed to survive.

“Breach detected. Evacuation necessary.” 

“No!” My voice cracked. I tried to wake Ben. My hands were badly burned. I couldn't grab onto his suit anymore.

“One remaining human life detected onboard. They will be prioritized. Evacuation necessary.”

One? I screamed with helpless rage, staring at Ben's limp form. My ruined fingers scratched at the chip behind my ear, embedded in my skin. I could feel the familiar tug of ELVA, the faint electricity running under the flesh, across my mind. Taking control.

“Emergency stasis will initiate in five… four… three—”

“No! No! NO!” I shouted. 

“Two…"

One.

My vision went black, then bright with color. I gasped as the room came back into focus. The warmth of the kitchen, the clatter of Elva’s hands on her highchair tray, the fruity scent of the tea—it all felt distant, surreal. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. My palms were slicked with sweat against the table.

“Are you alright, dear?” Mrs. Graham asked. Her hand was on mine, fingers resting on my wrist like she was checking my pulse. I fought to catch my breath.

“Have a cookie,” Mrs. Graham said brusquely, shoving it towards my mouth like I was Elva's age. I opened my mouth to say no, but she slid the chocolate star in. I bit down. The sugar did make me feel better. Elva clapped her pudgy hands together. The three of us sat together in silence as I chewed. 

“Who wouldn’t choose a happier dream?” It was half-joking, a weak attempt to shake off the lingering dread that clung to me. A panic attack at my own kitchen table.

Mrs. Graham didn’t smile. Her eyes were fixed on me. Calculating. It was hard to pinpoint the color of them. Her face looked different, depending on how the light hit her.

“A dream?” she asked.

“If you had to…pick what to experience.” My voice was thin.

“So you would let ELVA be in control?” She didn’t blink. 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I muttered, hoping to shut down the conversation. I leaned in closer to my baby, taking her hands in mine, pressing them against my hot forehead.

“You would prefer to sleep through it?” Mrs. Graham asked. Her voice was cold. Clinical.

Had I told her about the nightmare? I must have. How else could she know? I pressed my lips together tightly, focusing on Elva’s soft babbling. She was such a good baby. Barely ever cried. Just once every few days or so. Like a little alarm clock, reminding us she was there, that she was our responsibility. Our future.

“Maybe,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “But it’s not something I want to think about. Please.” The last word came out desperate. But Mrs. Graham pressed on. Like she always did. Always pushing.

“Sometimes it’s easier to let things go, isn’t it? To trust it will all work out.” She continued, her tone honey-smooth. A knowing tone that made my stomach twist. Like she knew everything.

“That’s not how it works,” I said, unsure of who I was trying to convince. “It has to be your choice. That’s how ELVA worked. The failsafe. Every 72 hours, you have to give it control again. Or your mind would start to reject the simulation. Remind you what was real.”

“Thank you for acknowledging protocol."

My still-ringing ears didn't hear Mrs. Graham's voice. It was ELVA's tinny, robotic, yet somehow self-satisfied tone. My head swiveled around the room, catching on that dark hallway.

"So what do you do, in that scenario?” Mrs. Graham asked. But I didn't look at her. I kept staring at the hallway. I remembered the iron taste of abject fear. The cries of the crew as they realized what was happening. I remembered Ben. The life we had planned, slipping between my fingers, into the nothingness between the stars.

“What do you do?” Mrs. Graham repeated. I turned my head to look at her. The red light from the hallway cast her face in shadow, changing it. She was every member of my crew. She was me. She was Ben. Past and present, reality and nightmare blurred. 

I imagined the kitchen torn in half, icy Keiboran wind and snow spilling in, endless white overtaking us. Then there was no planet at all. We were just floating in the barren wasteland of space, and Elva was there, my baby was right there, about to be pulled away into that cavernous nothing, into the black, where I could never get her back.

“I let ELVA take control,” I whispered. There was a feeling like the world tilted upside-down, then righted itself. A warm flood of relief pumped through me. Mrs. Graham’s hand gently covered mine again.

“I understand,” she soothed, her tone soft, caring. The tension in my chest loosened. Her thumb traced tiny, hypnotic circles over the back of my hand, pulling me further into that warmth. There were tears on my cheeks. “What a terrifying ordeal. You're so brave. I’m glad you’re here with me now. With us.”

I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I had held. The room felt perfectly cozy. The cold shadows in the corners of the kitchen had faded. Her words wrapped around me, softening the edges of the dark thoughts that had been gnawing at me. 

“Yes,” I murmured, the fight draining out of me. “It’s better that way.”

“Well, it's always so nice to catch up. We'll do it again soon. I should head out before the path freezes.” She rose quickly, putting her gloves back on with a brisk efficiency. “Give Ben my best, and I expect to see you both at the New Year’s party. Three days from now, remember. Everyone will be there.” 

Her pointed look made it clear—this wasn’t an invitation. It was a command. I smiled reflexively. I couldn’t envision who ‘everyone’ would be. Just a sea of blank, featureless faces. But I kept my smile frozen in place. I wanted her to leave. 

After I slept, everything would be better again. I just needed rest. To be with Ben. 

I walked Mrs. Graham to the door, watching as she navigated the paths between the houses, disappearing into the night. I lingered on the stoop, arms wrapped tightly around me, breath curling into the air. I looked up at the still sky stretched out above me. The dual moons, limned by stars, wide and unblinking. As if they had been watching this same scene play out for an eternity.

I realized I was waiting for the stars to flicker, to do something other than just hang there. But nothing changed. They stayed where they were, frozen in the dark. Just like the ones we had painted in Elva’s nursery.

I pulled myself from the doorway, out of the cold, locked the door behind me. The beeping nagged at the edges of my thoughts, but it seemed softer now. Like it might actually be coming from somewhere else. Somewhere deeper. We had so many. I’d get to it soon. Or I would ask Ben to in the morning. For now, Elva needed me.

I returned to our baby, still in her highchair, giggling at the sticky remnants of cookie spaceships that clung to her hands. I reached down, and cupped her cheeks. Her laughter filled the room, bright and clear, grounding me.

A heaviness settled around my shoulders. It was time for bed. I picked Elva up, feeling the warm, perfect weight of her. I rested my chin against her warm head.

“Daddy’s sleeping,” I reassured her, as if she could have asked. The noise from the hallway was soothing now. A lullaby, matching my heartbeat. I looked past Elva, through the white frosted window, up to the sky again. The stars didn’t move.

I'm Jack and he's Will, and we spent our whole lives together. We were living out our truck, scrapping, scavenging, until we got word of an abandoned mine in the hills of the Salem Plateau. There's a lot of good loot in those old mines, so we set out, just the two of us, to make our living.

We weren’t supposed to be there. The old mine had been closed for years, abandoned after a collapse took out most of the workers, and the locals said it was cursed. That didn’t stop us, though. We figured it was far enough from anyone who'd care, and besides, we liked the quiet and the solitude.

Will and I had been running from the world for a long time, just the two of us. He’d always been the brave one—the one with the crazy ideas that got us into trouble. But I never minded following him. It’s not like we had anyone else.

“You hear that?” Will whispered, his voice cutting through the heavy silence of the woods.

I paused, holding my breath. At first, all I could hear was the rustle of the trees swaying in the wind, but then I caught it—a faint, pained whimper coming from deeper in the woods. It didn’t sound human.

“Yeah,” I murmured, glancing at Will. “You think it’s an animal?”

“Only one way to find out,” he said with that reckless grin of his, already turning toward the sound.

“Will,” I warned, though I knew he wasn’t going to stop. We weren’t supposed to be out here in the first place, and messing around with a wounded animal was just asking for trouble. But when had that ever stopped us?

He gave me that look, the one that said Come on, man. Don’t leave me hanging. And, like always, I sighed and followed.

We left the old mine entrance behind us, making our way through the underbrush toward the clearing. The trees were thick, and the setting sun made it harder to see. Every step felt heavier, the weight of the forest pressing in on us. The sound grew louder as we got closer, that strange, low whimper that tugged at something deep inside me.

When we finally broke through to the clearing, we found it. At first, it didn’t look like much—just a small, dark shape lying near a cluster of rocks. But as we got closer, I realized it wasn’t just any animal. It was a cub, or at least something that looked like one, though I couldn’t quite place what it was.

Its fur was black, almost oily, and its eyes—damn, I can still see those eyes—glowed faintly red, like embers in a dying fire. It was small, shaking from whatever had ripped into it, bleeding out onto the dirt.

“Jesus…” Will muttered, crouching down beside it.

“What the hell is it?” I asked, feeling a chill creep up my spine.

“I don’t know,” he said, reaching out to touch it. “But it’s hurt bad. We can’t just leave it here.”

He was right. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, something about the creature—something about the sound it made—hit me in a way I couldn’t shake. I knew we should’ve left it. We should’ve walked away and pretended we never saw it. But I couldn’t. Neither of us could.

Will carefully lifted the creature into his arms. “We’ll take it back,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “Get a closer look.”

I nodded, even though every instinct in me screamed to leave it behind. The air felt different now, heavier, like the forest itself was watching us. But we didn’t say anything. Will took the lead, and I followed, our steps quicker now, like we both wanted to get out of the woods as fast as possible.

As we made our way back toward the truck, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows through the trees. I kept glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting something to leap out at us. The sound of the wind through the trees started to feel more like whispers—low and sinister.

By the time we reached the truck, it was almost dark, and I could feel that tension in the air again. I opened the passenger door, and Will gently set the cub down on the seat. But when I turned the key in the ignition, nothing happened. The engine groaned but didn’t start.

“What’s wrong?” Will asked, but I could hear the strain in his voice. He was starting to feel it too.

“I don’t know,” I muttered, trying again. Still nothing.

“Pop the hood,” he said, already climbing out.

I did as he asked, but I had a bad feeling in my gut. When Will bent down to check underneath, I saw his whole body stiffen. A second later, he stood up, shaking his head, his face pale. “The fuel line’s torn.”

I stared at him, my heart sinking. “What? How?”

Will didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. We both knew something had been out there with us. Something that didn’t want us to leave.

And now, we were stuck.

The truck was dead. I stood by the passenger door, watching as Will lay on his back under the truck, working on the fuel line with a roll of Gorilla duct tape. The line had been slashed—clean, like someone had sliced through it with a knife. But that didn’t make sense. There wasn’t anyone else out here… right?

“Just give me a minute,” Will grunted from under the truck. “I can patch this.”

I kept glancing back at the woods. That feeling of being watched—it was still there, pressing in on us like the trees were alive. We weren’t supposed to be out here in the first place, and now, with the sun almost gone, it felt like we were trespassing on something we shouldn’t have messed with.

The creature in the backseat whimpered again, that strange, unsettling sound that made my skin crawl. I shot a glance at it—still alive, still shaking, its eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. We hadn’t been able to figure out what it was. All we knew was that it was hurt, and it wasn’t going to last much longer.

“Maybe we should’ve left it,” I said, mostly to myself. I didn’t really mean it. Not completely.

Will’s voice came from under the truck, muffled but sharp. “We couldn’t just leave it there. What if something else had gotten to it?”

I swallowed, my throat dry. “Yeah… what if.”

As he worked, my mind wandered back to the old stories. The locals around the Salem Plateau didn’t talk much about the mine, but every now and then, when we’d head into town for supplies, we’d catch snippets of conversation about it. They always mentioned the same thing—the Ozark Howler.

I never put much stock in the stories. People said it was a giant, black creature, somewhere between a wolf and a mountain lion, but no one ever got a good look at it. Some called it the “howler” because they claimed it could mimic sounds—animal cries, human voices—luring people deeper into the woods. Others said it was just a ghost story, something to keep kids from wandering too far. But standing there in the dark, the whispers of those rumors clawed at the back of my mind.

“Will,” I whispered. “You remember what they used to say about this place?”

He stopped for a moment, not turning to face me, but I could tell he knew exactly what I was talking about. He nodded, just a small motion.

“The Howler,” I continued. “They say it’s real.”

“Just stories,” he said, though his voice didn’t sound so sure. “They tell them to keep idiots like us from wandering off.”

“They say it lives out here,” I pressed. “In the shadows.”

Will poked himself out from under the truck, wiping his hands on his shirt. He looked at me. “You hear yourself?”

But I could hear it in his voice—the doubt. The fear.

That’s when I heard it again—a rustle in the trees, faint but unmistakable. I froze, straining to listen. At first, I thought it was just the wind, but then came that sound. The howl. Deep, low, almost vibrating through the air.

Will slid the rest of the way out from under the truck, his face slick with sweat, eyes wide. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, scanning the tree line. “I heard it.”

It was closer this time. Much closer.

“What do you think it is?” I asked, my voice a little too loud in the stillness.

Will didn’t answer right away. He stood, wiping his hands on his jeans before tossing the roll of tape into the truck bed. His eyes drifted toward the woods, that uneasy look creeping over his face again. “I don’t know, man. But we need to get out of here. Whatever that thing is, I don’t think it’s friendly.”

I glanced at the cub in the backseat, shivering and whimpering. “You think it’s after the cub? Like it’s trying to finish it off?”

Will’s mouth tightened, and he nodded slowly. “Yeah, maybe. It could be something territorial. Predators don’t usually leave injured prey alive.”

The air grew even heavier, the shadows in the trees seeming to stretch and move. That howl… it wasn’t just some wild animal. It had a rhythm to it, a purpose. It wasn’t hunting; it was closing in.

“What if that’s what hurt the cub in the first place?” I asked, panic rising in my chest. “What if it’s coming to finish the job?”

Will gave me a grim look. “Then we better hope this patch holds.”

I could hear the unspoken question in his voice—what if it didn’t hold? What if we couldn’t get the trick running in time? I didn’t have an answer for that.

Just then, another howl pierced the air, this one so close that it felt like it was right behind us. The trees seemed to shift, shadows rippling through the woods as something massive moved between them. I turned slowly, my eyes scanning the darkness, but all I could see were the outlines of trees—until they weren’t just trees anymore.

Something was out there, moving. I could feel it. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as a large, hulking shape stepped out of the shadows, just for a moment, before disappearing again.

Will saw it too. “Get in the truck!” he shouted.

I didn’t need to be told twice. I threw open the passenger door and jumped inside, my heart racing as Will slid back under the truck, finishing up the patch. The cub whined again, louder this time, and I couldn’t help but look at it. Its eyes glowed brighter in the darkness, almost like it was scared of what was coming.

Will scrambled into the driver’s seat, jamming the key into the ignition. “Come on,” he muttered under his breath, twisting the key. The engine sputtered once, twice, but wouldn’t start. “Come on!”

Another howl—this one practically on top of us. The creature wasn’t hiding anymore. It was out there, in the clearing, watching us. I didn’t know what it wanted, but that look in its eyes—those glowing red orbs that seemed to cut through the night—it wasn’t just hunting.

It was after something.

The truck engine roared to life, and I felt a moment of relief wash over me, but it was short-lived. The sound of something crashing through the underbrush sent my pulse racing again.

“Go!” I shouted, my voice cracking with fear.

Will didn’t need to be told. He slammed his foot on the gas, and the truck lurched forward, tearing down the trail. But as we sped through the woods, I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever was out there wasn’t done with us yet.

The shadows seemed to stretch toward the truck, and just when I thought we were in the clear, I saw it—a hulking shape, just out of the corner of my eye, running alongside us, keeping pace. I didn’t get a good look, but it was big. Bigger than anything I’d ever seen in the woods. And fast.

Will’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “What the hell is that thing?”

“I don’t know,” I muttered, staring out the window, my heart pounding. “But it’s after us.”

And then it hit me—the cub. Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t after us. It was after it. But I didn’t say anything. Not yet. There wasn’t time to figure it out. All I could do was pray that we’d make it out alive.

We couldn’t keep running. The engine had stalled again, and the truck was coasting on what little momentum we had left. The cub, or whatever it was, had stopped moving. Will and I exchanged a look. It was over—there was no way we could outrun that thing, not now.

We stumbled out of the truck, standing in the clearing, both of us breathing hard. The shadows around us pulsed, moving as if alive, and I knew it was here. The Howler.

“I think it’s done for,” Will said, his voice quiet and broken. He glanced at the cub in the back seat, its tiny chest no longer rising, its glowing eyes dull now in death. For all we knew, it had died miles back, and we’d just been driving a corpse through the night.

I stared at the trees, my heart thundering in my chest. “What do we do now?” My voice cracked, the weight of everything crashing down on me.

Will was silent, his face pale in the moonlight. He slowly opened the truck door, reached into the back seat, and gently picked up the lifeless body of the cub. It looked a helluva lot lighter than I expected, barely a burden in his arms.

“We give it back,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

I didn’t ask if he was sure. I knew we had no choice. We couldn’t escape, and whatever was out there—it wanted the cub - we hoped. Will started walking toward the tree line, and I followed, my heart pounding in my ears.

The woods were deathly quiet now, not a single sound but the crunch of our boots on the dry earth. The air was thick with tension, like the whole forest was holding its breath. And then we saw it—just beyond the shadows, waiting.

The Ozark Howler stepped into the clearing, its massive form towering over us, eyes glowing that terrible red. Its body was covered in dark, matted fur, muscles rippling beneath its skin. It looked like a predator—every instinct in my body screamed at me to run—but I couldn’t move. The only thing I could do was stand there, frozen, as Will approached it with the cub in his arms.

I could see it in the creature’s eyes—the pain, the loss. It knew. It had been chazing us not out of malice, but out of grief. The cub wasn’t prey—it was its offspring. We had taken it, unknowingly, and now it had come for what was left.

Will knelt down slowly, his hands trembling as he laid the cub on the ground before the beast. He backed away, his eyes never leaving the Howler’s face, and for a long moment, nothing happened.

The Howler stood over its cub, silent, its breath heavy in the stillness. The anger in its eyes faded, replaced by something deeper. It let out a soft, mournful sound—something like a whimper—and bowed its head.

I felt my chest tighten, a lump rising in my throat. We’d been so scared, so sure it was hunting us. But now, seeing the creature mourn, it was clear we were wrong. It wasn’t a monster. It was a parent.

I reached for Will’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Let’s go,” I whispered, though the words felt too small for the moment.

We moved quietly back to the truck, our steps slow and careful. The Howler didn’t stop us. It watched us go, its red eyes glowing softly in the darkness, but there was no hostility in them now. Only sadness.

Will climbed into the driver’s seat, and I slid in next to him. The truck, patched up and barely holding together, was ready to roll down the mountain. Will put it in neutral, and we started down the slope, coasting quietly. No one said a word.

As we descended, I looked out the back window. The Howler stood at the edge of the clearing, watching us go, its massive form silhouetted against the night sky. It didn’t move. It didn’t follow.

We made it down the first hill, the truck rolling slowly, the headlights barely cutting through the dark. The further we went, the more distant the Howler became, but the weight of its presence lingered, a reminder of what we had faced.

It let us leave.

The silence in the cab was heavy, neither of us daring to break it as we coasted down the treacherous slopes. The trees seemed to close in around us, the road winding and steep, but for the first time all night, I didn’t feel like we were being chased.

It was over. We had survived.

But as the Howler faded from sight, I knew we wouldn’t forget it. Its mournful cry, its grief—it would stay with us, haunting the edges of our memory.

And deep in the Salem Plateau, the Ozark Howler remained, a creature of legend, watching over its lost cub, as silent and powerful as the night itself.

Vandalism or iconoclasm or just outright destruction is sometimes compared to murder. It makes sense, when one considers that something like a stained-glass window takes over three thousand hours of skilled labor and immense cost to create. Works of art are invariably unique and signify the progress towards enlightenment of our species. The act of destroying something precious is also significant, plunging us back into the darkness, an act of brutality worthy of being compared to murder.

I might feel more strongly about the preservation of antiquities than most people. I'm sure that if I asked a random person on the street if it would be worse to shatter the thousand-year-old Ru Guanyao or to gun down a random gang member they would say that murder is worse. But is it, though?

Would it be worse to incinerate a Stradivarius or to feed a poisoned hamburger to a Karen that has gotten single mothers fired so that they couldn't pay their rent?

Is murder really worse than destroying objects of great age and beauty that represent the best that humanity can create? Suppose the person being murdered is a terrible nuisance to society, and their assassination purely routine anyway? To me, I find this to be a moral dilemma with a certain answer, because I've spent half a century of my life protecting and preserving rare and priceless objects.

As a curator, a caretaker, the person of our generation who guards these artifacts, I am part of a legacy. Should one of these objects be sacrificed to save the life of the worst person you have ever met? Is that person's life worth more than the Mona Lisa?

If you had to choose to save the only copy of your favorite song from a fire, or save the life of the person who abused you in the worst way, honestly, in the heat of flames all around you, which would you choose?

Fear can take many strange forms, and we can fear for things much greater than ourselves. We can fear being caught in a moral dilemma, we can fear making choices that will leave us damned no matter what we do. We can fear becoming the destroyer of something we love very dearly, or becoming the destroyer of another human being - becoming a kind of murderer.

Is it murder, to let someone die, when you can intervene?

I say it is, it is murder by inaction, yet we distance ourselves and keep our conscience clean. At least that is how we try to live. Few of us are designed for firefighting or police work or working with people infected with deadly diseases. Anyone could intervene, at any time, to help someone in need, someone who is slowly dying in a tent that we drive past on our way to work. It is easy to excuse ourselves, for we are merely the puppets of a society that values our skills.

Each of us is creating a stained-glass window, with thousands of hours of skilled labor. That is your purpose, not to be distracted by the poor, the addicted, the outcasts, the lepers of our modern world. It is not your job to care for them. But what if all of your work was to be undone? What if all you have made was destroyed?

What if you had to destroy everything you worked so hard to achieve, just to save the life of whoever is in that tent by the freeway? You would not do it, I would not do it, we cannot do such a thing. We would make the choice to let someone die, rather than see our work destroyed, rather than be the destroyer of our great work on the cathedral of our society, our wealth, our place in the sun.

If I am wrong about you then you could go and switch places with the next person holding a cardboard sign to prove it. Take their place and give them all that you have, your job, your home, your bank account, your car and your family. You must do so to prove to me that a stranger's life is worth more to you than the things you own.

The artifacts I preserve are the treasures of our entire civilization. They belong to all of humanity, so that we are not all suffering in the darkness of ignorance and hatred. They are more ancient and worth more than everything you own and everything you have labored to create.

Now, you are no random person being asked this question. Would you sacrifice one of these ancient artifacts to save a person's life?

I hope you are not offended by such a difficult and twisted sermon. I hope I have made my own feelings clear, so that the horror I experienced can be understood. To me, the preservation of many priceless relics was my life's work, and I fully understood the value, not the just intrinsic, but symbolic value of the items I was tasked with protecting.

It all began when I opened up the crate holding the reliquary of King Shedem'il, a Nubian dwarf, over four thousand years old. The first thing I noticed, with great outrage, was that the handlers had damaged the brittle shell, the statue part of the mummy. I was trembling, holding the crowbar I had used to pry open the lid of the crate. In shipment they had mishandled him and broken the extremely ancient artifact.

Have you ever gotten something you ordered from Amazon and found it was damaged inside the box, probably because it was dropped - and felt pretty angry or frustrated? Whatever it was, it could be replaced, it was just something relatively cheap, something manufactured in our modern world. This object belonged to a lost civilization - one-of-a-kind.

Knights Templar had died defending this amid other treasures. Muslim warriors had died protecting it from Crusaders. The very slaves who carried this glass sarcophagus into the tomb were buried alive with it. During the end of World War II, eleven Canadian soldiers with families waiting for them back home had died during a skirmish in a railway outside of Berlin while capturing this object under a pile of other museum goods. One of those men was my grandfather, and he reportedly threw himself onto a grenade tossed by a Nazi unwilling to surrender the treasure.

Your Amazon package can be replaced, but imagine the magnitude of outrage you would feel if it had the history of the damaged package I was looking at. I was holding the crowbar, and it was a good thing none of the deliverymen were present.

Have you ever felt so angry that when you calmed down you started crying?

While I was wiping away a tear I felt something was wrong. It was hard to say, at first, what that was, exactly. I had just undergone an outrageous emotional roller coaster, and it was hard to attribute my sense of wrongness to anything else.

In the curating of antiquities, there is a phrase for when we apply glue to something, we call it "Conservation treatment."

Shedem'il was due for some conservation treatment. I wheeled the crate into the restoration department. It is always dark and quiet where I work, and even if there are dozen people in the building, you never see anyone.

I came back the next night - as museum work is done at night for a variety of reasons. One of them is security, another is to allow access to other people during the day, and lastly there is a genuine tradition of the sunless, coolness of night that probably started with moving objects of taxidermy to their protective display. It is at night that the museum comes to life, in a way, since that is when things get moved around.

Although one does not see their coworkers in such a place, it can still be noticeable when they start to go missing. Fear crept into me, because I knew something was wrong. The horror of what was happening is just one kind of terror, and I was quite frightened when I discovered what was going on.

I was sitting in the darkened cafeteria alone, eating my lunch, when I looked up and saw the dark shape leaning from behind a half-closed door. I blinked, staring in disbelief at the short monster, with his empty eye sockets covered in jeweled bandages, stuck to the dried flesh that still clung to his ancient skull. It is something so horrible and impossible, that my mind rejected it as reality.

Our mummy had left his encasing, and now roamed freely.

We do not know enough about Shedem'il to know exactly what might motivate such a creature to do what it did. As the museum staff went missing, it became apparent to me that Shedem'il was responsible.

I saw strange flashing and heard a disembodied voice chanting. When I looked around a corner, I saw the workspace of someone who was suddenly gone, and the creature retreating out of sight, around another corner. Shedem'il did not want to be seen by me, and had only made that one appearance, staring at me, studying me, and then vanishing.

In part I did not believe what I was feeling, the primal dread of a dead thing cursing the living. I was able to deny what I had seen, I was able to continue to work, although always looking over my shoulder in the dark and quiet place. The empty museum, where guards and staff had vanished one-by-one.

Denial is an unbelievably powerful tool. One could deny that my story is true, easily imagine that it is impossible. It was not more difficult for me to disbelieve what I had seen, I was able to tell myself it was impossible.

Now I know I have made myself clear, that I would not trade the life of a person for a precious artifact. What I discovered was far worse than the loss of a person's life. Somehow, the mummy had taken them bodily - soul included, and trapped them in a state of timeless torture. This is different.

I would not wish this fate on anyone, it is not mere death, and no object is worth a person's soul. To me, the soul of one person, be it me or you or the worst person you can imagine is non-negotiable. One soul for all of us, what happens to one person's soul is the burden of all. That is also something I know is true.

Seeing these artifacts as I have, when the sun is silently rising outside, through the stained glass, I know there is but one soul of all humankind. While our individual lives might be somewhat expendable, the soul of one person is the same as any other.

I know you would trade everything for the person you love the most. You would burn down the whole museum for just one more day with the person you love the most, and I would not blame you. That is because the person you love the most is the soul of humanity for you.

Now let yourself see that all of humanity, is loved in that way, when we speak of our singular soul. Whatever happens to one person's soul is what happens to all of us, our entirety. That is the enlightenment that these objects represent, the truth they spell out for us, the reason they must exist.

But in the face of even one person's soul being trapped by evil, no object on Earth is worth anything.

I came to see this, to hear this, to feel this. I was filled with ultimate horror, far beyond what I can describe the feeling of. I psychically understood the evil being channeled through the animated corpse of Shedem'il. I also knew that I was saved for last. My soul would be the final one taken, and then the creature would be free to leave the house of artifacts.

To roam the Earth and trap countless victims into material things. Untold suffering would be unleashed. Shedem'il's victims all knew this, and they cried out to me from their prisons. I had no choice to make.

I went to the shipping area and looked for a suitable tool. I hoped that by destroying the precious artwork they were trapped inside, the curse might be broken, and the people trapped inside set free.

I found the crowbar and was about to get to work when I noticed a signed Louisville slugger from some famous baseball player. I hefted it, feeling the spirit of its owner still lingering in the relic. Then I set it down, seeing the sledgehammer of John Henry.

With the heavy tool in my hands I crept through the silent halls of the museum, avoiding the darkness. I was terrified that the mummy would find me, and all would be lost to its evil. Sweating and trembling I found the first imprisoned coworker.

I put one hand on the priceless statue of Mary, knowing it had become a vessel of a trapped soul, and feeling how its purpose was corrupted for evil. "May God forgive me."

I lifted the hammer and struck it, over and again until it was smashed to smithereens. Old Bobby, the security guard, materialized beside me. He was shaking and crying and terrified. I knew how he felt, I was horrified both by the nightmare at-hand and the grim duty of undoing the ultimate evil upon us.

"Get it together, we have work to do. You must watch my back for that little monster while I do the rest." I told him, hearing how insane it all sounded.

We went throughout the museum, as dawn approached, tearing apart a Rembrandt, turning a Stradivarius into kindling, shattering ancient pottery and pulverizing a sculpture we referred to as our own Pietà.

With is magic spent and victims released, we stood together before the horrifying little mummy, and watched it crumble into dust.

Suddenly the alarms in the museum went off, and it wasn't long before the police arrived. The owner was quick to have me held responsible and also firing Old Bobby and several others. While I was in jail for seventeen months, I considered how I might articulate myself when I got out.

I have gotten over both the horror of what happened and the actions I took. There is one little thing still bothering me though. I look back on how the deliverymen were not there at-all. I never saw them.

I wonder what happened to those guys.

Bars have a lot of unwritten rules, unspoken rules, that are good to know. You might feel a little tense walking in, like you're being scrutinized or that you don't know what's happening. That's because you're in a kind of church - and that is what the feeling is like.

They'll simplify it for you, and say: "Don't talk about religion or politics." which seems obvious enough, but there's a longer list of things you don't discuss in bars. You shouldn't talk about finances, relationships or family affairs either. In fact, the less you say, the better.

Nobody is impressed by anything you say, when you're in a bar. You make friends by listening while other people talk, and you'll soon find out you don't really want to hear what they have to say. That's how they feel about what you might want to discuss.

You are boring, you are offensive or you are self-absorbed. The worst is when you are nosy, too interested in what someone else has said. If you don't speak at all, everyone presumes there is something wrong with you, being quiet and not talking is pretty rude.

Then there is that guy who comes up next to you and says something that gets your attention, but then you realize you're being had for a pick-up line. Will you be offended if he thinks he can have you for the price of a drink? If you don't care about yourself enough to be offended, you aren't worth his time, although he might be done hunting for the night and go for an easy kill.

Being hard to kill just brings on bigger and meaner hunters. They will flatter you and convince you they are Mr. Right, except you're just the one who is left. It's just you, you're the only girl who hasn't gone home to sell herself for free to another drunken John. To the men in the bar, every woman there is for sale, and they are just haggling over a price. Some men have too much pride and don't want a free kill.

Serial killers, all of them. Don't fall for the guy who seems innocent, he's the worst of them all.

I'm sipping my drink slowly. Bars aren't where I go to find a new body for my closet. I'm not that kind of girl. No, my momma raised a prudent and wise woman, and I am here to learn.

Gosh, I sure have learned a lot, and it breaks my heart to see how the game gets played. It's a little sickening, actually, but sometimes I think I am alone in that nauseating feeling. It's not that I don't enjoy intimacy, it's just that I prefer it has some kind of romantic meaning, some kind of expression of affection. Maybe even doing it for procreation instead of just casual recreation.

Even dogs have more purpose when they get it on and show more affection than these one-night couples who don't remember each other the next time they meet, somewhere along the way, months or years later. I'm not a dog, although I get called the B word a lot by guys I resort to scorning when they are too persistent.

I don't meet my lovers in bars. No, I am better than that. At least I was, until I met Merial.

I couldn't tell if Merial was a man at-all. He was so effeminate I actually thought "This is a lesbian."

But Merial was very patient, and quite different. He wanted something different from me, and it wasn't like he was trolling the bar, it was more like he was doing what I was doing, just people watching. I just want to know what I am, as I am a person too. I just don't understand people, and bars have become a kind of school, a kind of temple, where I see it all on display.

In a church people just act like sheep, following the flock, pretending they are holy and charitable and faithful or whatever they really are not. They are surrounded by a congregation all wearing the same face devoid of real emotions, playing nice for God and for their Sunday crew. I see the same people in the bar, on occasion, and that's their real face.

In a church they wear a mask and they think God is judging them for their honesty when they confess, their sincerity when they sing or their kindness when they tithe. God doesn't need our honesty, God knows what we are doing and why. God doesn't need our sincerity, we were made to rebel and to get lost. If God wanted obedience, there would be obedience. Do you really think God wants your money?

I found more of God's countenance in the bars, despite my disgust. I was actually an atheist, when I was dragged into churches by my family. It wasn't until I saw the real side of humanity that I realized that God is real.

We don't discuss religion or politics in the bar, because the bar is a place for truth. Nothing about religion or politics is honest. I looked over and saw the look on Merial's face, and I knew he understood me.

"May I speak with you?" He was asking, without words. I nodded and he walked over to me like we had agreed to talk. He just sat beside me and it felt nice, to have someone next to me who knew what I was doing there.

"Aren't you going to say something?" I asked him, after a few minutes of mutual silence.

"My name is Merial. I'm just observing people. I saw you are doing that too." He said plainly.

I started smiling, I was right about him. It felt really good. If he'd asked me to leave with him I would have gone out the door with him, it felt weird, but I liked being able to let go of myself and feel safe, feeling that way.

"I'm Catherine. I can't believe you noticed me." I said awkwardly. It didn't matter, he seemed impressed.

I'm trying to remember the rest of the conversation, it was deep and flattering. I felt really connected to him and the hours just flew by. When the bar started to close, I couldn't believe how long we had sat there talking. I didn't want it to end, so I said:

"Are you going to ask me to come home with you?" I must have sounded desperate, but he didn't shut me down, he just said:

"It isn't your time yet." Rather strangely and confidently. "But you have a good heart, and I won't let you out of my sight. I'm starved for a heart like yours."

"Okay." I stood up, embarrassed and feeling rejected. I wasn't sure if he'd shut me down, but it felt like he had, so I said, hearing myself:

"So that's a no, then?"

"Let's just take this slow. We'll see each other again." He promised. I watched him get up and leave, without another word. We hadn't exchanged phone numbers, so it felt like he was just saying that. I am ashamed that I was a little bit drunk or emotional or something I can't even say, and I said as he left:

"No, we won't. Goodbye Merial." Like I was having a little tantrum. That's another rule about bars, don't take things personally. I'd somehow forgotten that one, which is weird considering how many guys I've asked to leave me alone, and laughed at their immature reactions.

But I did see him again. I came back to that same bar night after night and I started to actually drink. The cost of the alcohol added up and I'd let guys buy drinks for me. That went on for awhile, and I would get pretty buzzed, trying to forget Merial.

Then one night, when I was actually considering going home with this seemingly nice guy, I saw Merial again. He was just watching me. It felt creepy and rude, and I glared at him and then ignored him.

The guy was with saw how I was reacting to Merial, and somehow ended up talking to him. Merial seemed weak and timorous, but insisted on staring at me. The two of them ended up in a fight, and when the guy I was with got hit by Merial, the guy fell down.

"Catherine, I just wanted to check on you. I can see I've caused you some kind of harm. You've changed, haven't you? I don't want to wait. Will you come with me? I am starved for your heart."

"Sure." I heard myself say. I walked out with him and found myself teetering in his arms.

"I am going to eat your heart." He said, staring into my eyes. I almost laughed, but it felt like he was saying he was literally going to eat my heart.

"Seriously?" I asked, feeling sudden dread. There was this grotesque look to him, this hungry sort of look, like a starved dog emerging from the darkness of an alleyway, baring its fangs - his smile. His eyes glinted too, in the dark we stood in. I shoved him away from me but he grabbed me and held me with supernatural strength.

"I can't let you go. You are too rare, and it's too hard to find someone with a pure heart." Merial was holding me with one hand and with the other he reached towards my breast, like he was going to do that thing from Indiana Jones when the priest reaches into the guy's chest and pulls out his heart.

I screamed in terror and fought him off of me, surprising him so that he suddenly let go of me. I took off running from him. I looked back and he was gone.

Then there was a shadow over me, blocking the streetlight I was under. I looked up and there was a blur of white feathers, like a giant seagull or something - except it was him, it was Merial. He landed before me, blocking my escape up the street, folding his enormous white wings behind him and then those same wings vanished.

"What are you, some kind of vampire or something?" I asked, my voice high-pitched, trembling with fear. I was terrified, but the look on his face was conversational, and in a confused way, I was speaking to him instead of shrieking in outright terror.

"I'm an angel, Catherine. I'm your angel, sent by God. I have a message for this world that I give to the pure of heart. Something changed when I met you, I remembered how hungry I am. I must feed. I need your sacrifice, I need to eat your heart." Merial spoke calmly, hypnotically. I just stood there, shaking with fear, as though in a trance.

I was in shock, I realize, but it also felt like I owed him my heart. I somehow wanted to cooperate with him, to just let him have it. It seemed like it would be easy to give in, to stop running, to not fight back, to just let him do what he wanted. Part of me was willing to surrender.

"No!" I stammered. Then, hearing my own voice, I shouted louder, again, and hit him with my thumb clenched in an unwieldy fist. I felt the bottom knuckle crack and pain shot from my hand into my wrist. I'd struck him hard enough to break my thumb.

(By-the-way, when making a fist, first roll your fingers tightly into a ball, then hold your thumb on the outside. When you direct a punch into a man's face, use your two innermost knuckles to connect and straighten your arm into a kind of snapping motion. Don't go for his jawbone or cheekbone, aim instead for his neck. That's way better self-defense for a girl outside a bar with a man refusing to leave her alone.)

I cried out in pain, and saw I'd done no damage to him except maybe a slight bruise. The jolting pain, however, motivated me to run for my life. I ran from him, gripping my broken thumb in agony.

"You cannot escape, I'll have you yet!" I heard his voice saying from where he swooped above me in the darkness, his wings spread. I couldn't outrun him, so I ducked into an alleyway and tried to hide.

"Don't bark at me." I said to a mangy old golden retriever that sat watching me where I hid from Merial.

"Catherine? Where are you? Come out, I promise it won't hurt. I just want a little nibble." Merial was coming into the alleyway, looking for me. He was walking, his wings too wide for between the buildings; and like before: when he folded them - they were invisible.

"Leave her alone. She is terrified. You cannot have her." The dog suddenly spoke in a man's voice, much deeper and more masculine than Merial's effeminate voice.

"Stay out of this Michael. She's mine." Merial said to the mangy old golden retriever, who now stood between us.

Michael started barking, and I wasn't sure if he had ever spoken. Merial looked worried, as the dog seemed rabid or feral, barking ferociously. He looked to where I hid and said:

"Someday I'll be back. You cannot hide from me."

When he was gone I went to the dog, who was calm again, and I hugged him. I took the dog home, and fed him. The next day I took him and got him cleaned up and set up an appointment at the vet. I got him a collar and named him Michael.

I am not sure if he ever really spoke to me, but now I take good care of him. I come home to him every night, and he is always waiting for me patiently. He is a very good dog, he only barks when I am scared.

I once asked Michael if he could speak, and he just shook his head 'no'. He might just be an ordinary dog, but to me, he's my guardian angel.

Can you figure out who the killer is?

Chapter 1: Insight

I stepped into my apartment, placed my back to the door and sighed in relief. Thank God I was home. I hadn’t been for the past few days. I was at the hospital watching over my sister with our parents. Just when we were starting to get our hopes up. Just when we thought she was going to make a full recovery, she took a turn for the worse.

It all felt more like a curse than an affliction. My sister went from a healthy, happy-go-lucky teenager, to a fever-stricken soul, stranded somewhere between the land of the living and nonliving. She had a sudden case of sleeping beauty syndrome. The doctors didn’t know for sure, but they suspected the strange bite on her neck was the culprit. Two neat puncture wounds rationalized away as an animal bite. We all knew what it really was, it’s just that no one wanted to be the one who was crazy enough to say it.

It was like her body was slowly wasting away. Was she becoming undone, or perhaps something else altogether? Eh... Who knows. I did know one thing for sure, it was all too grim and preposterous a reality for my parents to accept. No matter what the doctors tried or how hard mom and dad prayed for her deliverance, she just kept getting worse while acting stranger.

It was like she had been pulled from the world, and we had all been pulled right along with her, into a strange new world that made no sense. Her doctors told us that at the rate she was deteriorating, she didn’t have much time left. God. I wish this was the part where I told you, “I became a superhero and saved her life.” Maybe in my own roundabout way, I did become something of her savior.

The truth is, what happened to her, I... I never saw it coming. Did vampires really exist? I couldn’t tell you how much or how long this question had tortured my mind. I was going to do some serious digging and get to the bottom of this. Because if there was any way to save her; to stop her from fading, I swore to find it.

My phone began to ring. It was my parents. They were at the hospital, keeping vigil at her bedside. I shook my head while thinking about how much of a toll her sudden illness had taken upon them. They were both so virtues and upright. Their faith in God had really been shaken. I turned my phone on silent mode. I-I didn’t want to talk to them. I needed time to grieve on my own.

I wanted a beer. No, I needed a beer. Something cold and inebriating to free my mind from the pain of watching my little sister slip away. I’m surprised I made it this long without dipping into my reserves, I thought to myself as I reached into the fridge and grabbed a cold one.

I just sat there at my kitchen table. Reliving as many memories of us together as I could. There were so many. I... I adored her more than life itself. She could do no wrong. Her smile... it... it haunts me. My God, I never knew pain like this. I had never followed my parents down the “righteous path.” I always considered myself a person of logic and reason. Simply believing in a higher power wasn’t enough for me, neither had it ever been enough to ease the void of loneliness within me.

But after this, how could I not believe in God? How could I explain away my grief? All I wanted was for this to all make sense. Maybe it was her time? Even if it was, why like this? Why so tragic and bitter? There were just too many reasons why I stopped believing. Crazy thing was, right now, I desperately wanted to believe. I wanted to close my eyes, clasp my hands together, and pray for a miracle. I tried but couldn’t bring myself to do so, no matter how strong the desire. There was no God, and a crisis wasn’t my chance to retreat.

I had seen the dark side of faith. The way my parents justified what happen to my baby sister by saying, “God has a plan” made me sick to my core. Just thinking about it made me nauseous. My faith had been stretched to the breaking point a long time ago. This was just the sad culmination of a collision between faith and obstinacy. The explosion went off like a bomb in my head. The pain was truly limitless... I just hoped her death didn’t turn me into a serial killer. I smirked at my own inane, insane thought before downing my beer.

I grabbed another beer to drown my sorrows in. Just then, there was a sudden knock at the door. The slight but unmistakable tapping surprised the crap out of me. So much so, I almost spilled my beer. I figured it was my ex. She had planned on stopping by a bit later to return my key and to pick up the last of her things.

When I looked through the peephole, I saw two people standing there in black suits. The sight threw me off and made me briefly sick to my stomach. Little did I know, I should have followed my gut instinct, but instead, I foolishly opened the door.

“Hello, Mr. Graham. My name’s Agent Adams. This is my partner, Agent Harris.”

Before I could process what was happening, Agent Harris extended her hand and said, “Pleasure.”

“Um... You too, I think? I guess? Hope I’m not in any trouble?” I told her.

“You’re not,” she smirked.

“Who are you guys again?”

“We work for the government,” she said.

“The FBI?” I asked.

“Ugh. Everyone says that. I guess it is the suits,” Agent Adams grumbled. He shook his head in annoyance before adding, “We work for the Department of Homeland Security. DPI for short. It’s the paranormal division.”

“Who again?” I asked him.

“Eh. The Department of Paranormal Investigations,” he clarified with something of an attitude.

“Huh. Never heard of it,” I spoke.

“Can we come in, Mr. Graham?” he asked.

I thought about it for a moment. I didn’t like this Agent Adams guy. He gave off a bad vibe. My first mind was to tell them to kick rocks, but I decided against being so brash and rash just in case they had a warrant. I wasn’t thinking straight. My sister’s woes weighed too mightily on my spirit. Before letting them pass, I did ask to see some identification. I’m not that stupid. Had to be sure they weren’t pulling my leg.

Agent Adams flashed his badge with a slight grumble. Agent Harris had no problem letting me see hers. She was at least pleasant, I thought while examining her government ID. I also wondered why someone so young and attractive had been stuck with someone so old and unattractive. I bet she hated her partner, I thought to myself with a smirk, as I let them pass through the door.

Agent Adams took a seat at my kitchen table without me offering. His partner looked at him a bit perplexed before waiting until I said, “It’s ok. You can have a seat.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

“So, what brings two DPI agents to my home? You sure I haven’t done anything illegal?”

“Hmm... Maybe there is something you’d like to confess, Mr. Graham,” Agent Adams spoke.

“I don’t know. Maybe I have an old parking ticket or something minor like that.”

“We don’t handle citations,” he replied.

“Sorry. Dumb question.”

“Apology rejected,” he uttered.

“Uh-hm. Forgive my partner he can be a bit—"

Agent Adams brought his hand to his chin. His abrupt gesture caused his partner to pause mid-sentence and look over at him. The two exchanged glances. He paused for a moment more before saying, “That’s a nice brand of beer. I haven’t had a cold one in a while.”

“Would you like one? I have plenty.”

“Sure.”

“Really?” I asked.

“You offered. I accepted.”

“Uh, what about you, Miss Harris?”

“It’s Agent Harris. And no.” She looked over at her partner with a raised eyebrow, “Can you not drink on the job? It’s unprofessional.”

“Fine,” he grumbled before reaching into the inner pocket of his suit coat to retrieve his vape pen.

“Are you sure? Like I said I have plenty.”

“I’m sure. I am the senior agent after all. Probably should set a better example and all,” with a wink he added, “If you survive, I’ll come back and take you up on that offer, Mr. Graham.”

“How do you know he’ll even want to participate?” his partner asked. I could hear the annoyance in her tone. She groaned before telling me, “Sorry about that.”

Agent Adams let out a heavy cloud of steam. He studied me a fair bit longer than I was comfort with. Especially someone like him, whose eyes were grey enough to sting. He took another hit from his vape pen. This time blowing the steam in my direction. His wrinkled face blocked out by the heavy cloud as he said, “Oh, he’ll join, alright. He’s not in any position to refuse.”

“That’s pretentious,” she grumbled.

“Hah. It’s the truth.”

“What the hell is this about?”

“Your sister, Mr. Graham,” he said.

“What about her?” I asked.

“We know what happened.”

“Um. Okay? Creepy.”

“Uh, what my partner is trying to say is that we might be able to help. I reviewed her chart. I think I know what the problem is,” Agent Harris explained.

“What can a couple of government agents do that a team of doctors haven’t already tried?” I asked.

“Your sister. She was bitten by a vampire, Mr. Graham,” Agent Adams stated. He paused for a moment to study my reaction before adding, “You seem like a clever guy. I’m sure you already suspected as much.”

“So, they do exist,” I mumbled to myself.

“Yes. The vampire who attacked your sister was probably desperate. He broke what are a set of well-established rules called Blood Codes.”

“Really? Vampires have rules?”

“There’s always rules, Mr. Graham.”

“Whatever. And where is this freak? I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on him.”

“He’s already been dealt with.”

“By you guys?”

“By his overseer.”

“Good. I hope his death was slow and painful.”

“It was. Their methods are very draconian.”

“Then what do you need from me?” I asked.

“What about you? Would you kill to save your sister?”

“I would if I had to,” I affirmed without hesitation or reservation. I suppose I only spoke so confidently and assuredly because I thought it was a hypothetical. I mean this was the government after all. They would never ask me to do anything crazy, right? But then again, I would’ve told you you were crazy if you would have told me vampires were a real thing before my sister was attacked by one. Still, his question was odd. And the more I thought about it, the more it disturbed me.

Agent Harris chimed in, “Um, Mr. Graham, I’m sorry. I don’t know why my partner said that. You shouldn’t have to kill anyone. For you, it’s probably more a matter of participation than annihilation. If we did require you to do such a thing, rest assure, we’d provide you with all the materials necessary to succeed. Before you ask, we’re on your side, Mr. Graham. We want you to see your sister once the games have concluded.”

“The games?” I asked.

“Yes. If you enter our game, we’ll save your sister’s life. No questions asked,” she replied.

“What kind of game?”

“The Adventure Games.”

“The what games?”

“Adventure Games,” she smirked.

“What’s the catch?”

“Well, the games could be dang—”

Agent Adams quickly butted in before Agent Harris could reveal the truth. “There’s no catch, Mr. Graham. None whatsoever. Don’t listen to my partner. She can be a bit too detail orientated.”

“The devil is always in the details,” I muttered.

“But not a cure for your sister,” he coldly replied.

“Hey. What is that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think? Do you want to waste time going over the fine print, or do you want to step up to the plate and save your sister?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Eh. How do I know I can trust you to keep your word? I mean the government isn’t exactly super trustworthy.”

“Know what, I like you, Mr. Graham. Tell you what I’ll do. Humph. If you agree, we’ll transfer your sister to our facility, right away. That way she can get a jumpstart on her treatment program before you even set foot in the games,” he checked his wristwatch and added, “We can get her there by midnight. Let’s see... hmm... typical turnaround for blood sickness is what? Maybe a few hours if we play our cards right?”

“Six to eighteen hours is more accurate,” Agent Harris clarified to her partner’s chagrin.

“Close enough,” he grumbled.

Agent Harris ignored him. Turning her attention back to me, she said, “I have some good news and some bad news. Which would you like first?”

“Give me the good news.”

“Ok. Based on her chart, it looks like her affliction has progressed beyond normal blood sickness. Once we administer the antidote, she should be fine, but there’s always a chance she won’t make it. I’m sure our techs back at the lab will make the process as painless as possible for your sister. This is what I can do for you if you decide to join the project. I promise we’ll have her call you before you leave for the games.”

“Great. Where do I sign?” I asked.

Agent Adams put away his vape pen. “You don’t sign. You signing something doesn’t matter. We’re dealing with information above top secret, Mr. Graham.”

“Whatever,” I shrugged.

“There is one other thing,” Agent Harris said.

“The bad news, right?”

“Right,” she nodded.

Agent Harris looked over at her partner. She was careful not to reveal anything more until he nodded his head in approval. Some of the info they had already revealed was pushing the line above top secret into ‘black protocol’ territory, or what agents at DPI called “above top secret classification.”

Agent Adams nodded before quickly returning his attention back to vaping, retrieving the addictive device almost faster than he had put it away.

Agent Harris cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Graham. Your sister’s illness has progressed too far. We can save her, but she won’t be human anymore. She’ll be a vampire. The transformation is irreversible I’m afraid.”

“Really? A vampire?”

“That is correct.”

“Jesus. I need a smoke,” I said as I jumped from my chair and grabbed the pack of smokes sitting on my kitchen counter. I lit one up and began pacing back and forth like a madman. With a bit of reluctance, I turned to Agent Harris and grumbled, “How fast can we get this done?”

“Now, if you agree.”

“That fast, huh?”

“Yes. We already have a team standing by. One phone call from us and they’ll began the extraction.”

“I already told you, I’m in.”

When I reaffirmed my commitment, Agent Adams looked over at his partner with a smug “I told you so” expression. He stood and extended his hand for me to shake. “Good choice, Mr. Graham. You’re a real champ.”

I shook his hand while glaring into his eyes. “You guys better not be trying to pull a fast one.”

“We wouldn’t. You’re not that important,” he smirked before blowing a cloud of steam into my face. “Goodbye, Mr. Graham. I’m sure I won’t be seeing you around,” he sarcastically added before heading for the door.

I shook Agent Harris’ hand. She removed her shades and told me, “Good luck, Mr. Graham.”

“What do I do next?”

“Pack light and wait.”

“Really? That’s it?”

“Yeah. We’ll be back in a couple of hours to take you to prescreening.”

“Sounds fair.”

“Good to hear.”

“So, what are these ‘Adventure Games’ anyway?”

She placed her shades back on. Her expression distant and cold. “Sit tight. We have to make a few arrangements and finish up some paperwork on our end before I can reveal any information. I’m sure the paperwork will get approved by the time we come back for you. Once this happens, I’ll explain everything you need to know.”

I just stood there dumbfounded by the moment. I could hear Agent Harris discussing Agent Adams’ conduct as they let themselves out and began making their way down the hall. Apparently, Agent Harris was disappointed that he had asked me for a beer. She pointed out that this was an obvious workplace violation, and how he could be terminated for his conduct. He found her chiding amusing and told her he had no intentions on drinking on the job. When he made this claim, she was incredulous and asked what possessed him to even ask in the first place.

I could barely hear them at this point since they were standing by the elevator. But I believe his response was something on the lines of, “I wanted to read his reaction. If he handled himself wisely, I knew we wouldn’t have a problem recruiting him for the games.”

“And if he reacted poorly?” she asked.

“Well then, your little behavioral profile would have been wrong, and we would’ve had a head start on finding his replacement,” he told her.

I closed the door in disgust. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, or if they could even be trusted. I knew it too. That cliché feeling had reached all the way down to my gut. My conscience... the good angel on my shoulder was telling me to run.

With a heavy heart, I chose to ignore the voice. My sister’s life hung in the balance. Sometimes in life you had to take risks. My choice to go along with these agents and their dubious claims wasn’t a tough or noble act. It was one wrought from desperation. What were my options? Not joining meant my sister would waste away until it was too late. Phew. This was a lot of pressure. My back was against the wall literally and figuratively.

I let out a long sigh and mustered the courage to begin packing. I hadn’t gotten much sleep either. Hopefully the car ride to wherever we were going would be a long one, and I could get some much-needed rest, I thought to myself as I shoved way too many things into my bag.

Tears escaped from my eyes. I had to stay the course. I had to hear her voice. I finally broke down and prayed to God, asking him to look over me. I still didn’t believe. I don’t know why I did it. I guess out of hope or necessity. My sister meant the world to me, and my parents, I don’t know what they would do if she perished.

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Chapter 2: Foresight

The following day was a blur. I was taken to a massive facility that stood in the middle of nowhere. It was on the outskirts of the outskirts. The place was so far removed, they didn’t even bother with a blindfold. There was no elaborate story of denial, or even the whole “we cannot confirm or deny” troupe.

Nope. This was a secret facility where the government housed and did God knows who or what to who or what. From what I gathered, they performed strange experiments on poor sods, such as myself, who had foolishly signed their lives away. I gulped and told myself to shut up. If you think negative things, then you get negative results.

A group of oddly dressed soldiers called “acolytes” escorted me from the transport van to the staging area. I was able to check in with my sister, just like the agents promised. She was doing much better. The thought put a smile on my face and was all the motivation I needed. Now all I needed to do was win, so I could see her again.

Knock on wood, but if something were to happen to me, I didn’t really care. All that mattered was that little sis had finally turned the corner. I swear on my soul. This was more than I could have ever hoped for.

After answering an uncomfortable amount of questions and going through a battery of physical and mental tests, I was given the greenlight by the staff to join the event. This all happened at approximately 1400 hours the next day. I was taken away from the annoying, prodding techs in lab coats. I wouldn’t have mind leaving them behind, along with their invasive procedures if it wasn’t for the soldiers who escorted me to the staging area. They were cold and mechanical. They roughly shooed me to a section of the facility called Bunker 17, as if they were putting a dog back inside its kennel. We arrived at this damnable place, via elevator, twenty floors down.

To my surprise, there were already several people waiting when I arrived. They were all kind of just lingering about not doing much of anything. In front of us stood a pair of massive concrete doors that looked like the entrance to a mini fortress. We were all wearing these odd name tags. The moment made me sick to my stomach. The gazes of suspicion, intrigue, and indifference made me briefly curl up like a shrinking violet.

Hmm... No one told me I would be joined by others. I shrugged and figured as much. I was about to introduce myself when one of the soldiers radioed Command and informed them that we were ready to enter. Command radioed back and told them to give the signal. One of the acolyte soldiers gave a thumbs up, which I imagine they saw on the camera, right above the door.

When he did this an alarm sounded, red strobes flashed all arounds us, and the doors began to slowly creep open. The noise only added to the confusion and bewilderment. I took a step back, sure that the roof was going to collapse with every inch the doors gained. The whole thing was about as unnerving and uninviting as it could get. It looked more like a giant mouth slowly feasting upon the light, warning us to turn back, than an entrance.

We stepped inside only to be greeted by another set of massive doors. These were steel instead of concrete and looked like they could have been placed on the entrance to an impenetrable castle way up in the mountains. I looked back when the concrete doors begin to close. Only when they had fully shut, and we were devoured by the darkness, did the steel doors begin to open their mouth. The inner doors creaked and cranked, making the loudest, most-angriest sound imaginable. The process was excruciating and played on my mind almost as much as it played on my ears.

There was a great deal of radio chatter. The soldiers thrust us through the entrance. When we had all crossed the red line, one of them radioed Command, and the doors began to slowly close behind us. Fight or flight kicked in. I thought about making a run for it, but I could tell that that was bad idea by the way the soldiers were positioned behind the door with their weapons drawn.

I swear I could feel their laser sights more than I could see them in the piercing darkness. There was nothing like a big gun to chop through any language or mental barrier. It was louder and harder than any bull in any China shop would ever be.

I sighed when the doors finally closed behind us. My first thought was, what the hell had I gotten myself into? Followed quickly by, I can’t believe I let myself be talked into this. Before any of us could gather our bearings, the lights began to turn on. Once my eyes had adjusted to the blinding whiteness, I stood around like everyone else, amazed and surprised by the sight in front of me. It was funny in a sense. I was relieved by familiarity as it was the last thing on my mind.

It looked like a well-kept emergency shelter. The floors sparkled as if they had been waxed in preparation for our arrival. The kitchen and dayroom took up the bulk of the space. Before I could really sink my teeth into some good ole fashioned exploration, a voice could be heard over the loudspeaker. The prerecording was that of a woman, who sounded a bit robotic and automated, as if it had been altered to sound as friendly as possible. Which made it even more odd and creepy:

“Greetings, contestants! Welcome to the Adventure Games! These are the inaugural games, making this the very first event of its kind! So, consider yourselves lucky! The games have been lowered in difficulty by our wonderful technicians by approximately fifteen percent in honor of you being the very first souls to be taken.

I’m sure you’re all confused and have a lot of questions. Should I explain? Of course, I should explain! Well, here goes nothing! There are seven of you in total. You have all been locked inside of one of our many, many, many underground shelters! Bunker 17 to be precise. Which is part of the Northeastern Hemisphere Underground Network Systems, or N-HUN for short. That’s right! Your bunker is part of a much wider, global network that is maintained and operated by the New World Government Order or NWGO and members of the New Faith Alliance or NFA.

There are six levels of access in total. To gain access to the lower levels you need a “Marc” card. Which is short for Mark of Identifying numbers. Sorry average humans, only vampires and human personnel critical to the mission are given one. Don’t feel too bad, only high-ranking members of the NFA have access to the lower levels. And only super important people have access to the final level. Take my word for it, I’ve been down to level six and it’s definitely not a place you ever want to be.

I would tell you all about the many wonders, crazy contraptions, odd attractions, and foul creatures we keep below, but then I’d have to release the laughing gas... Just kidding... It’s actually sarin gas!

You have all been locked inside of Bunker 17. We stocked the place with plenty of provisions, so you won’t have to worry about starving to death for a very long time if anything terrible was to happen while you were away like, I don’t know, nuclear holocaust.

The recreational room is also state of the art. All the amenities you need are here. We made sure to provide our contestants with everything imaginable so all you’ll have to worry about is staying alive!

If you were to survive the games, which I highly doubt, then we will do as promised and grant you your wish, via taxpayer expense. There’s nothing the Illuminati loves more than wasting hard stolen taxpayer money on frivolous expenditures like elaborate “stress tests” on bunker sociology to see who’ll break.

All of you came here for a reason. One of you however asked to be here so you could murder everyone else who came here for a reason! Hooray for having zero conscience*, our super mysterious serial killer contestant! How do you stop this maniac from murdering you? Why the answer is simple. Figure out which one of you is the murdering maniac and you win! That’s right, the game is officially over, and you can go home and enjoy whatever foolish thing you wished for. Hope it was worth it!*

How might you rid yourselves of this psychopath, you ask? Please direct your attention to our voting room. Inside is a small stall, no bigger than an outhouse. At the end of each day, you will go inside, one by one, and vote on who you think the killer is. If the majority votes correctly then the game is over. If there is a tie or lower, then the games continue. Oh, and just to make things fair, the killer will always vote for themselves. This will continue until enough of you vote correctly or everyone besides the killer is D.E.A.D.

♫ Do-do-do dodo! ♫

Congratz subject number 4, Roger J. Pierson III. You have been assigned the master bedroom! Which means you are responsible for reading the daily tasks! What daily tasks you might wonder? Why they’re clues to help you solve the killer-mystery, so pay close attention!

How does it work? Each day Roger will receive a card from HQ, using our spiffy pneumatic system, with direct access to the master bedroom. Our technicians, who helped created this wonderful kill box, call these messages ‘Vital Tasks’. Gather in one place and read them carefully, but only if you’re interested in surviving.

Good luck everyone! Oh, and be sure to have fun while playing. There is a small suggestion box located in the recreational room, next to the TV. All suggestions are anonymous and will help us to not only create a better experience, but even more enjoyable deaths! Salutations! Enjoy your stay at our super-secret underground facility! Thank you for your participation in the Adventure Games! And remember, no matter what happens, you are a valued guest at Bunker 17!”

When the strange announcement ended, everyone just kind of looked around in confusion. It was one of those moments when you question reality. There were seven of us in total. Everyone was wearing a name tag. Each name was more of a twisted moniker than our actual name. I looked down at my own and saw the word “Hero.” I found this odd for a few reasons. The first being I wasn’t a hero. I was your average guy at best. The second, more chilling reason was I did not remember putting this stupid thing on. How it got there was a mystery. I suppose in the thick of the chaos, one of the lab technicians must’ve slapped it on before they rushed me out.

The guy next to me, whose name tag read “Follower,” began to spaz. I tried to calm him, but it didn’t work. He made a break for it, running all the way back to the entrance. “Let me out! I didn’t sign up for this!” he cried and screamed while pounding on the steel slab.

There was a tall, bulky guy, wearing a tank top that barely fit. His name tag read “Bully” and was glued to his chest. He flexed his peck muscles and laughed very loudly and rudely at the young guy. He looked over at me and then everyone else while wildly yelling, “Come on guys! They’re obviously trying to scare us. The lady over the intercom wasn’t even trying to hide how obvious it was with all those corny jokes. What is this supposed to be? Fallout: New Vegas?!” He hooted and chuckled.

“This is stupid,” the woman next to me said. I looked over and saw that her name tag read: “Narcissist.”

“Screw it,” the Follower said after seeing that he was making a fool out of himself by crying and wailing not only in vain but to the amusement of others.

“I want to go home,” a girl sniveled. I glanced over and saw that her name tag read, “Teenager.”

Bully’s laughter pulled me away from the shock of seeing a teenager in a place like this. I cringed when he hollered out “Guys! It’s not real!” as if he wasn’t making yet another useless PSA.

There was this guy leaning against the wall. He watched with folded arms as the Follower finally gave up the goose. I could have sworn he was just standing right next to me, but I could be wrong. His name tag read “the Rationalizer.” He looked over at us and asked, in a very matter-of-fact tone, “So. What do we do now?”

“Let’s go get the message like the lady said over the intercom,” I told everyone with a shrug.

“Good idea,” the Rationalizer said. I think he was being sarcastic when he said it, but who knows. A guy like that was difficult to read.

The seven of us traveled through the kitchen and recreational area. Then we made our way down the narrow hall, towards our rooms. There were two names assigned to each one, except for the master bedroom. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw that the Rationalizer was assigned to the same room as me. Seeing my discomfort, he gave me a pat on the back before opening the door to our room.

I peeked inside and saw a very clean but very bare bones living space. There were a few accommodations, just nothing like home. Let’s see, there was a bunkbed on one side, two lockers, and a large dresser on the other. The floor was just as cold, polished, and uninviting as the kitchen and hall. Turns out, the only thing they bothered to make warm and cozy was the recreational room. Oh, and the master bedroom, hate to forget that.

I poked my head in Roger’s room. If I hadn’t mentioned it by now, his name tag read: “the Lover.” He damn near kissed the floor when he saw how magnificent his stay would be. His reaction rubbed pretty much all of us the wrong way. The Narcissist’s in particular. When she saw her room, and realized she had to share with the Teenager, she hyperventilated. Unlike the Lover’s eccentrics, her selfishly induced panic attack put a smile on my face.

“Huh. Looks like they got at least one of our name tags spot-on,” the Rationalizer said while observing her antics and thinking the same thing I was thinking.

Bully nearly buckled over he laughed so hard. Seeing this and that he shared a room with this meathead, the Follower began laughing right along with him. I don’t even think he knew why he was laughing. He saw Bully doing it and just followed along. I shook my head. I did chuckle a bit under my breath. The whole thing was ridiculous, I thought to myself as I turned my attention back to the Lover. There was something about him that was different. I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

Was there a faster way to draw suspicion than being called out by name and given something. Not only was it something, but it happened to be the one spacious, well decorated, most comfortable room out of the whole lot. Silk pillows, satin sheets, and a handwoven quilt that was draped over the bottom of a lavish, four-post bed. The posts were shaped into gargoyles. Even his dresser was handcrafted, the wallpaper elegant, and the red carpet fit for royalty. I could go on and on, but I didn’t want my intrigue to turn into outrage. Not yet at least. This all could be a prank like Bully suggested.

Eh. I know I keep harping on the subject, but it was hella unfair. What could I do? Even if I wanted to take it there, what were my options? Try to take the room from him by force? Yeah. That’s smart. That way everyone would think I was the killer for sure.

I had never even thought about killing someone in my whole life. Ok... you got me. The vampire who nearly killed my sister was the only creature. Hearing Agent Adams tell me he had been cruelly dispatched by his masters was sweet music to my ears. My only regret was that I wasn’t there to witness him suffer. If I was, I would have begged the monster behind the mask to prolong his pain for as long as vampirically possible.

“Hey, pal! Hurry up! I’m starving,” Bully shouted, snapping my mind out of its downward spiral of dark, borderline psychotic thought.

“I’m grabbing the card now!” the Lover shouted back before seizing the plastic capsule that was ejected from a long, pneumatic tube system. He removed the card from the red envelope and read what it said:

“Task 1. Introduce yourself to the others. State all critical information such as name, age, and reason you’re here. This is very important: reveal if you are human or not. Do not lie unless you are the killer. You may remove your name tag afterwards.”

After he read the card, we all glanced around at one another, wondering if this was indeed someone’s idea of a sick joke. Or perhaps this was a dream we would all wake up from very soon? I prayed for the ladder but feared and respected the former. My thoughts loud and sweeping amidst the awkward silence that had overtaken us.

Bully rubbed his stomach. “I’m hungry. You guys can keep standing around looking stupid if you want. I’m off to see what’s in the fridge.”

“Um. Gross,” the Narcissist stated before she checked the pockets of her stylish plaid topcoat. She gasped in exasperation before yelping in dismay, “OMG. But how? How did they even know?”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“They must’ve taken it!” she cried.

“Taken what?” I asked.

She looked over at me with an expression that told me everything I needed to know. Then she groaned out the most unimaginative words imaginable, “God. I thought I smuggled my backup phone. I put it in my pocket, it should be here. Screw it. Guess I’ll just die of boredom.”

“Or you could reconnect with your other senses,” the Rationalizer said. He folded his arms and stared at the Narcissist hungrily. If she wasn’t so preoccupied with being preoccupied by nothing, she would have noticed his lecherous gawk.

“Whatever. I hate my life,” she sighed.

“What’s a ‘backup’ phone?” I asked.

“Old people, dude,” the Follower blurted before chuckling to himself at my expense.

“I’m not old. I just never heard of a backup phone,” I explained, my tone a bit defensive.

“My bad, bro. Don’t get mad.”

“I’m not getting mad.”

“Hey. Whatever you say, bro.”

“It’s your other phone just in case your non other phone dies. Tch. Duh. I have followers, you know,” she replied all hot and haughtily.

“Come on guys,” I said before making my way towards the kitchen. Bully was already there, rummaging through the cupboards like a man on a mission.

When he saw us, he looked back and said, “I’m starving, haven’t eaten since breakfast!”

“How are we looking? Plenty of good stuff?” I asked as I made my approach.

“Bingo!” he hooted and rooted, ignoring me like a butthole over a loaf of bread. He made some weird comment about how he couldn’t believe they had sprouted grain bread. And how sprouted grain bread was savage. And how sprouted grain bread aided in muscle recovery. And how sprouted grain bread blah blah blah; all bodybuilding nonsense no one else understood. I understood how rude he was, however. He practically commandeered the counter and began making himself half a dozen sandwiches with the ham that he had snagged from the fridge.

“How are we looking?” I asked again.

“Dude, we’re freaking loaded!”

I opened the large pantry and saw four shelves filled with cans. “Wow. Yeah, you’re right.”

The one guy, who had the master bedroom, the Lover, I believe his name tag was; he cleared his throat and said, “Ok. So, who’s going to go first?”

“First in what?” the Follower asked.

“Introducing themselves,” he hissed.

“Tch. I’m not wasting my time,” the Follower laughed. To be honest, he seemed like a nice kid, but his laugh was maddening. This high pitch chortle followed by a guttural snort or two. Ugh. Just thinking about it made my skin crawl.

“I think you should go first,” I told Bully.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” he asked.

“Because you’re a big oaf.”

Everyone at the table laughed, including the Follower. He stood from his seat, still snorting, and said, “Dude! You have a mountain of sandwiches! You could have at least asked if anyone else wanted one.”

Bully laughed before and after taking a chunk out of his first sandwich. “Whatever. I worked hard to get these muscles. Judging by your appearance, I don’t think you’ve ever seen an honest day’s work at the gym.”

“Ouch,” the Follower nervously chuckled. He slinked back down in his seat and tried to hide as we all laughed at the poor guy’s expense.

Bully looked over at me as if he saw something he didn’t like. Before I could ask if he had a staring problem, he said, “What about you? You seem pretty straightlaced. Maybe you should go first.”

I looked around and saw everyone’s eyes fall on me after he had pretty much thrown me under the bus. I threw my hands up in defeat and told them, “Fine. It’s not like I have anything to hide; I’ll go first.”

The Lover gestured for me to take the metaphorical stage and said, “The floor is yours.”

"Blood is the sacrament of the gods. The sun rises when the heavens thirst-not for blood. In our hearts, the divine nectar is kept. The gods are thirsty - they need our blood or there can be no light. In darkness they dwell, and without our nourishing red blood, night shall be everlasting." I read aloud my belief to the teachers.

They just stared at me for a moment, unsure how to respond. Confirmation classes had struggled to explain to me a different truth, and I had already accepted that my baptism was the will of Tláloc, and I had sang the words of their hymns with my whole heart. I still did not understand how Tláloc could have made a mistake, when the cycle of everlasting rebirth was the truth of perfection.

"We have already taught you that it is the blood of Jesus Christ that washes you clean of sin." Father Ignatius spoke slowly and carefully. "It is not our blood that God wants, for the blood of the Lamb is the way to salvation."

I trembled slightly, feeling the first moment of my journey into a horror of new ideas. It had occurred to me that there must be something wrong with our blood, if it was unacceptable to the gods. I asked, with some trepidation, because it might mean I was somehow not an acceptable person to the gods:

"Do you mean that the gods do not thirst for my blood, but rather only the blood of Jesus?" I asked, worried for my grace in the light of the gods. If my blood was not good enough, what sacrifice might be?

"Nuavhu, you are now Joseph, and you live in the grace of God, sinless from the blood of the Lamb. You have only to accept the covenant of Jesus, as you did with your first Communion." Sister Valory reminded me.

"But the gods are still thirsty, are they not?" I asked.

"There is only one God." Teacher Victor spoke suddenly, like he was saying something without thinking.

"Tláloc." I said. "Tláloc is still alive, this I know. I realize that the other gods have - " I hesitated, unsure if the word was the right word, but unable to say anything different " - died."

"The gods have not died, they are myth. Only one true God exists!" Teacher Victor exclaimed, speaking to me as though I were a blasphemer.

"Perhaps in myth they reside, while Tláloc lives on. Do not the rains still come? Do not the crops grow? Am I not a child of the grace of Tláloc?" I shuddered, unable to accept that I was somehow wrong. I knew Tláloc was real, I had seen him walking in the forest, collecting flowers for his crown from among the thorns. The priest and the nun had told me that the blossoming crown of thorns was the sign of redemption from sin, and assured me I was saved. What was happening?

"You cannot be saved, not without the blood of Jesus, and denial of this Tláloc." Teacher Victor proclaimed. He gestured for the priest and the nun to agree.

"I am afraid your teacher is right. The Archbishop must be told that you have reserved your worship of Tláloc. If you are not found to be in the grace of God, through the blood of the Lamb, by the time he arrives, you will surely be excommunicated." Father Ignatius warned me.

I nearly fainted, I was terrified of being cast out of the house of Tláloc. I couldn't understand how my devotion to the one true god could also make me an exile from his grace. When I was taken to my cell to pray, I began to consider that I would have to find a way to give my blood, for the sunrise of my everlasting soul.

I fell asleep, feverishly gripping my rosary. In my nightmares I saw Tláloc in the forest, as I once had. The god was no longer shimmering in dew, the greenish blue of his skin, the ebony trim of his robes and the pure white feathers his garments were made of, all was cast aside into a dark and thorny mess. The horror of the thirsty god loomed.

When I woke up it was just before dawn, and I knew I must go and find my god where he lay in the forest, and feed him. If I wouldn't, there would be no sunrise, only a dying god, taking the last of his grace from a world so sinful that they had even cast me aside. If I was not pure, then I would have to find out who was. If nobody was good enough, then all were doomed. Night would never end and the monsters of the jungle, the creatures slithering up from the deepest pillars of the thirteen heavens would consume the world.

The priests had said this was called Xibalba, or Hell. I doubted the existence of that place. The pillars of the thirteen heavens were slippery with the ichor of the gods, fed on the liquid red blood of mortal creation - humanity. But if it must be called Xibalba to make sense to them, then that is a word, but it was merely the shadow cast by the beauty of the heavens, not some underworld of torment for the dead. I knew better, nothing dead lived down there. Those things ate the dead, as long as the gods didn't intervene.

I had rested easy, knowing Tláloc would protect me and everyone else. But now, it was Tláloc that needed protection. Without my help, the last god would surely die. Night would never end.

I wandered the path, just before sunrise, yet the light seemed to only glow on the hills where the jungle was cut away. I saw how the animals watched me with their eyes glowing, and the forest was silent, an eerie vigilance for the dying god.

My heart beat with terror, worried I would not make it in time. But there, in a clearing, among the wilting blue flowers Tláloc had come to pick by moonlight, the god lay dying, his colors faded to black and the robes in tatters and the smoothness of his skin a bramble of warts and thorns.

I hesitated, fear of going near such a powerful creature holding me fast. I lifted one hand, trembling, and then slowly approached the monstrous deity. In his current form, he was like a wounded animal, and might destroy me, lashing out in his agony, a death throe like a bladed claw from the darkness to eviscerate me.

"Tláloc, let my blood be pure enough to give you the sustenance." I offered. I lifted a razor sharp thorn from the forest floor, broken off of the god's own body as he had rolled back and forth in pain, dying in the dwindling forest.

I held my wrist over the god's parched lips, seeing how Tláloc's eyes watched me. I shivered in awe and dread, but did my duty and opened a vein to feed the god. As my blood flowed, he gulped and swallowed, drinking it and slowly becoming restored before my very eyes.

My weakness began, and I fell to my knees. Then, as Tláloc rose up above me, standing again on his own feet, I collapsed, the thorn clutched in one hand. Tláloc stood over me, and I could not remain awake, and then the sunrise began, and Tláloc ascended to Third Heaven, where his pool of water waited to bathe him in the early hours of the morning.

I smiled weakly, as I lay there, in and out of consciousness. The holy cleansing rains of the morning came and cooled me of the fever I felt. The animals sang in the harmony of the forest until the rain stopped. Then the great tractors, trucks, and machines used to harvest the jungle could be heard making progress.

The skies cleared of the white clouds of Tláloc's blessing and filled with the black diesel smoke and the drifting fumes of the petrol fire, where debris was burned throughout the workday. I was found there and taken back to the school.

"You attempted suicide. There is no hope for you now. Surely you are damned." Teacher Victor told me. Father Ignatius and Sister Valory prayed over me and prayed for me.

"Tláloc has accepted my blood sacrifice. My faith is rewarded. Another day is today, and night did not last forever. The world yet turns. I do not believe you know what you are talking about." I said, deliriously.

While another day came, I was too weak to return when night came again. Tláloc was only quenched a little bit, and thirst would come again. I could not stand up, let alone return to seek out my god by the waning moon. There was nothing I could do, as that night Tláloc lay dying near the cenote by Mary's Well.

I had a vision of the god, calling to me, last of the devoted, the final believer.

"How will night last forever?" Father Ignatius had asked me. "It is the will of God that the sun shall rise, not the actions or inactions of mankind."

"Then you have answered your own question, so why ask me?" I whispered weakly. I was barely clinging to life. Somehow the vision of my god had revitalized me, as though my body was restored through my faith, although I still felt very weak.

That is when the Earth began to shake. They were no longer held back. I fell out of my bed and saw through the open door how the priest and the teacher and the nun ran frantically across the courtyard.

I screamed in terror, my voice broken and distorted, as the very ground erupted around them and the slithering horrors from below came up. They took the teachers, they took the priest and they grabbed the nun and one by one they bit into the other students. Everyone was held by the creatures from below, none of them protected by Tláloc, who could do nothing for them.

The earthen landscape split open while it shook, and all the people and most of the chapel where above the gaping darkness, its living tendrils wrapped around all. Then the shaking and rumbling began to subside, and the buildings were as rubble all around, and everyone who had gathered in the clear center of the courtyard was gone, fallen into the bottomless hole beneath the surface of the world.

I stared in disbelief and horror, my eyes stinging with the dust all over my face and body. My bed I had fallen from was crushed behind me, and all around me the roof and walls lay piled high and in clouds of settling dust. My tears of grievance, terror and relief streaked through the dust on my cheeks, and I saw this in my reflection in the gradual stillness of the waters that had bubbled up around me.

A rain came, where dawn should have, but under thick clouds, there was no way to know if the sun had risen. Perhaps Tláloc was dead, and the pillar of the heavens had collapsed, and that is what had happened. I dreaded the return of the monsters, or that the Earth should swallow me up as well. How everyone was taken but I; left me thinking that there must still be hope, although I felt no hope, only fear for myself, fear for the whole world, and fear for Tláloc.

I limped and crawled through the clear-cut landscape, towards the remains of the forest. Somehow, I pulled myself through the mud and the grass, the vines and the roots, the tractor marks and past the piles of shattered wood.

There was a path from Mary's Well, that was made by the footfalls of the limping god. Wherever he had stepped, his blue flowers and fresh vines had grown. All along the way there was also a path burned by the slithering things, as they tore across the surface of the Earth, leaving a trail like a blackened and wilted scar.

There, at the edge of the forest, I found what was left of Tláloc, wheezing and dying, in much worse shape than I. There was nothing more I could do but stare piteously at the dying god. Tláloc had come to fight the monsters, trying to protect the forgetful humans, trying to do its duty, and had fought to the last, slaying a pile of the wretched slithering horrors, that lay slowly turning themselves like writhing severed worms.

Fear gripped me, telling me to come no closer. The gasses they dissolved into were toxic, forming the very clouds that were blotting out the sun. Should the dead muscles of the dying horrors catch me, they would crush me or worse, and I could see how their faceless mouths worked to open and shut in automation, although they were already slain by Tláloc's sharp hoe.

I saw how the god's spade dripped in the gore of the monsters, and how the soil it was stabbed into was already beginning to regrow the jungle, as vines and flowers encased the lower half, while the top was melting in the corrosive blood of the monsters from below.

I spoke to my god, pleading with him to give me the knowledge of what I could do to reverse the carnage. With his final breath, Tláloc looked at me and said:

"Night is the ignorance that shall prevail. Be forgiving, for only forgiveness, absolute forgiveness, can defeat the horrors of ignorance."

And with that, in the ancient language my mother and father had spoken to me when I lived with them in the forest, Tláloc spoke and gave his breath to me.

The clouds parted, and I looked up to the skies, seeing that the Thirteenth Heaven awaited the last of the gods, and as a cloud of birds of black and white, shimmering in the blue light, Tláloc ascended to where his brothers and sisters waited for him.

And so, I lay down and rested, and found my strength somehow return to me. I looked up and saw that Tláloc's spade was now a great tree, standing alone where the whole jungle should hold it in the center, but nothing but wasteland was all around. I decided I would go and teach Tláloc's message, that I would go among the people, and try to stop the ignorance that is our eternal night.

"The last time I wanted to die was six months ago."

She slowly rolled up her sleeves, and then showed her arms, palms up, "That's when I got these."

The long scar up her right arm was straight, the one up her left arm was more jagged.

"It wasn't the first time that I wanted to die, it wasn't even the first time I took... Steps.

"But it was the first time I did something like that."

She pauses, taking a deep and somewhat ragged breath, "I wish I could say that it was the last time I would want to die."

She looks down, "Or the last time that I'd try to make it happen."

She closes her eyes, taking another deep and ragged breath, before tilting her head up, and opening her eyes, eyes which had a frightening depth to them, "I wish that I could say that it was a one time thing. But I can't."

"I suffer from depression. I have for much of my life, and... I probably will for the rest of my life."

She gives a very wry smile, one with very little happiness in it, "Sometimes I think that it's just a matter of time, that I already know that I'll die by my own hand."

Another deep breath, her eyes now shining with unshed tears, "Sometimes I can believe that I'll keep my head above water, that I'll be able to keep wanting to live enough that I won't ever go through with it."

"I really want to believe that."

A long pause, then a slow look around the room, "Today, I know, I can acknowledge that there are people in my life that want me to live. That would be hurt if I didn't. Who want to be there for me."

The tears are not entirely unshed at this point, "And I am more thankful than I can ever say for those people. I'm not sure if I'd still be here or not without them, but I do know that my good days wouldn't be nearly as good without them.

"But I also know that they can't save me. That it's not up to them if I make it through the darkness or not.

"I wish it was. I wish that they could make that choice, and that I would never have to face my depression alone again.

"But... I'm also glad that they can't. That if I don't make it, that it won't be their fault. That it can't be their fault. No matter what."

Tears are actively falling now, even though her smile has more happiness in it than it did, or perhaps because of it, "I won't say that my depression isn't partially situational. That my environment and those around me have no impact. That would be a lie, and it would be a massive disservice to people who do so many things, for me and others, to try and help us."

"But I will say that sometimes... Sometimes it's a fight that those of us who suffer from depression like mine have to fight alone.

"Not because we want to, not because nobody wants to help, not because there aren't people in our lives who would fight it for us if they could.

"But because sometimes... Sometimes the depression won't let us see the people around us who care.

"It won't let us know that we are loved, and that there is no way that our dying would help them more than it would hurt them.

"Sometimes we have to face our demons alone, in the darkness. Even if we're surrounded by those who love us, even if we're being held by them, sometimes the depression won't allow us to be anything except alone in the darkness of our own minds.

"Sometimes, it's a fight that we have to fight every hour of every day.

"Sometimes, we can go months, or even years, without much of a struggle.

"And then we find ourselves in the darkness with our demons once more.

"Not because anything around us has changed, but because we suffer from depression, and that depression isn't always about facts, or logic, or even reality.

"Sometimes it's just the demons of our own minds, lying to us, hiding the world from us, making us all alone, even when that's not true."

The smile grows a little more real, "Today I'm alive. Today I want to be alive. Today I'm happy to be alive."

"I hope that I feel the same way tomorrow. And I hope that tomorrow you feel that way as well."

"But if we don't, if the darkness returns, I hope that we can find the light again.

"And if some day we fail, I hope that those who love us remember that it's not their fault.

"It's not our fault either.

"Sometimes the demons win. Sometimes the disease kills us.

"But like I said. Today isn't that day. Today I'm happy to be alive.

"And just because sometimes we have to fight alone, it doesn't mean that we have to lose."

It's not normal to see a wall in the middle of a street, right? I mean, maybe there was some reason that made sense for there to be a wall over the white line in the middle of the road. I could see the wall from where I was sitting by the cafe window enjoying my mocha latte. I was on a coffee date and the guy I met through the usual app finally took the hint that I want one of those cute little fudge brownie things they were selling; it was when he got up to go to the counter that I spotted the wall. 

I smiled when I first saw it because it looked so out of place. The wall looked old, made of bricks which were, like, very orange. I don't know much about sizes but I'd say the wall was maybe the size of, like, a door or something. 

My date set the plate with the cute little brownie I wanted on the table. I didn't actually intend on eating the brownie; gosh, the carbs! But on coffee dates there's a few ways a girl can test if a man really is serious about showing up. Not showing up for the date, I mean. But like, you know, showing up in the male provider role. If my date can't even buy me a coffee or a teenie tiny little brownie then he's definitely not going to be marriage material. 

He was cute; like seriously cute. Tall, dark, handsome; twenty-six but somehow looking closer to thirty-six but, like, in a good way. In a manly way. He dressed well; nice jacket, tastefully tight denim jeans that looked old but were obviously still kind of new. Mustard coloured shirt; umph! 

When I say he looked absolutely delicious sitting his big tall frame down in the seat opposite me, believe me, I mean it. 

"So what do you do?" he said. 

"I'm an account manager for a mid-sized SEO agency," I said, "Do you know what that is?" 

His hazel eyes lit up with newfound curiosity. I decided to reward him with a smirk. I held his gaze and the interest on his face blossomed into a full-on handsome smile. 

"Nah," he said, "What's SEO?" 

I flinched as if smelling something bad. I didn't mean to but what idiot didn't know what SEO meant? 

"Search-Engine-Optimisation?" I said, trying not to make him feel stupid for not knowing such a simple thing. 

"Oh," he said, "Yeah we use a bit of that. Get spam emails everyday." 

The wall was still out there in the middle of the street. How had no cars neared it yet? It was late Saturday morning and the road was often busy; for some reason no cars seemed to be coming or going. There was just the wall and nobody on the street was paying it any attention. 

"Lauren?" said my date. 

I forced my attention back to him. By the way he said my name I guessed it hadn't been the first time he had said it just then either. 

"Sorry," I said. 

He smiled handsomely. He seemed nice. I particularly liked the way his large hands made the nice white tea cup he was drinking from seem small. 

"So," I said, drumming my nails on the table. 

"So," he said, matching my tone playfully. 

"You work in real estate," I said, "You make good money." 

His enthusiasm as he looked at me soured a little bit. I understood this wasn't the playful chit-chat he was expecting but, like, this was just a coffee date and it wasn't the only date I was going to have; the chit-chat could come once the essentials were discussed. 

"Do you see yourself getting married in the next two years?" I said. 

He gave a single-shoulder shrug. 

"Because," I said, "I'm like, looking to get married within about two years. I'm okay with taking our time but I have a timeline I want to stick to." 

"Timeline?" he said, smiling a little.

"Yes," I said, "How do you feel about kids?" 

There it was. The gormless, 'why are you asking me this?' look. I wanted to sigh and roll my eyes but that wouldn't keep him on the hook. So I moved ahead with 'old faithful' and sat forward, playing with my hair and giving him a feisty, playful look. 

After a few moments of not knowing how to respond my date grinned wryly. 

"Ah," he said, "You got me going there for a sec. I thought you were serious." 

"Oh, I'm serious," I said, "I just have had my time wasted a lot and I think it makes sense for me to just let you know what I'm looking for." 

"I appreciate that," said my date, "But yeah, I'm not looking for anything serious right now." 

For a half second I thought I was going to take this statement from him well. 

"Seriously?" I said, the words spilling out of my mouth before I can care to stop them, "You're twenty-six and you're not thinking about settling down?" 

"Nah," he said, grinning and sitting back in his seat, "I'm def not looking to settle down. I'm still young." 

"But what are you even looking for in a relationship?" I said, "I mean, like I was pretty clear on the app that I'm looking for something serious. Did you not check?" 

He smirked and scratched his eyebrow; both gestures made me want to grab the brownie from the plate and smush it all over his irritating face. 

"Look," he said, "It was nice meeting you but unless you want to come back to mine then we're done here." 

The audacity. The cheek! I wanted to scream at him, yell at him, let him know what a pig he was. When did a guy like him suddenly think he was good enough to invite me for a late morning quickie? I was speechless. 

"Um, no," I said. 

"Alright," he said, "See you later." 

He got up and left before I could think to say anything back. He hadn't even given me enough time to save face. What a jerk! I got up, leaving the brownie behind, and left the cafe. 

I had taken two buses earlier to get to the cafe (it was near where I worked which was just over an hour's bus ride from my flat), and I would need to take the same buses to get home. My next date was nearer home and was going to happen in the evening. 

I hadn't intended for the date to be over in like, ten minutes, but he was clearly not serious so it was good, in a way, that he wasn't going to waste any more of my time. I headed to the bus stop and waited for the bus to come. It was a really chilly morning and I hadn't really dressed for the occasion; I'd decided to go for this super cute one-shoulder top with a long cardigan fit; it looked great but didn't do much to stop the cold. 

The bus didn't come. I waited for over twenty minutes only to check on the route planner app to see the buses I needed had been diverted. My gosh. Seriously. What a freaking morning. 

Maybe the diversions had something to do with that wall in the middle of the road? Someone must have moved it because it was still at the same spot but was moved to be in line with the white center line on the road. This way cars going in both directions could pass the wall by. 

Whatever. I didn't care about the wall or why someone had put it there or why they had moved it. If my bus had arrived like it was supposed to them I wouldn't have given the wall another thought. 

I needed to think about how I was going to get home. The obvious answer was to book a ride through the app on my phone, but the rides were pricey, especially one to get me home. My second option was to call Mum and ask her for a lift, but she had said something about needing to take Flossie (that's what she called her car) in to get Flossie's brakes checked. My last option was to get a train but that would mean getting a bus to the next station and that seemed like a lot of extra hassle. 

After thinking about it for another minute standing out in the cold I decided to just grit and bear the walk to get a train home. I really didn't have the extra money in my account to waste on pricey rides home. I set off silently wishing I had taken the brownie after all since I hadn't eaten breakfast and had only sipped my latte, which I had also abandoned. 

My thoughts were stuck on my date and how quick he had decided not to continue the date. It was ridiculous. Not that he wasn't interested in talking about marriage and babies; I totally get that most men aren't mature enough to dive into that conversation on a first date; what I couldn't believe was how little he anguished over calling the date early. 

I didn't want to admit it to myself but over the last three years the dates had become less about forging a genuine connection and more about quick flings. Plenty of times I had enjoyed those flings and it was whatever; there was no spark so there was no need to stay in touch. But, like, the reading comprehension of these men! It didn't matter what I put in my bio; serious, want someday, looking for marriage; didn't they read what was clearly written there? I even ditched all the sexy pictures of myself and replaced them with pictures that gave off more of a wholesome, wife-y vibe, dress for the part you want sort of thing. Why weren't they getting it? 

I finally reached the tunnel which would eventually lead to the train station. The tunnel was something like an underpass. I didn't like taking it because there wasn't any exit from the tunnel except entering into it from either the end I was about to, or the end which came out at the station. I was so annoyed thinking about how the date went I didn't care if some creepy man was in the tunnel waiting for me. 

My heeled boots echoed with every step I took through the tunnel. It was a small tunnel, painted white all around except for the floor which was painted black. There was a metal railing which went all the way from one end of the tunnel to the other. It was much too cold for me to want to grip it and I bet it was dirty anyway. The tunnel was also well lit, with strong white lights dotted at intervals all the way along. Usually the tunnel had at least a few people coming and going in it but as I walked along it I noticed I was the only thing making any noise in the tunnel (not including the faint humming of the lights above). 

The first odd thing I noticed was that the breeze which eased through the tunnel had stopped. I was stooping over a little hugging myself for warmth trying to ignore the firm breeze; but then all of a sudden it stopped; which was weird. 

I kept moving forwards. 

Clop-clop, clop-clop, clop-clop. 

Should have gotten my driving license years ago, I thought. Back then there was always someone to drive me around. I thought my acting career was going to take off quickly so I had figured by the time I was famous I wouldn't even need a license because I would have a driver to take me places anyway. That was still the goal but outside of some university short films and commercials the acting work hadn't taken off yet. 

I wasn't sure when the scraping sound started. I was sure I noticed it after the sound of it had grown in volume steadily over several seconds. 

I came to a stop and looked over my shoulder. The tunnel from where I was at about a quarter of the way through it hadn't reached the bend, so it made no sense that I couldn't see light at the end of the tunnel from where I had started out. Instead all I could see was an orange wall completely taking up the inside of the tunnel. 

I giggled. It was such a silly thing to see. Obviously someone was playing a joke on me because it was the same wall I had seen in the middle of the road before. What made it even sillier was how the wall was perfectly curved around the top to fit just right with the tunnel ceiling. 

Oh, I thought, there were probably some pranksters, some internet guys, who had moved around a fake wall and thought it would be funny to get my reaction. I took out my phone to start recording the fake wall but noticed my phone was out of battery. Just my luck. I stuffed my phone back into my handbag and continued to look at the orange wall. 

The scraping sound had stopped when I turned around. But it started up again and I could see that the wall appeared to be the source of the scraping noise.The wall was moving steadily forward and the scraping sound was as if the brick of the wall were scraping against the concrete floor and walls of the tunnel. 

"Oh," I said, aloud. 

I noticed the metal railing on the right-hand side of the tunnel was upturned and coiling round. 

With a sudden metallic pop the railing came away from the wall from where one of the bolts gave way to the approaching wall. 

It looked so real. It was really as if the wall were getting closer to me at a slow walking pace and as it did the metal railing was being bent and ripped away from the tunnel-wall because it had no place else to go. 

"This is really elaborate," I said, forcing a smile. Surely the men with their cameras would reveal themselves at any moment. This clearly was some dumb internet prank, right? 

The approaching orange wall began to pick up speed. Both the scraping sound and the metallic bending noise increased significantly. I let out a scream at the sudden loudness and dropped my handbag in fright; the small hand mirror Cheryl gave me for my twenty-fifth birthday rolled on its side out of my handbag towards the wall. I watched it roll as I reached down to get the other items which had fallen out of my handbag. 

The approaching wall crushed the hand mirror in less than a second, the mirror cracking and breaking to pieces which slipped beneath the wall's lowest bricks. 

Despite this it still took me another second to realise how much danger I was in. The scraping and the twisting of the metal railing became almost unbearably loud; the wall continued its steady approach towards me and it seemed to be picking up speed. 

Holding tight to my handbag I turned and ran away at a jogging pace. The sound of scraping and twisting metal and the occasional loud bursting away of the bolts keeping the railing fastened to the tunnel wall continued behind me. 

Was the tunnel collapsing? Was there something behind the wall, like a car, which was accelerating and pushing it forward somehow? 

Within seconds I broke into as fast of a run as I could muster in my heeled boots. Part of me thought it was so stupid to be running from an orange wall that wasn't there when I first entered the tunnel, but whether it made sense stopped mattering. I needed to get away from the horrible noises and I had seen what the wall had done to my hand mirror.

I quickly found myself wishing I had used the treadmill at my local gym for more than just steep incline walking. A stitch came on hard as I neared what I imagined to be the halfway point of the tunnel. There was still the other half to go but the tunnel appeared to be gaining even more speed. I dared a look over my shoulder and saw the wall was swallowing up much of the twisted metal railing that was being torn away from the wall; it was as if the bottom-most part of the wall were a giant hoover at first grinding, then sucking up whatever touched it. 

What if I stopped running? What if I fell down and the wall plowed right over me? I let out a scream and quickly wished I hadn't because I was already so out of breath. 

Clop! Clop! Clop! Clop!

Please! I thought, Move faster! 

My body was pathetically slow. In my desperation I dropped my handbag. It was slowing me down and it just made sense in the moment to let it go. I moved faster thanks to the weight of my handbag not slowing me down but I couldn't help but look back and watch as the wall ground it to pieces in a mere moment. 

The wall was real; so real and moving fast and unrelenting towards me. I felt the urge to sob. I was so scared but I knew that letting myself cry could mean the death of me. I didn't have the precious seconds to spare. needed to run to the tunnel exit.

I wasn't going to make it. The wall was moving far too fast for me to outrun it. Maybe if I took my boots off I might be able to run full-tilt but the time it would take for me to slip them off the wall would surely reach me. No! Idiot! Just do it! Now or never! 

I stopped and hopped on the spot taking the first boot off, then the second. It was the fastest I had ever taken my boots off by a mile. I heard the awful sound of the wall sucking up and grinding down the boots a half-second later. I could feel the rush of air and the cold of the twisted metal railing against my hand for an instant. 

I think the wall would have crushed me then if not for the metal railing at that section bursting violently away from the tunnel wall. It struck me hard in the shoulder and pushed me forward. It hurt so much I was sure that a bone in my shoulder must have broken. I had no time to check but the push from the railing had given me a precious extra second to start sprinting. 

I had never ran in my whole life with such intensity. I could move so much better with my feet touching down on the cold tunnel floor. I sucked in breath after breath as if hyperventilating desperate to reach the end of the tunnel; I could make out the sound of the lights along the tunnel ceiling bursting and shattering and being sucked up by the wall along with the metal. 

I was almost out. Almost. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. I was maybe a handful of seconds at my sprinting pace from reaching it. But there was something on the floor ahead of me in my way. My whole body wanted to scream because it had nothing more to give and the idea that there was some new obstacle preventing me from getting away from the chaos charging forward behind it was too much. 

There was a cat on the ground licking itself. 

"Move!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. 

The ginger cat seemed to realise the danger it was in and darted off towards the end of the tunnel. I had no time to feel relief for the cat. Worse, screaming for it to move warning it of the danger it should already have heard coming (I suppose it confused the scraping for the usual sound of the train rumbling by), I had used up all of the air in my lungs. Every fiber of my body was telling me it couldn't move that little bit more because it had already reached beyond its limit. 

I reached the precipice of the tunnel catching a glimpse of the edge of the platform and a half dozen people waiting about. 

My body gave out. I simply couldn't move forward anymore no matter how desperately I wanted to. I felt the wall at my back; the solid brick like the cold touch of death. I was going to be crushed just like the metal railing and the tunnel lights and my mirror, handbag, and boots. 

The agony of the wall reminded me of the time I had been in a car crash. Just sheer force wracking my body and the pain climbing all at once to an unbearable degree. For a second I could do nothing but feel my entire body squeeze hard against the unyielding pressure of the wall and then, just as I began to descend towards the bottom of the wall where it would consume me by grinding me down. The pressure gave way and I found myself launching an athlete's leap from the end of the tunnel to the nearby wall where a poster for women's perfume resided. 

I hit the plastic frame casing at a sprinting speed. Pain erupted across my face, neck, and the rest of my body. The pain that was already in my shoulder was joined by even more pain, surely several broken bones, across the rest of my body. I was alive, but for how long? The wall was still coming. It was going to crush me. 

I slipped down with an almost cartoonish squeak, my blood coating the plastic frame in front of me; the blood was coming from my mouth and somewhere atop my head and elsewhere I couldn't be sure. I couldn't breathe. The impact had taken the air completely out of my lungs. I hit the ground and lay suffocating. I rolled over onto my back and saw the end  of the tunnel. 

The wall was gone, but the destruction it had caused remained. I lost consciousness as the people that had been waiting nearby raced towards me. The last thing I remember seeing was a cute guy looking down at me with concern on his face.

Let me start off by addressing the title. Yes I am an arsonist/pyromaniac. Ever since I was young I’ve had an unhealthy obsession with fire and anything that goes bang. I can remember being as young as 7 years old and stealing my parents match’s to light them and just watch them burn out and to also light small things like individual leafs and sticks on fire. I used to take match’s and lighters to elementary school and do the same thing with some other delinquent friends that liked fires aswell. The habit slowly progressed from lighting small fires into bigger and bigger ones. Before I knew it by the time I was in middle and high school I was starting fires that required the police and fire department to show up.

I grew up by the woods and that definitely didn’t help but most of my fires got put out before they could get wildly uncontrollable. Mostly just burned down a few trees before the fire department showed up and put it out. Haven’t got caught for it yet though. My main way of starting these fires was with a cigarette or a joint that I would smoke until I would get it down enough and tie it around a piece of yarn. That yarn would then start burning like a fuse until it hit a pile of dry leafs that I doused in lighter fluid. That shit would light right up and everything else around it I tell you what. I guess I got addicted to the rush of getting away with this type of shit. I’ve also been involved with wrong crowds and done tons of other dumb shit that I won’t get into on this post cause frankly it would be way too long.

Oh and another thing before any of you guys tell me I’m a lunatic and I’m fucked up and got some sort of childhood trauma I’m not addressing “you should go to therapy” blah blah blah, I know. I know I’m fucked up in the head for doing shit like this and it probably is some un delt with childhood trauma. I’ve been to therapy many times for this and many other things like my anger issues I just don’t really believe in it and honestly think it’s for pussies. So save all your preaching bullshit for someone else that cares. That’s not the point of this post.

I’m in my early 20’s now and recently I’ve been going around to abandoned building in my town and towns around mine starting fires there. I was born and raised in a town outside of a major city in western Massachusetts. I’m not gonna name the city in case this makes it to the cops and they can track me down in some way but I think it’s important to state that the tons of abandoned mills and failed businesses that are all around here are great targets for someone like me. Especially since I’ve upgraded from my fires in the woods to more risky targets. Hell I’m probably doing these fucks a favor so they can collect the insurance on it without hiring some crackhead do it and risking them snitching when they inevitably get caught. These guys are getting it from me for free!

I need to talk about this weird thing I experienced lately though. Old abandoned buildings often have stories of being haunted and are overall unsettling no matter where you are. Just something about the nature of the fucked up things that happened there whether it’s an old insane asylum where the patients where tourtured or old mills where some worker got grinned up in a giant machine and now haunts the building. Along with the large population of homeless people that stay in the buildings so they can sleep and have a place to get high for the night. The eerie silence and every little thing that goes bump in the night is enough to make just about anyone scared even if it is just all bullshit stories.

Anyways my last burning I went to one of the old loading docks/storage buildings that was part of my towns textile mill. The small building was separate from the huge main building that workers used to actually make the textiles and was right next to a bunch of other storage and loading docks just like it. I broke a window and climbed into the smaller building with my lighter fluid, my yarn fuse, some kindling, and my pack of cigarettes that I would use to start the fire. As I jumped through the window into the large open area of the loading dock I see all the dust particles going right by my phones flash light. Nobody’s been here in years I think to myself. Immediately I see empty beer bottles, some plastic chairs and other trash scattered around all from other kids who broke in here to chill a little bit and have a good time. Now all I had to do was find a good corner that had some flammable materials that could get this shit ablaze.

This place was perfect it’s almost like they set it up for me I was like a kid in a candy store. These dumb fucks stacked all the wooden chairs and wooden tables that all the old workers used to work on on one side that covered damn near 1/3rd of the building. All old decrepit wood that was ready to be set ablaze. I doused a lot of it with lighter fluid and set up my make shift lighting device when I hear it. “Jackson. What are you doing?” Like the voice of a disapproving authority figure that was also questioning how I could be so stupid. It was so clear like someone was leaning right over me talking right into my ear. I jumped back expecting a cop or some security guard to be standing there. I turned around expecting to be put in cuffs right at that second. When I turned around though nobody was there. I frantically shined my phones flashlight around and it only confirmed that it was only me in the building surrounded by deafening silence. “Must be my imagination” I said. Not my first time in these spooky buildings and thinking I heard something that isn’t really there. I recollected myself and went back to tying my half smoked cigarette to the yarn. As I see it start to light the yarn I run out of the building.

Like many other arsonists I get my kick out of seeing the fire spread and fully engulf the structure. I run to a nearby patch of trees and bushes where I hunker down to watch the place go up in flames and the inevitable fire engine or 2 show up to frantically put out my work. Just as I thought, the place went right up. It was great just like I thought it would be. It was beautiful. Watching the flames reach as high as 3 stories I sat and admired as this small one story building was up in flames I was loving it. As I heard the sirens of the fire engines in the distance I layed down further covering myself in the brush waiting to see them put out my hard work. I don’t blame them it is their job after all. I’m just glad to see them actually doing something for once instead of sitting on their ass and collecting their pay checks for doing nothing.

Here’s where things get especially strange though. As I lay down on my stomach still admiring this huge fire (honestly some of my best work) I saw something. From the garage door opening of the loading dock I saw 3 figures appear out of the flame. All of them dark black silhouettes obviously visible in contrast to the yellow and orange flame that they were standing in front of. One a tall male adult figure, the other a slightly less tall female figure and the last one a small child like figure all standing right next to each other. They stood there for what felt like minutes on end looking right at me with their non existent eyes. Just staring, knowing that I was trying to hide in the bushes while the sirens in the background grew louder. I laid there on the ground stricken with a sense of dread and overall fear as they stood there. The large male figure raised his hand and pointed right at me. I knew it was directed at me. I was shaking at this point from fear. A fear that I don’t know if I’ve ever felt in my life time. The sirens grew louder and louder I could see the red and white lights off in the distance the fire engines had to be a few hundred yards away. I looked away and started shaking my head around feeling that I had to be seeing things. I closed my eyes and started telling myself that I was just going crazy and that these things in front of me where not actually there. I opened up my eyes to see the fire engines and police arriving and looked specifically at the loading dock to see that the silhouettes were gone. I watched the firemen frantically getting out and hooking up their hoses to put out my flame. I watched as they methodically fought the flames like they have had to fight many of my works in the past.

When my work of art was fully put out I snaked away and walked back to my car still in shock from what I just saw. I’m terrified and I don’t know what to do. I know what I saw was real and not just my imagination. I need sometime to sleep this off. If anyone can help explain this please reach out.

I moved in with my Uncle who had a strange set of rules.

When I was twelve I was forced to spend a summer with my Great Uncle Jeremy. You see, I was a bit of a troublemaker back in those days. My parents thought if I spent some time with my strict grouch of an Uncle, I would somehow be rehabilitated. You can imagine how hard my eyes rolled when my mom and dad told me about their plan, but I was oblivious to the horrors I would endure that summer.

Uncle Jeremy was somewhat of a mountain man. He lived in the remote wilderness of Montana's high pine forest. A homesteader through and through, he'd made a life where most people would go insane, granted Uncle Jerremy did seem a bit kooky to me at the time.

My dad almost tossed me out of the car as we rolled into my uncle's mountain cabin. He didn't even wait for Uncle Jeremy to greet me at the door. I watched as Dad's little Prius made its way back down the long driveway and onto the unkempt dirt road. While I was a bit offended by how I'd just been abandoned, I was not envious of the long journey ahead of him. It took us almost two hours to traverse that nasty road. I was sure we'd be left stranded at one point or another, a Prius is no off-roading vehicle.

The hybrid's tail lights disappeared amongst the dense forest. My attention turned to the rickety wooden cabin. This house was not what you would imagine it to be, it wasn't the picturesque idea people have when they think of a log cabin. I could see the structure had been through a lot. The logs were weathered, faded by the hot Montana summer and the icy winter winds. I could tell that everything used in its construction was sourced from the surrounding forest. Likewise, no modern amenities were visible, no power lines, fire hydrants, or even a satellite dish. I knew then it would be a duller summer than I'd imagined.

I lifted a hand to knock on the old door and stopped when I noticed a few deep scratch marks on its facade.

'Bears?' I thought to myself. An uneasy feeling that I was being watched from the pines came over me. I cocked my head in the direction of the tree line. It felt like something was calling me over to the woods. The door squealed open and I returned my gaze to the cabin.

In the passageway stood a grey-bearded man, the fibers in his beard long, greasy, and matted. His skin was old and weathered, I suspected the same reasoning as the cabin's. He looked at me through the grey film in his eyes. I'd never actually met Uncle Jerremy up until that point, but I'd heard stories about him from my father. My father had suffered the same fate as me the summer between seventh and eighth grade. He told me Uncle Jerremy was not a man to be trifled with.

"You listen to everything your Uncle Jerremy tells you, he is not a man you want to make angry." My father would lecture, but when I looked into the face of the withering man, I didn't sense an ounce of animosity. He almost seemed kind, nothing resembled the ferocity my father had mentioned.

"Hi, I'm Marcus." I outstretched my hand in the introduction but he slapped it away, before placing a hand over my mouth.

"Shhh-- we don't say names here!" He moved my head over to the side to make sure no one, or, nothing was listening. More of my father's description of my great-uncle came to mind.

"Uncle Jeremy is a bit-- strange, but he has your best interest in mind, try your best to ignore his lack of civility." His words were all starting to make sense now.

Uncle Jerremy ushered me into the cabin and I thought I heard him whisper my name, as he pushed me inside. That is until I turned to see the look of fear in his eyes. I knew then that the sound had drifted in on the early summer breeze, somewhere beyond the tree line. The hairs on the back of my neck stood.

"Is everything Okay Uncle Jerremy?" His open palm slapped my cheek as I spoke his name.

"Damn it, kid! I told you no names!" He said through gritted teeth before returning his gaze to the tree line. Almost like a dream, a faint voice slithered into the cabin.

"Jerrrreeemmmy." The voice called.

"What the hell is that?" I asked but received no reply. Uncle Jerremy quickly slammed the door shut.

"Rule number one, NO NAMES!" I dropped my gaze at his reprimand.

"Rule number two, if you hear something strange, leave-- it -- be. Ignore it! You hear me?" I ponder his instructions before moving to question his logic.

"W-Why?"

"Not another word on the matter, those are the rules. My only rules, you follow them or I'll send you back to your little life in Boise you hear me!?"

Just then my escape from homestead living became clear, break a few rules here and there and I'd be back in the Gem state. I tried not to smile at the plot that was formulating in my mind.

"Your room is down yonder." The old man pointed down a small hallway before leading me to it himself. We stepped into a small ten-by-ten room. I threw my backpack onto the bed and plopped down right beside it, giving a grunt of relief.

"What do you think you're doing kid? This isn't some luxurious mountain retreat." I eyed the crumbling wooden walls, 'The understatement of the century' I thought to myself.

"We have work to do", he moved to the window and pushed open the shutters taking in a lung full of pristine mountain air in the process. Beyond his gaze stood a two-acre clearing in the forest. A mix of fields, more comparable to glorified gardens, and livestock, chickens, goats, and one cow. He turned to me and noted my disappointed face.

"What you think this was a free ride? No, we work for our food here." He said with the first ounce of enjoyment I'd seen inch across his face. He pulled open a drawer on the nightstand.

"I placed these here for you before you got here." I peered into the drawer to find some old torn overalls.

"You put those on and meet me outside, there's a lot to get done around here. The faster we get it over with the faster we can have ourselves a nice supper.

Later that night I lay in bed unable to sleep. All of my muscles were aching. Uncle Jerremy was not lying; homestead living is not for the weak. We'd worked until the sun met the horizon, and this time of year in Montana, that was around 9:30 p.m.

We'd weeded the fields, fed the chickens, and milked the dairy cow whose name I found out to be Bessy, and done dozens upon dozens of other tasks that were not very enjoyable. The best thing about it was that Uncle Jerremy said we would do it all again the next day. I placed the pillow over my face hoping that it would suffocate me. I was a beat dog that needed to be put out of its misery. The warmth of the plush fabric seemed to comfort me a bit, so I left it there as the night slowly started to wash over me. Just as I was about to fall into an uneasy night of sleep, I heard scratching from the other side of the wall. It was coming from outside.

The sound was very faint. It almost reminded me of the time we had mice inside the walls back home, only these walls were not hollow, they were solid lumber. I moved the pillow off to the side making sure that nothing muted the scraping by my head.

'Scrape, scrape, scrape." The noise sounded rhythmic. As if someone was sending a message.

'Scratch, scratch, scratch." Whatever it was it was clawing deeper into the side of the cabin. The noisemaker was making the noise was too strong to be a mouse, a raccoon maybe. Then the sound intensified, to a loud ear-piercing screech, like someone clawing at an old chalkboard.

"Screech, Screech, Screech." I shot to a seated position. It must've been a bear. Montana Grizzlies scared the shit out of me, part of the reason why I'd never come to meet Uncle Jerremy in the first place. I heard the same faint whisper that had come from the tree line earlier that day, only this time instead of Uncle Jeremy's name, my name hissed through the cracks of the cabin.

"Maaaarccussss." I looked at the shutters on the window, and my heart dropped when I saw something slowly pulling them open.

"Uncle Jerremy!" I shouted. From down the hall, I heard a bedroom door smash open, followed by my room's door. Uncle Jerremy stood there holding his 22 in hand, his eyes meeting mine, before noticing the slowly creeping shutters. He leaned the gun on the wooden wall before running over to the shutters and forcing them closed. He quickly locked the latch before turning to me.

"Kid! I had two rules and you broke both of them the first night!" He shouted at me while I made sense of what just happened. I was hoping that the more my uncle talked the more the situation would clear up, but everything he said just made me more confused and frankly, terrified.

"Now you've done it, kid. It now knows our names, it's imprinted on us. You have no idea how hard it was to get rid of the last one."

'It? The last one?' I thought.

"Wha-- what are you talking about." I quivered.

"Never mind that, from now on you keep these shutters locked here?" He didn't have to tell me twice.

"The whole house is going to be locked down. And just so we're clear if you hear me calling your name, it ain't me!"

'What the hell, what else could it be?' I thought before I opened my mouth to ask a clarifying question.

"What is-- it?" I said.

"What's my second rule!?" My uncle commanded. I pondered for a bit, before responding.

"If I see something, leave it be."

"That's right! Leave-- it -- be. No more of this, we will not talk about it anymore, it will only encourage it. Suddenly I no longer wanted to go through with my plot to get Uncle Jerremy to send me home.

The next morning after breakfast, Uncle Jerremy and I stepped outside to inspect the side of the wall where the noise was coming from. Uncle Jerremy touted a gun belt today, a magnum revolver in its sheath.

When we gazed at the marks on the wall I was sure that no grizzly had created the noise. These scratches were not random like the ones on the door. No, these markings were indeed a message. Drawn on the wooden logs was a cryptic symbol, a circle with three jagged lines drawn through it. On top of this circle were two names. Jeremy and Marcus. I gulped as Uncle Jeremy got a closer look. He gave a nervous chuckle.

"He'll be back tonight." He said in a tone that desiring itself to be false. My stomach fluttered in fear.

Bessy, the dairy cow, gave an agonizing Moo. I could tell that something was bothering her. Uncle Jeremy turned with a sad look on his face. He took to his feet and walked his way over to the cow. When he was feet away from her he took to one knee.

"It's already begun." I looked over his shoulder and my mouth dropped when I saw the sight of gore that still torments me to this day. Bessy's Udders were mutilated, flesh hanging off of each of the protrusions, and flies feasting on her fresh wounds as blood mixed with milk.

"Poor Bessy." Uncle Jeremy said. I could tell that seeing his cow suffer made him emotional. I moved to comfort him but before my hand could grace his shoulder, he stood. He Unholstered the magnum and pointed it at Bessy's head. One shot rang out as every bird in the vicinity took flight.

Bessy was dead. She now lay in a pool of blood and brain matter. Uncle Jeremy wiped away some tears, before turning around and walking briskly back to the cabin.

"Come on kid, we have to get ready." I knew that we were heading for some kind of battle.

When the night fell on the cabin that day, Uncle Jeremy and I did not talk. We had barricaded ourselves and all of the livestock inside the little cabin. A total of 22 chickens, 7 goats, and a variety of domesticated geese. He'd thrust a rifle in my hand and give me instructions on how to shoot, though he said not to use it unless something happened to him.

For the most part, the night was quiet, the chickens and geese had roosted for the night, and the goats had lost the excitement of being in a new environment. They now huddled together in a corner of the living room. I would almost say it was peaceful. Until every animal began screeching at the top of their lungs.

The birds flocked around the house. The goats erupted in a panic, running around trying to find any hiding place they could, most now cowered under the dining room table. Almost as quickly as the commotion began, it all quieted down. I looked at Uncle Jeremy in bewilderment, but the look in his eye told me he'd seen all of this before. His eyes trained on the door. A familiar sound slid across the other side, it was the scratching that we'd heard the night before. In the same fashion, the scratching intensified before it erupted into a frenzy of banging.

I eyed the door as the latch struggled to keep whatever was on the other side out. A voice soon followed suit.

"Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy. Oh, Uncle Jeremy." It sounded like me. For some reason whatever was on the other side was using my voice as bait. The voice changed to that of Uncle Jeremy's.

"Marcus. Open the door, Marcus." Uncle Jeremy looked at me before raising his revolver to the door. One shot rang out and the sound of something hitting the floor was evident from our vantage point. My Uncle took to his feet and made his way over to the door, revolver at the ready. I wanted to tell him to stay put but couldn't find the courage.

He opened the top latch, followed by the bottom. The door cautiously creeked open and Uncle Jeremy peered out of the small crack. I will remember the words that came from his mouth for the rest of my life.

"Oh, shit."

Suddenly a clawed hand reached through the small crack in the door and pulled him from the comforts of the cabin. I heard screams but wasn't sure if they belonged to Uncle Jeremy, or, the thing impersonating him. Everything went quiet and I wrestled with the idea of seeing what the outcome of the skirmish was. Just then I heard a voice that brought me a mountain of relief.

"It's Okay kid. I got him." I heard Uncle Jeremy grunt as he seemingly took to his feet from the other side of the door. But as the door slowly swung open, my heart dropped.

It wasn't my uncle. It was the creature that had taken him. Its body was tall and skinny, its skin pale, and its face, well it had no face, just a plain identity. But as it stood there and turned in my direction, a mouth began to part. Skin sticking to its upper and lower jaws like large wads of gum, until they eventually gave way to sharp teeth. It spoke one more time in my uncle's voice.

"Marcus." It took to a sprint and when it was just feet from me, a revolver round spat out. The creature flopped to the floor in a green pool of blood. Standing at the door was my injured Uncle Jeremy.

After that night I had no problems following any of Uncle Jeremy's rules, no matter how arbitrary they were. We worked his homestead all summer and I never mentioned his name again. I was never one for the rules but in this instance, I was not going to summon another creature. Although I would see things dart beyond the tree line I never mentioned them. At the end of the summer, I was adamant that I would never spend another day with my Uncle Jeremy, A model citizen through and through.

"When you've created something great,

You simply cannot wait,

No payment do you seek,

As you share the best for free!"

This I'd like on my tombstone, as I realized it summarizes both my attitude and all that I love in this world. Do I hate the failures and the atrocities of Man? I cannot say I feel hate, for I am overwhelmed by a love for the good that I have quested for and found. I've found that hate is the manifestation of weakness.

I don't have to hate my enemies to destroy them.

It is my love for you that teaches me all about you. It is with love that shall I comfort you as I lead you to the pasture; where I shall lay you to rest. It was with love in my heart that I said goodbye, and in an instant, I silenced your pain. Perhaps in some way, I hated the sickness in your mind that afflicted you - but I did not hate you.

Later, I did not even hate that sickness that gave me a reason to destroy you. I grew to understand what had made you sick, and I learned the nature of this thing. In my learning I felt joy, and the hate was gone, no more weakness.

That, my friend, I shall cure you and others like you. I do not hate you, and it gives me joy to release you from your suffering, and to prevent the spread of your affliction.

Perhaps this is hard to understand. I shall give an example, a story my grandmother told me, when I was young.

When she was a little girl, they had a dog named Champ. Champ was a good dog, he was brave and cunning, and he knew when to bark and when to stand proudly and stare. He was a very good boy.

Once, Champ protected a kitten from two stray dogs. Champ was very protective of small animals, although he did like to chase rabbits, he never caught one. This kitten had wandered out of the barn while two stray dogs had come across the pasture.

After the fight, Champ got sick. Something in those dogs he had driven off, had gotten into him through a bite. Champ changed, and he was very sorry, but he couldn't help it. The bite had made him so sick that he went mad.

So, Great-grandfather took Champ out into the field and sat with him while the sun was setting. Then, while Champ was having his last moment of peace, there was a single gunshot to the back of his head. They buried him in the dark - under starlight - and reminded each other that Champ was still a very good boy, although near the end he had gotten quite rancorous.

It might be hard for others to see that you were once a very good boy, but I know you. I love you and I have watched you, and I recognize that you too were bitten, in a way. There is no cure for the sickness in you, except to kill you, but that does not mean that I hate you.

Please don't feel that way, is all I ask of you. You are loved, at least by me. That is why it is my duty to take you to the pasture, and put an end to the suffering you are causing, especially your own suffering.

I doubt you are afraid to die, not you. You've seen too much of death to really actually fear it. No, you are afraid that we will hate you, that is what worries you. Don't worry, I don't have to tell anyone what you did. I don't have to say what Champ did, do I?

We all love Champ, for he was a very good boy. And when I tell your story, they will all love you, too. You were, after all, a very good boy.

I noticed that you were discriminating when you chose who you would use your skills on. I am the same way, I always choose the ones who will not be caught, the ones who don't accept that they won't feel hated. I don't feel hated, and I don't wish for you to feel that way either.

I believe everyone deserves to be loved. It is just a very special kind of love that is reserved for one such as you. Yes, there were others before you, and there will be more after you, but you are still special to me. The term 'serial' doesn't exactly work, because each is unique and special. You're not like the rest, I've never seen one like you before. You took special planning and consideration before I could catch you.

I cannot make your death the same as any before you, you understand. There is no 'bullet to the back of the head' or 'pasture at sunset'. That is how a dog was killed, not how you are meant to go. I wouldn't even consider something so simple for you, as you deserve so much better.

In the past I've used all sorts of methods, but there is one common theme. I never get caught because I don't actually do it to you myself. No, my method of operation is the same in one regard: I compel you to do it to yourself.

This way you get to choose the exact way, the fine details. It works so much better when you are happy with the results. I want you to have a hand in these decisions, I want you to be a part of this. We'll work on it together. Consider me more of a loving, angelic kind of guide - confirmation that God loves you and that you are part of the Plan. You do believe in God, it is the one thing that you and I and the ones I've already killed all have in common.

Serial killers are never atheists. That would be silly, a fine artist like yourself - not believing in God. You know there's a God, and it is so beautiful that you are so wise. I mean it, to know that God exists, without a doubt, that is the providence of saints.

Whole congregations with all their faith combined are not as certain as you and I. It is just one more thing I love about you. God, you are so beautiful. I get lost in the wonder that you have wrought. To the rest of the world, you are perhaps nothing more than a murderer, a psychopath, a sadist and worse, but I know better. I know you.

It takes one to know one, they say, and that is why you know my love for you is genuine. I take everyone's life, sooner or later, as God's messenger. Yes, eventually I orchestrate the death of every person, often with some care. Your death, however, must be very special.

I was there each time you took a life, as you must realize. You are quite intelligent, and you are starting to understand me, as I understand you. I could simply snap my finger and cause your heart to stop beating. Sometimes when I am in a hurry, and nobody is around anyway, that's how I take them. Sometimes I make it look peaceful, by stopping the flow of blood to their brain, when they are old and in bed, and they just go peacefully. Kinda boring, but I like to keep things neat for most people.

When you took someone's life, you were playing at me. You had my power over life and death. You did it quite often and you were exceptionally good at it. They never caught you, and they never will. I don't really catch you, I just sort of come to you, like this, and let you know it is time. It is your time, your turn, your big special moment.

And my grandmother, you might ask? Was I ever human? I am in all humans, but that one was my favorite. I was that person, all their life, and I am also you - or rather you were me. When you are gone from this world, you'll have an eternity to contemplate what your life was all about.

For some people this is a reward.

For others - eternal torment, punishment. The horror of their life is their lonely eternity.

It is for you to choose, at this moment, what sort of eternity you shall have, in a few moments. If you do things my way, you'll be quite happy. Or you can reject my love for you, and find yourself all alone, feeling that hate - from a most peculiar and unexpected source, as you realize you were never me, and that you are just you, after all. I don't want you to suffer, so I am giving you this one opportunity to be me, one last time, take the power from me and by your own hand do this one very special thing.

I'd like you to take that gas nozzle you are filling your car with, and soak yourself: your hair and clothing. Then, return the nozzle to the holster, accept the receipt and walk out into that quiet and dark street.

There, you shall use your lighter on the gasoline receipt and set yourself ablaze.

Good boy, Champ, good.

Cycle of the Warlock:

Nobody believes me, although I've never lied about anything. This is worse than being taken from my home by Darmem Stonewell. Yes, he is the same as the new boy in our class, Darren Rockwell. He is a liar and a kidnapper - and a warlock.

I was Lamb, and I lived in terror, in darkness, in hunger. I thought he was going to kill me, but instead, his plans were so much more terrible. I now live in a nightmare, although I have returned to my family and to school.

That is why I do not want to go to Mrs. Peachtree's class today. That is why I do not want to go to school. Darren sits behind me, and I can hear him whispering: "I am watching you, Lucy. You are my little Lamb, and you are mine. You are always mine, and nobody can take you from me."

His power over me is somehow incomplete, because I can see who he is. I know he controls everyone around me, because my teacher and my parents and my friends think he is a perfect little boy, and force me to sit with him whenever and wherever he wants me to sit. They only see a kid who shares his lunch and his smile and is so polite and kind.

He is such a liar, so fake. I know he is evil and I know he is really Darmem Stonewell, Dr. Germaine and also Dane Radcliff. He is all those people, somehow. I would know best how he does it, how he becomes young again, and lives another life, and can disguise himself to be both a student, a soccer coach and a psychiatrist.

They think I am traumatized and they medicate me. It only makes my head more clear, it only eradicates my emotions and let's me tell my story. I have a dictionary and a friend, in Domo Aria Gato Sans, my cat. A side effect of my medication lets me write like a grown-up, late at night, as long as I keep eating sugar. My head is so lucid, and my thumbs quick on the page to find the words. I am not alone, my cat sits with me, and when I cannot express myself, I can hear his thoughts, like he sounds like Morgan Freeman, and I know how to express myself when he says what to say.

We'll just call my cat Dags for short, since that is one of his three names. His other name is a secret name, and that is known only to me and to him. That way Darmem Stonewell cannot cast a spell on my cat. He needs your name to use his witchcraft on you, it is part of the spell.

My father signed me up for soccer and Dane Radcliff was our coach. He watched me with the focused gaze of a predator, and I felt his eyes all over my body while I exercised. I knew something was wrong, but I couldn't explain what it was. It was just this dirty and uncomfortable sensation. Like someone is watching you.

It wasn't until winter, when soccer ended, that my mom, a soccer mom, finally agreed with me that our coach was weird. That's all she said, that he was weird. It took her too long, and it was too little, but for just one moment, I felt safe, like she would listen to me.

I'd had premonitions about what his plans were for me, and I told her I needed protection. She laughed and said that our security system at home was sufficient. So, her home was safe from burglary, but I didn't see how that was going to keep me safe - when I kept seeing him outside, watching me.

I'd pull back my curtains, half asleep. I'd wake up, answering to his voice, commanding me. There he was, outside, looking at me. He didn't need to come in. I tried to say he was stalking me, but there was no evidence, he was never seen by anyone else. I'd wake up my parents and after enough false alarms, they stopped believing me.

That is when he took me from them.

I woke up one night and he was in our house. He was holding a strange candelabra with sparking green light dripping from the fleshy wax. It smelled of the grave, an earthy and fetid smell. There was this nascent emotion in me, where I could only stare, dreamlike, entranced. His maliferous grin was one of sadistic victory.

He gestured and I stood in my pajamas. My cat was hiding, unable to protect me. My parents lay scattered where they had responded to his intrusion, falling to the floor as he waved his magic candle at them. It cast no shadows, or it cast a shadow, rather than light, this eerie and weird glow. The smell of it was due to its composition of a severed hand, the fingertips burning with the flames of the grave, and its power even worked on the neighborhood security who responded to the alarum-call, only to fall asleep amid the sprinklers of our lawn.

And then he touched me for the first time, and pain shot through my body. He roughly handled me into his car, into the backseat. He buckled my waist, and lay me down back there, telling me to sleep. Then I slept, and when I was awake again, I was in a bedroom, with one of my hands wrapped in tight cushioning and handcuffed to the iron bedframe. He'd undressed me and changed me into a diaper and nightgown.

Darmem entered the room and looked at me with satisfaction.

"Lamb, you are. Lucy waits. You will obey me. This is a phial, and you will choose to imbibe it, and in thirteen days and nights you will consist the sacrifice. One death brings new life. I am grateful to have found a pure maiden, who has never told a lie. You are exceptionally rare these days. Some men think that all women lie, but I know better. Bless you and keep you in His grace, my dear, and you shall be cleansed."

"I lie all the time." I tried to tell a lie, hoping it would ruin his spell. I was unable to speak, my words went into a silence and he smiled, his trickery absolute.

"In my home, you will obey my rules. You will not speak - you cannot lie." Darmem Stonewell informed me. He made a gesture and an old book appeared in his hand. The title was Calendoer, and it was someone's diary. Even a wise and ancient warlock needed a guide. He read something from it and then closed the book again, and it vanished into his wizardly robes.

"I recognize you. You're my soccer coach." I tried to say. He nodded, as though he could read my mind.

"You know me, but it won't give you power over me. Nobody else has ever recognized me. It means nothing, to be recognized." He shrugged, but I sensed he had a doubt. He wasn't sure how I knew he was the same person. Perhaps it was my purity, perhaps I was too pure.

"Liars beget liars. I don't even lie to myself." I claimed. This seemed to bother him, as though he could still hear me, although I was muted. He shrugged and left me there.

For nearly two weeks he kept me his prisoner, attached to the bed. He changed my diaper and he put a leash and collar on me and took me to an old iron bath and washed me in salts and oils, cleansing me. He cast spells that sounded like prayers over me, and I was subdued. I couldn't resist him, I felt like I had to do what he wanted.

Every day he seemed to wither and grow weaker, until the thirteenth sunrise, and sunset, the final day of my terrifying ordeal. I was truly frightened, as I believed he was going to sacrifice me. I thought the wavy knife he kept, his athame, was meant to slaughter me in the chamber he had prepared in his basement.

I shook with fear, completely under his power, but filled with dread. I wore a white dress, and he showed me to myself in a mirror ringed in black wood, carved and embedded with white silver. I looked different, angelic, and for a moment I admired my reflection. I did look very beautiful. On my head he placed a crown made of braided daisies which he had carefully woven.

"This will protect you, and nothing in that chamber will be able to claim you. You must remain pure, or my work will be undone. You must not utter, you must not falter, and your innocence must be guarded. Without your surgery, I might not be restored." He spoke strangely, almost protectively about me. I was still afraid, and I still thought he was going to kill me.

No, his plans were far more terrifying, for he planned to leave me alive - and in a kind of Hell, a nightmare, a prisoner of his terror forever. So much worse than death, for death would have set me free of his power over me. Death would be the end, but it just goes on and on.

I cannot recall what happened in that chamber, but my raven hair grew brittle and white, at what I saw. Demons danced in the shadows, summoned to his resurrection. It was a cruel ritual, and I was the priestess of the abomination. I became his executioner and his midwife, all with the knife and the way. I knew the way, it was his way, and I moved to the rhythm, merely a component of his spell.

"It is love that binds us. My teacher wrote that I would recognize her for her honesty. He said nothing about she who would recognize me. I must be under your power, for the final day of this life, and you will bring me into the next. Our fate is now intertwined. I must belong to you, or else you do not belong to me. Love is a chain, fate, and the place where our souls touch. That is what you must choose to do. If your will is violated, I cannot come forth. Leave me not in the darkness. Recognize me, and know my name, here in this darkness." He said as he sipped the phial.

He handed it to me and I drank the rest, unsure if I chose to do so or not.

Then it was he who lay upon the altar. "I am ready." He breathed, trembling.

I lifted the knife and somehow there was no blood, as I opened him up. Instead, the darkened chamber filled with light. Then there was a void beyond. It was in front of me, and all around me, and within me. The light coming out of him was in me, and fading. I felt its pain and its terror, slipping into the darkness beyond.

Despite what he had done to me, I felt sorry for him, seeing where he was going. I pitied his fading light, as it descended. It clung to me, like a newborn, helpless. I watched as he began to fall away from me, and I saw how he was part of me, and I a part of him. It pained me to know that if I did nothing, he would be lost forever in that eternal shadow, and he would cease to be.

Although I was shaking with fear, and although I have only a vague memory of how and why I did what I did, I reached out, with my mind, my heart, my soul. Whatever part of me reached for him, it was my own will. In that moment his spell over me was broken and I was free. I could have let him descend into that abyss, I could have let him go. Something in me did not wish that, it felt evil to let him go there, like what was beyond, those hungry dancing demons who had celebrated before his fall, like I would be feeding him to them.

It felt wrong, like casting a baby into the flames.

For thirteen days he had eaten nothing, only drinking water. His body was purified.

For thirteen nights he had slept in wrappings so that he could not move, and only at the light of dawn did these bindings fall away. His heart was purified.

For thirteen baths, he had cleansed me in a sacred pool, and made me whole, so that I could not hate him. His soul was purified.

He had explained this to me, and in my fear of him I had not understood. I reached for him, with my willpower, with my love - like a mother's love. I pulled his soul from the shadow, and set it neatly where his body lay restored, youthful, a heart cleansed, beating yet again. There I left him, taking off the flowery crown as I climbed the stairs.

I unlocked the front door and went outside, finding the warm sun on my face, my tears of relief only a moment of freedom. I didn't know that the horror of my world had only just begun. He would never let me go, and I had made him powerful again, all his charm and abilities restored to full.

He lets nothing go. I would tell foul lies, I would speak curses, but I cannot. I am the opposite of him, and I am in fear of becoming his entirely. As long as I remain unlike him, as long as I am the truth, he cannot get any closer, cannot follow me into the next life.

For I know the way, and I shall live again.

Caitlin was a mischievous child.  When she was just 2, she was able to climb out of her crib, crawl down the stairs, open the freezer, and pull out the ice cream.  She was even able to find a spoon and crawl into a closet to avoid the authorities.  Perhaps to her benefit, she was often foiled in her heist, unable to open the top and get that creamy goodness.  When she was 5, she’d figured out the near infinite complexities of the TV remote, enabling her to navigate to her favorite shows, which included Sponge-Bob, Uncle-Grandpa, and the multitude of Saw movies, which she preferred to The Purge.  This invariably followed her into the evening where she revisited all the finer details in her high-definition nightmare. 

Her parents were, generally speaking, not the best.  They patted themselves on the back as successful parents for putting food on her plate, not leaving her in the hot car, and keeping her away from the toolshed.  Beyond that, they didn’t win too many Adulting awards.  However, after she’d managed to crawl into their bed for the third time in a week, they began strategizing a solution.  Obviously, simply not watching the terribly inappropriate and terrifyingly scary shows was no longer an option.  So, they researched the problem and found an unlikely article recommending lucid dreams.  That evening, before bed, they sat her down and explained it to her.  “You can control your nightmares if you can wake up inside of them.”  

Caitlin didn’t know what her parents meant, but she did trust them.  She thought about it into the evening as her eyes grew heavier.  Then she was there, in a dark cave at the top of a cliff.  Deep in the cave was a spider and it was crawling out, pushing her towards the edge.  She was so scared.  She couldn’t think about anything except the terror and … something nudged at the back of her mind.  Suddenly she remembered what her parents said, and that was it.  She was suddenly awake within her dream.  She pushed the spider back into the cave with her mind.  The cave collapsed and she was falling.  She screamed but then remembered, she can control it.  So, she started flying.  The monster came from the shadow and started following her.  She made it her pet.

Caitlin loved her dreams.  The worse they were, the better.  Her parents began to offer her horror movies because they kept her so calm.  She was excited to go to bed and to fall deep into her dreams where she was a god, and anything could happen.  She was happy.  

Years went by and Caitlin’s childhood gave way to other thoughts and pursuits.  Her evening nightmares gave way to dreams of romance.  Her nightmares were more focused on the real world… bills, rumors, health.  She was still young when she got her first seizure.  She was taken to the doctor where she was diagnosed with a rare degenerative disease.  It began like Epilepsy, but the disease would spiral out of control over time.  She would be dead within the year.  

The seizures were scary.  She’d shake, and then… nothing.  She’d wake up seconds later on the ground.  People were staring at her and strangers were approaching.  Time passed and she woke up minutes later, with people holding her.  Sometimes she’d have clothing in her mouth to keep her from biting her tongue.  She had no memory of it.  More time passed and she’d wake up hours later.  She was in the hospital now.  Sensors covered her body, a tube was down her throat, she had a catheter.  Again, she had no memory, no dreams, no loneliness, and not even a memory of darkness.  There was nothing human in it; nothing conscious.  She imagined that this is what death would bring.  Cold empty nonexistence where time didn’t exist.  She thought about it a lot.  

She was in the park.  She thought about the seizures.  She focused on the fainting, and about snapping out of it.  Her mind drifted back to her childhood fears.  She remembered that first night, that first dream.  And then, as she felt the seizure coming, she remembered the feeling.  She remembered taking control.  Darkness… Nothing… Snap… she was awake.

Caitlin was looking at herself.  She saw the people around her begin to panic.  She saw the ambulance come and take her body to the hospital.  She followed.  She found herself in a bed.  The doctor was there talking to her parents.  They were talking about her.  She didn’t have long now.  She felt her heart race.  She felt the panic.  She heard the voice of the child inside her that said she could change it, manipulate it, even control it.  Her feet left the ground.  She reached into herself, and she pulled the malignant mass from her skull.  It evaporated into nothingness.  She saw her body tense, then relax.  She saw the doctors scramble to understand the readings from the many sensors hooked to her body.  She laid down within herself and she awoke.

Caitlin lived a prosperous and wondrous life.  Those around her had the best of luck.  Odd things happened everywhere she went.  Illness faded in moments.  Financial issues disappeared overnight.  People were happy.  The years grew long, and death approached.  Still Caitlin wasn’t scared.  She was familiar with the silent emptiness, the nothingness… she knew it could be overcome.  She knew the truth about lucid dreams.

It was that time again. Sometime around midnight, I think. The ‬outside was silent, save for the sound of a passing train in the distance, its whistle sounding like a lonesome cry in the dark. I live alone now, in a house far too large for my cat and me. It sits on an acre and a half of forest in suburban Connecticut. The other residents of the neighbourhood are on similarly sized parcels of land. Distant enough from one another that each house might as well be the last on Earth.

I like my quiet.

I like my solitude.

I wasn’t always such an introvert.

I was startled awake by some nameless horror. A mental monstrosity that vanished the second I opened my eyes. The sweat from my brow mixed with something else on my face. Tears. My eyes stung, and my cheeks were damp.

‘Damn it,’ I thought to myself.

I knew I'd been dreaming about him again. Glancing over at his side of the bed as I absentmindedly reached for the prescription bottles of Klonopin & Seroquel on my nightstand. Those, as well as weekly visits to my psychiatrist, were part of this thing called ‘grief therapy’. It wasn't working.

His side of the bed was empty. Why wouldn’t it be? He had been dead and gone over a year. I hadn’t washed his pillowcases since the incident. I didn’t want to lose his scent from them. Usually, his aroma brought comfort. On this night, however, it made the memories more piercingly vivid and painful.

Even after all of this time, more often than not, I can feel him. His presence. It ebbs and flows during the day. He falters but never flees. Every so often, I catch glimpses of him in my periphery. A spectral form that hides as soon as I turn to face it.

Some find it comforting to see their late loved ones. However, on this unsettling night, I'd reached a point at which the sightings left me with an uneasy knot in my gut. All at once, I felt the need to get out of there. Out of that house.

I made a decision.

I cleaned up, then I slipped into my Iron Heart jeans, a green Momotaro t-shirt, and a pair of boots. Hastily, I threw clothes, toiletries, and pills into a backpack, before hurrying out of the house. As I was about to shut the front door behind me, I heard a meagre meow.

Sasha.

Our... My tortoiseshell cat, adopted from the Humane Society, was looking at me quizzically. Sighing, I went back inside, put down my backpack, and gathered her travel kit. Beneath that sigh, however, there was relief. I didn't want to be alone. Not really.

I headed north on the I-95 towards Maine. I really didn’t have a clue as to where I was going, but I was put at ease by both the drive and the sound of Sasha’s purr-snores, underscoring Chris Rea’s “Looking For Summer”.

Until the memories resurfaced. The cold ones. The fighting, the yelling, the sobbing, and the cheating. MY cheating. Where did the good memories go?

My stomach growled as though it were empty, and I wasn't sure whether I'd eaten that evening. I hadn't had an appetite for a long time. I was more concerned with feeding Sasha than myself. And she'd been woken, either by my restless murmuring or groaning belly. The bundle of fur regarded me with a look that asked, “What’s up, Papa?”

Then my belly growled again with surprising intensity. I needed to find a place to stop, eat, and rest.

'Come to think of it, I have no idea where I've gone,' I suddenly mumbled to myself.

Not a bar of service on my phone. Not a hint of direction from my GPS. The onboard navigation seemed to be frozen. And the road was approaching a bend, but I did not recall exiting the highway. I started to slow down as an imposing structure became visible. In the midst of trees and fog, it reminded me of a haunted manor from some work of fiction. Unlike something King would conjure, however, this building was beautifully maintained and nicely lit. In bold, timeless lettering, a plaque on the front of the building read: The Whispering Willows Inn.

I parked and took a moment to collect my breath. Then I grabbed my backpack, used treats to lure Sasha into her carrier, and made my way to the entrance. I recall wondering whether this place would have an issue with pets, but that thought was interrupted by the parting of two oak doors. A man, or teenager, stepped outside to smile warmly at me. It was hard to place his age, as he seemed neither young nor old.

“Good evening... Er, morning,” I said, attempting a smile.

The man said nothing in response, but nodded and smiled back. It wasn’t one of those false, polite smiles. It was warm and reached his eyes. A smile that lowered my guard. I made my way through the deceptively large lobby, stepping on lightly coloured hardwood floors. As we strolled towards the reception desk, I took note of the Hotel’s decor.

Is it Art Deco? Belle Époque? Something else entirely, no doubt. Björn would have known. He knew so much.

‘Back in 8 minutes’, read the hastily scrawled sign behind the main desk. Its haphazard appearance seemed at odds with the immaculate aesthetic of the lobby. And when I turned around, I found that the man had disappeared. I was certain he'd been following me.

After waiting about 10 minutes, I pushed the button to try and speak to someone. Uncharacteristically, Sasha was snoozing. I would've liked her company, as I suddenly felt very alone. Gone was the comforting ambience of the room. Then the sound of a staticky crackle jolted me to attention.

“Erm, hello?” I ventured tentatively.

“Good evening, sir,” Came a woman’s voice from the speaker.

She spoke with an accent I couldn’t quite place.

“I think... I mean, I’d like a room for the night please. I may extend my stay in the morning for a day or two more. I don’t know yet. Oh, also, I have my cat with me. She’s really well trained and won’t be a bother...” I promised.

I found myself rambling at that point, flustered and unsure as to why.

“Very good, Mr. Oxenstierna,” The mysterious woman said. “We have you in Room 222 on the second floor. Sasha is more than welcome here. Please don’t hesitate to contact the concierge, should you need anything, and enjoy your stay with us.”

The late hour and lack of food was getting to me. I didn’t initially notice the voice pronounced my Swedish surname flawlessly. Barely noticed her name my cat either. But the cogs were starting to turn.

“Did I even tell you my... Never mind. Don’t you need my ID? A credit card? Something?” I asked, somewhat rattled and disoriented.

“No need, Mr. Oxenstierna. It’s late. We'll sort everything in the morning.”

A crackle followed before I managed to respond, and the conversation ended.

'That was odd,' I muttered to myself.

The Vanishing Concierge reappeared and escorted me to the elevator. I didn't ask where he'd gone. I wasn't sure I would've liked the answer. When the doors opened, the man handed me what I presumed was my room key. Heavy, old-fashioned, and made of iron. It had the number “222” etched elegantly at its base.

And when I arrived at Room 222, I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was perfect. Not too big. Not too small. Dark, hardwood floors. A nicely sized Persian rug. A double bed. Even a dressing table.

“Ok, Sashers. Let’s get you situated,” I said to my cat.

As I busied myself with setting up her litterbox and dishes, Sasha happily left her carrier and made herself comfortable at the foot of the bed. I joined her, perching at the edge of the bed and kicking off my boots. Finally feeling, having fled from my haunted home, peaceful. Finally enjoying a moment of silence.

Silence broken by a voice which snarled beside my ear.

“What the Hell are you doing here?”

I screamed and tumbled off the bed.

It wasn’t just a voice. It was his voice.

“Fuck. I’m losing it,” I told myself, panting heavily.

I reached for my backpack and fished out my meds. There were two bottles. In one bottle was Seroquel. An anti-psychotic prescribed to me by my Ivy League shrink. An integral part of my ‘Grief Management’, supposedly. And in the other bottle was Klonopin. Something to alleviate my anxiety.

"To take the edge off," The doctor said.

Both were part of ‘The Programme’. Both were supposed to lessen my grief and anger at the world. At happy fucking couples that passed me on the way to and from work. At everybody and their merry existences. One 100mg tablet of the Seroquel was supposed to conk me out. The Klonopin wasn’ttechnically supposed to be used in conjunction with the Seroquel before bed, but I no longer gave a fuck.

Again, the 100mg of Seroquel should have been enough to wipe me out. This time, it wasn’t.

“Are you really doing this?”

His voice again. Right in front of me.

“Fuck you,” I said, swallowing both pills down dry. And then some more.

I'd increased the doctor's dosage from one pill to two pills. I was considering upping my dosage to three. I didn't want to get better. I wanted numbness. Total oblivion.

Of course, I'd developed a tolerance. I was struggling to sleep easily. So, I started adding Klonopin that I obtained from an offshore online “pharmacy” without telling my doctor. I knew he would only insist I stop, and blending the two actually helped me find some sleep here and there.

On this strange night, in an unnerving hotel, my stomach somersaulted. It did not approve of being filled with the last few pills in those bottles. It didn't have the usual effect. I felt nauseated, not restful. I was losing control of my motor functions. I may have thrown up, but I don’t remember. The next thing I recall is lying face-down on my hotel room floor. Sasha circled me, voicing her concern with a sharp series of meows.

I felt as if I were being pulled underwater. Pulled into a realm of my subconscious that I'd never seen before. I may have shit myself too, but I barely cognisant of my physical form. I walked a tightrope between two worlds, barely keeping my balance. Barely wanting to keep my balance. I was so, so tired. But something in my gut told me if I were to succumb to the ‘sleep’, I wouldn’t wake again.

Not this time.

I was beyond exhausted. Every inch of my body, mind and spirit became chilled as I decided to stop fighting and let myself drift away into a dreamy, swirling darkness.

There were no sounds.

There was no light.

There was nothing.

“Am I dead?” I thought. “Is this purgatory?”

Room 222 faded, and I found myself standing somewhere else. Staring at an empty landscape with only one building in view. My body was suspended in a place not meant for the living. And the structure ahead appeared like some mutated, deformed version of The Whispering Willows Inn. A building half-claimed by the black, unnatural vines rising up from the underworld. I was seeing the true face of the inn, which had always lurked beneath its pretty demeanour. I understood at long last. Understood that the hotel had drawn me into its depths. Sensed my willingness to leave the real world. And it was welcoming me with open arms. Something dark. Something from another realm. And in the doorway at the back of my subconscious, I saw him. The concierge. A tall figure beckoning me into his world. Offering to introduce me to the woman behind the speaker. The silhouette revealed in the top window of the house.

The only things that seemed to permeate the murkiness of this realm were the cold and the quiet. That bitter kind of cold that cuts into your bones and settles into the marrow. And in that quiet, offering only a slight crackle in the distance, I heard him again. Rising to be heard over the static of the woman behind the speaker. The woman whose hotel had enticed me with its warm lights. Tricked me into stepping from one dimension into another.

“Why are you here?” He asked, his voice angry.

“I’m imagining this. You’re not real,” I said, speaking more to myself than Björn.

“You always ran away,” He said.

“I... I couldn’t be around you after the cheating. You… You didn’t even bother trying to hide it,” I sobbed, finding the strength to stand.

I was trying to rid my sight of the hotel in my mind's eye. Break free from that awful plane between existences. Return myself to Room 222. Return myself to Earth before slipping into the other realm forever.

“You ran away,” He repeated. “I needed you, and you ran away.”

He started to coalesce into view. And it no longer felt like the medication. Not even sleep-deprivation. It was real. I'd felt it when I first stepped into the hotel. Felt that this was a bridge between existences. And I was staring through a window into the afterlife. Staring at Björn.

“What the...” I stammered, backing away from the apparition.

“You ran away.”

He was solidifying, appearing as I remembered him. Tall, blond, and handsome.

“No...” I whispered, continuing to back away as my husband advanced.

The colours of the demonic realm started to swirl, revealing glimmers of Room 222 again. I tried to clutch to that world. Tried desperately to return to the comfort of my bed. Of Sasha. Of anything that belonged to reality.

“That’s not... That isn’t...” I stammered, burying my hands in my face as he reached for me.

“You don't want to follow them,” He whispered, drawing my attention away from the terrifying concierge and the woman in the window. "They won't take you to me. They'll take you somewhere worse."

I whimpered. "I... I don't..."

"Please stop running from the world," He begged. "You still belong there."

He took me in his arms, and that coldness dissipated. It was replaced with warmth. Replaced with something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Love. It was a welcome respite from the unrelenting grief. More medicinal than all of the drugs in the world.

After an eternity in that loving embrace, I felt at peace. Felt devoid of fury and fear. The emotions I'd been enduring for over a year, long before Björn even died. Doctors blamed an ‘aneurysm’ for his death. I blamed the universe. Blamed it for taking such a strong man from the world. My foothold in life.

And that immovable man was right. I had been running.

For a year, I had been adrift in a vast nothingness. It was so cold. So warm. To me, it stretched endlessly. Offered far more than the haunting hotel in the centre. I believed the concierge and the woman. Felt that something greater awaited. A paradise with Björn. We wouldn't be parted ever again. But it was a lie. I wasn’t able to form coherent thoughts in this state. I wasn't real.

In the periphery of my hearing, there came two quiet words.

“Wake up.”

Startled, I could feel my senses beginning to regain their function.

Again. Louder.

“Wake up.”

Feeling strength and coherence return to my mind, I paid attention to his voice over the static of the woman behind the speaker. The air felt colder. Felt autumnal again. I was returning to Room 222.

“Wake up!”

I opened my eyes. Groggy, semi-functional, and fully aware. My head was throbbing. I sat cross-legged on the floor. Despite the chill, sweat darkened my shirt, and it clung to my body. I could see my breath like smoke before me. And standing over me was him. Not in that demonic world of the alternate inn. No. This was Room 222. This was reality. And he was there. As clearly as I was there.

Björn.

The man smiled at me, his image dissipating as Sasha looked me up and down. She looked at him for a moment too. Meowed in a mixture of shock and joy. She saw him. I know she did. Just as I know she was looking at me with a mixture of worry, relief, and comfort on her fuzzy visage.

While picking Sasha up and putting her on the bed, I caught myself beaming. And to my surprise, I didn't flee the inn. Didn't fear the concierge and the woman. Not anymore. They wouldn't entice me away from this world. I knew that. They held no power over me. So, I stripped off my sweat-soaked shirt and burrowed into the blankets. I slept well for the first time in a long time.

I could still feel his embrace. His touch. His forgiveness.

I wasn’t afraid, and I wasn’t running.

My grandpa passed away a few years ago. We were really close when I was younger because he and my grandma helped my family raise me (normal in our culture). But from age 12, I went to boarding school in a different city, then to uni until I was 21, and after that, I started working in another city (about an hour's flight away). I didn't have much money, so I couldn’t visit him often. In his last years, he had two strokes and was bedridden, and because of my job, I wasn’t able to spend much time with him.

One day, I got the call that he had passed. It hit me hard—it was the first death I had to face as an adult, and I felt guilty about not being there for him at the end. After the funeral, I went back to my life in the city, but whenever I returned to my hometown, I’d stay at my grandparents' house. And here's the strange part: I always dream of him when I’m there. In these dreams, he’s not alive, like he knows he’s been dead. It’s like he’s just checking in on us in the dreams. I remember trying to get my mum to come see him in the dream, but for some reason, I couldn’t. It was shocking the first time but I kinda get used to it. (Woke up crying like a baby as well.)

It's kind of wholesome in a way. I miss him a lot and love him dearly. If you’re reading this or watching over me from somewhere, know that I love you so much, Grandpa.

This is a true story. I don't know which sub to post.

I [F24] let my cheating boyfriend [M28] drown.

My boyfriend Chris and I have been together for a few months now, that is until we broke up. You see, Chris is a cheater. Some time into our relationship, I found him in bed with another woman. The worst thing about that situation was that the woman was my best friend Samantha, that cold-hearted bitch.

My friend and I did everything together. We grew up together, worked the same jobs together, and we even attended the same college together. She was the sister I never had. She had my complete trust which made the betrayal that much worse.

Two years after graduation, Samantha and I went out for a night on the town. That night, two guys approached us, as many tend to do, but these two—my god, these two knew exactly what they were doing.

Samantha and I were sitting at the bar trying to put on our best-resting bitch faces, the night was long and you can only turn down so many guys before it gets old. We were just there to enjoy ourselves, to dance, to drink, but those plans were quickly thwarted when a few bumbling, bickering, buffiuns pulled out the stools next to us and plopped right down, one on either side of us. They sandwiched Samantha and me between two stinking pillars of testosterone. We braced for whatever corny and rehearsed pickup line these two were about to coordinate, but the pickup line never came. Instead, they ignored us, preferring to shout their conversation over the music, leaving Samantha and me to spectate their shallow interaction.

"Did you see that beautiful blonde with those icy blue eyes? Good lord, she was spectacular. 110% pure unadulterated wifie material right there."

We rolled our eyes at his comment before Samantha and I locked eyes in disapproval. The other guy responded in a sweet baritone voice that pierced the booming vibration of the dance music, our eyes turning in his direction.

"Sir, I believe you are mistaken. No matter how soul-piercing her eyes or how blonde her hair is, you need a girl with an actual brain." Samantha scoffed, fiddling with her golden locks at the stinging comment.

"Not saying that blondes are dimwitted, but Elain certainly wasn't the brightest of the bunch." The man sitting on my right side continued. The douchebag on Samantha's left, adjusted his hat, turning its tongue towards the rear. His face was now sour, he locked eyes with his friend whilst seeming heavily offended. I surmised that Elain might've been an Ex or something. For a few seconds, the two jousted quietly, Samantha and I slightly cowering amidst the tension, until the two erupted into a simultaneous chuckle.

"I don't care what you or anyone says about blondes. The stereotypes may be partially true, but they truly do have the most fun." The hat-touting D-bag responded. Samantha stood a little taller in her chair in vindication.

"If you say so." Said the guy on my right.

"But honestly, I've always been more attracted to the brunettes with high cheekbones and fantastic smiles." My chair vibrated at the bass in his voice.

"Do you see anyone like that in here tonight?" Questioned the D-bag.

"Well, yes I did see one here earlier, on the dance floor. As a matter of fact, I think she was with the blonde you were talking about." By then the realization that they were talking about Samantha and I was setting in. I turned to look at Samantha but she had still not made the connection. 'Maybe the stereotypes are true.' I thought to myself, rolling my eyes at Samantha's slow processing speed. Just beyond the gears turning in my friend's head was the D-bag smiling from ear to ear. He'd noticed that I had caught on. Looking over my shoulder, the handsome baritone mirrored his friend's expression. Meanwhile, you could smell the smoke coming from Samantha's ears.

The D-bag spun around on the stool spectating the dance floor.

"Well Chris, do you think anyone here could prove us wrong? If only two girls matching those descriptions were here to show just how fun blondes and brunettes could be." The D-bag stated in an ironic tone. All three of us now awaited for Samantha to finish her thought, we all peered around at each other with high expectations.

"Oh Us!" Samantha announced with a snorting laugh, her open palm meeting the side of the D-bag's arm, just as mine slapped my forehead. Peering out from behind my hand the sweet baritone eyed me lovingly, showing me his perfect dimpled smile. I tried to return the sentiment but my face reddened at how intently he watched me. He finally extended my saving grace, an outstretched hand in a gentlemanly fashion. As our touch met he introduced himself.

"Hi, I'm Chris."

"Neomi," I said with a smile.

"Pleasure."

In that instance, my heart skipped a beat. Love at first sight was never my thing, but the way this man carried himself made me want to kick my feet in squeal in excitement. His hair, his eyes, the veins bulging from under his rolled-up sleeves, if I wanted to resist it was hopeless.

Samantha and the D-bag wasted no time and sprung onto the dance floor, leaving Chris and me to talk at the bar.

"What are you drinking?" He asked me. My mind was blank, I tend to get awkward around Greek gods. He smiled.

"Barkeep, two Modelos."

The night turned into early morning. Samantha and the D-bag, whose name I found out was Josh, never really left the dance floor. Samantha was a high-energy drunk, it was hard for anyone to keep up with her. Josh, however, seemed to have no problems in doing so. Chris and I, on the other hand, still nursed our first beer. It's kind of hard to drink when conversations are so stimulating. Chris was a PA (Physician's Assistant), specializing in pediatric care. He'd just moved to Lincon City after accepting a job at a local clinic. Josh was his roommate from college, who was not as adept as Chris but decided to tag along for the adventure.

A well-educated, mild-mannered adonis stood before me as the best potential suitor of my life, one who adored children and wanted to settle down in my sleepy little coastal town. To say I was smitten was an understatement.

"Neomi! Let's go!" Samantha called from the front door of the bar, whilst clinging to Josh's arm.

"Looks like those two really hit it off," Chris said to me.

"We're going home!" An inebriated Samantha whined, Jake's face flush and heavy at the liquor's intoxication.

"Well, we can't let those two go home alone, can we?" Chris said.

We stood from our stools walking over to meet our friends. As we walked out of the bar, Samantha stumbled over her own feet, Jake being too drunk to catch her, left it up to me to arrest her fall. I clutched her arm, struggling to prop her up. Chris being the gentleman he was, lent a helping hand, Josh, now off spectating the cars driving by in the early morning air, waving at each one like the village idiot.

Chris's face contorted in his disapproval and then looked over at Samantha and me.

"Come on I'll walk you guys home." Putting Samantha's arm over his neck he waited for me to lead the way. We started down the street, me leading just inches in front of the group. Josh was trailing behind us like a newborn duckling.

The whole walk home Chris and I talked about life. Our hopes and dreams, how many children we each wanted, and even when we expected to settle down. I know, pretty heavy stuff to talk about when you just met someone, but I'm a hopeless romantic what can I say?

Occasionally, turning to see Chris's face as we walked, I could've sworn I saw him glance down at Samantha's cleavage, but blocked it out as my gaze met his perfect smile. Love makes you such a fool.

Walking into my front door, Chris, Samantha, and Josh stammered in behind me.

"Just set her down on the couch there," I instructed. Chris obliged, gently leading Samantha onto the couch where she, drunkenly caressed the side of Chris's cheek.

"You're so beautiful you know that?" Chris smiled nervously at her sudden confession of attraction. I decided he needed help, taking Samantha's arm off his cheek.

"Okay, Okay, Okay lover girl, you need to rest." Guiding her head down onto the couch cushion, lifting her legs on the sectional, while ensuring a few pillows wedged her on her side for the night. I turned to look at Chris, as he rested his hand on his hips while looking at Josh. Josh was on the other end of the sectional, snoring as a stream of slobber trailed down his cheek. He turned to me.

"Looks like he's not going anywhere for the night." He huffed frustratingly, itching the back of his head in embarrassment.

"It's totally okay." I comforted.

"You guys can stay here for the night I really don't mind." Chris smiled and looked down at our two sleepy companions. He then turns to the clock on his watch, and back up at me.

"You think these two will be okay on their own?" I looked down at Samantha as she rested somberly.  

"I think so, why do you ask."

"You wanna go watch the sunrise on the beach?" I ignored the fact that we live on the West Coast, the sun would be rising at our backs, but I'm sure he knew that. This was just an excuse to spend some more time with me. I happily agreed.

The sand between my toes and a smile plastered across my face, Chris and I spectated a tsunami bouy from shore as its red spotter light flicked and bobbed in the rough, Oregon seas. Its faint glow illuminated the sea foam as it swashed against its yellow metal exterior. A family of seagulls taking refuge on its many perches for the night. The night was cold as the darkness in the Pacific Northwest tends to be. I rested my head on Chris's shoulder, our backside resting against his fallen sweater. We had reached that portion of the night where there was no need for conversation when two kindred souls could speak poems through a loving embrace.

I reached down to interweave our fingers. Turning my face towards his stubbled facade, he smiled as his peripheral gaze suspected my doe-eyed lust-filled expression. He slowly swiveled his head, our eyes meeting. His face inched closer to mine. My breathing is now more of a nervous pant, his seemingly matching my cadence. Our lips meet in a frenzy of sparks. For a minute the world didn't exist. There was no ocean, stars, or coldness of night. Just the warmth of his embrace. The perfect first kiss. The perfect moment. That is until the sound of a dying animal screeched through the night.

Our head snapped in the direction of the tsunami bouy. The family of seagulls had taken flight. Now only a swaft of plummed feathers floated gently onto the yellow bouy and atop of the foamy sea. Struggling on the tsunami bouy was the body of one of the birds, seemingly cut in half.

"What the hell was that," Chris questioned. A wave of frustration washed over me as some freak National Geographic-style scene had just interrupted my perfect moment. I looked at Chris's stunned expression. He's never lived by the sea, a newcomer to marine life. His bewilderment made me smile.

"It was probably just a Sealion," I explained. He looked down at me with mild horror. I shrugged.

"Nature, what can I say?" I returned my head to his shoulder, trying to hide my anger at nature's bad timing.

As the early morning sun illuminated the crashing waves in hues of yellow, oranges, and red, we finally took to our feet. As we directed ourselves inland, I was halted by a faint whisper that hissed between the swashing of the sea.

"RRRUuughhh" I stopped and turned back out to sea.

"What is it?" Chris questioned.

"You didn't hear that?" I responded.

"Hear what?" Just then the whisper once again rode its way on the early morning sea breeze.

"Ruuunnn." It commanded in a ghostly tone.

"You didn't hear that?" I restated.

Chris looked at me in confusion. As I stared back at him, not wanting to seem crazy I returned with a dismissal of my previous comment.

"It's nothing." Chris smiled, took my hand, and led me further inland. Before the shore's sand could leave my view. I heard the sound one more time. This time as clear as the morning sunlight.

"Run."

The Sea was threatening me, or so I thought.

Months had passed, and since that night my love for Chris only grew. Nothing could prevent me from loving him more every day. He was the perfect man in my eyes. He would bring me flowers when I was sad, he would hold me when I was lonely, and he looked at me with as much love-filled ferocity as I did him. I was sure he was my endgame.

Samantha and Josh on the other hand, only seemed to like eachother under the influence of alcohol. The next morning after that first night we all met, Samantha and Josh somehow found their way into each other's arms. In the clear morning light and without the love potion that is liquor, Samantha's face retortted at the thought that Josh and her might of slept together. She kicked Josh out like some flucey, a drunken mistake.

I Later explained to her that they did not sleep together to her relief. That, however, did not improve Josh's standing in her eyes. From that day on Samantha couldn't stand the sight of Josh. Maybe it was out of embarrassment for how she kicked him out, or it could just be out of Samantha's fear of commitment. Samantha's always been a one-and-done kind of gal. I always thought it was because she had a hard personality to love, but Josh seemed to mirror that personality. I thought they would've been great together, but alas, Samantha is her own woman and I can't make her decisions for her. From then on Josh was banned from our household leaving Samantha as our permanent third wheel. It was no biggie though, Samantha was like a sister to me and she was always welcome to hang out the Chris and I.

It was not the first time Samantha had been my third wheel. Growing up I had many boyfriends, and as they came and went, she was there for each of them. A not-so-silent witness to my love fiascos. I remember one time with my first boyfriend at the young age of 18, my then-boyfriend Robert and I were watching a movie at my house. My parents had left town for the weekend and I was left to my own devices. Nestled under my cozy couch blanket, Robert and I started to get a little handsy. His hands were on my hips as his tongue slowly parted my lips. Our steamy makeout session was quickly thwarted when Samantha plopped down on the outside of the blanket, wedging herself right between Robert and me.

To be honest, I completely forgot she was even there, but then again she never left.

We popped our heads over the top of the blanket, scowling at Samantha. Her response.

"Sorry, did I interrupt something?" I could tell that she knew exactly what she had done. That much was evident in her mischievous expression. I know I should've said something to her. I am at fault for not nipping her behavior in the butt throughout the years. That inaction continued to haunt me throughout our friendship until it boiled over, reaching a point of no return.

Chris was always over at our house, he was my boyfriend after all. That means that Chris and Samantha were always in close proximity. I started to notice that when Chris was over Samantha would always conveniently lose her bra and put on the thinnest white house shirt she could find. She was well endowed these mostly see-through t-shirts didn't hide a thing. That or she would always find the skimpiest little workout shorts in her wardrobe, the ones that ride high and never low. I would often see Chris struggling not to stare and I don't blame him for that, Samantha is beautiful. I would even stare at her myself when she wasn't looking. When someone shoves them in your face it's hard not to look away.

Chris mostly found the willpower to avert his eyes, to my relief, but Samantha turned up the heat. I would catch her eyes fixated on him at the breakfast table. Her nose crinkled at the thoughts running through her head. She would tease us, saying things like.

"So I heard you guys had a really good time last night, these walls are thin you know." Chris almost always choked on his cereal at her out-of-pocket comments. She would then quell his coughing fits with a hand placement that tended to linger just a bit too long. Chris fighting not to look over at her freed, breasts.

Samantha would give him a flirty smile when they passed eachother in the halls, turning her gaze over her shoulder to see if Chris followed her tail feathers. Chris remained steadfast for the most part, but I felt my confidence in him start to waver when I saw him start to glare too long at her from a distance. I tried to dismiss these occurrences as me being the jealous girlfriend. Samantha was my best friend and she would never betray me. That confidence was quickly ripped away when I came home early from work one day.

Walking into our beach house, the crashing of the far-off waves became increasingly muted as the door closed behind me. I should've been here alone, the house should've been as quiet as a mouse. But off in the distance, I could hear the distinct smacking of lips engaging in a wet embrace. I inched my way through the house and down the hall. I realized that the sound was coming from Samantha's room. I pressed my ear to the door and heard a sensual moan. 'Is she watching porn' I thought to myself. 'No, Samantha was not one for fantasies, she was more of a real action kind of girl. She must've met a guy and brought him over for a light morning brunch session.' I smiled at her 'little achievement'. Pivoting away to give them the privacy they needed, but just as I took my first step, I heard something that made my heart sink.

"Oh, Chris." The whore moaned out. My knees began to shake and tears started to well in my eyes. I turn to face the door once again. I knew I had to face whatever was on the other side of this passageway, but I hesitated. I don't know why but in that instance I remember the faint whisper I heard on the beach, all those months ago.

'Run' played over and over in my mind. Believe me, I wanted to, but I could never forgive myself if I never confronted my suspicion. Clutching the door handle, I inhaled deeply before swinging the door wide open. There they were. The sorry sack of shit positioned in between my lose legged whore of a best friend.

They were so busy being wrapped up in eachother that they didn't hear me burst in. I screamed.

"Chris!" In that second, he freed himself from her clutches, tossing her off to the side, and ran for his clothes that decorated the floor. Samantha on the other hand, seemed less panicked, opting to hide under the sheets. I swear I saw a smug little look on her face. It angered me so much, but that would have to wait, my cheating boyfriend had yanked the waistband on his jeans high above his navel and was coming to comfort me.

I hadn't even noticed my tears dripping onto the floor. He approached me both hands spread wide, as if a hug would make things better. I pushed him away.

"Get away from me!" I screamed. Bending over to throw some clothes at him, unannounced to me I had thrown Samantha's red lacey thong at him. He swatted it away.

"Baby." He pleaded, inching in again to comfort me. I balled my fist and decked him in the mouth. I don't know where I found the fury, but I knocked him on his ass. His backside meets the floor with a thump.

"Get out!" He eyed me like a beat dog.

"You too, you stupid bitch." I hissed at Samantha. Her face finally contorted.

"Where am I supposed to go?" I was enraged to realize she didn't think there would be any consequences for her actions. Her entitlement made my blood boil.

"I don't care, I don't care if you sleep under a bridge, I don't care if you shack up with the homeless guy from down the block, I don't even care if you walk your way into the sea and drown. Leave!" Her lips puckered in self-pity. My name was on the lease, what was she to do?

The two grabbed their stuff, and Samantha questioned me about the rest of her belongings.

"I'll mail them to you, now get the fuck out." They stammered to the front door, I held the door open as they stepped into the fresh mid-morning sea mist. Chris turned to ask another question but I slammed the door in his face.

I gripped two handfuls of my hair and let out a mountain of emotion in a scream. My eyelids squeezed tight as I wept. I wanted to burn the world down. I wanted to lay down and cry till I dried up like some beached jellyfish. I had truly never hated life more than I did in that instance.

Regaining my composure, my eyes cracked open slightly. Suddenly something caught my eye in the corner of the window. I swiveled and spat out in fury thinking either Chris or Samantha were spectating my breakdown.

"GO AWAY!" I screamed. But just as my eyes met the figure on the other side of the glass, I jolted back in shock falling onto the floor in a panic. In a quick second, I had caught the image of some horrid, monstrous, deformity. Its face was scaly, like that of a fish. Its ears fanned out in a strange web-like fashion, and thought I saw a mouth full of jagged, sharpened teeth. From its forehead had a single long antenna with a little ball on the end. Its finger was gliding on the other side of the window, writing something in the condensation.

The impact of the hard floor on my backside made me lose connection with whatever was lingering outside my house. When my gaze returned, the monster was gone. On the window, the message it had written out.

'I told you to run.'

Goose pimples engulfed my skin. I sat there for a while to see if the thing would peer out again. A few minutes passed, but it never showed. I took to my feet, cautiously approaching the window, half expecting the monster to pop out. But as I looked passed the written message. Nothing jumped out. Instead, I saw Chris off in the distance, on the sandy beach, comforting an emotional Samantha. Rage once again made an appearance. I shut the blinds angrily and stormed off into the dimly lit house. The vision of the monster, dismissed as a product of high stress.

The coming weeks were as you would expect. I was a heartbroken fool. Spending my days going to work with a cloudy overcast always present, coming home to a messy unkept house, and crying myself to sleep at the memories of both Chris and Samantha. Losing one love was too much, but my best friend too. It hurt way so much.

Chris would blow up my phone, trying to salvage the situation but the messages went unanswered. I should've blocked him but I found strange comfort in the pain of seeing his name pop up on my phone's notification -banner. Samantha on the other hand, had not even messaged me about her property that was left behind. She had always been a spiteful bitch.

Soon Chris's begging got to me. He would send me messages saying that he'd made the biggest mistake of his life. That he would do anything to fix this. That he'd dreamed of marrying me and starting a family. It didn't help that I also had these illusions of forever with him. After hundreds of unanswered texts, I finally responded.

'Meet me at Ocean Lake Beach tomorrow at 11 a.m."

I know I shouldn't have agreed to meet with him. I am all too familiar with the expression 'Once a cheater, always a cheater", but I didn't know how else to make the pain stop. I was at the end of my rope, my heart was in a thousand pieces and I thought if I could somehow rekindle the love I once had for Chris, this nightmarish hell would go away. I was a dumb girl manipulated by pain and anger, but I felt like I had no other choice.

Morning came and I walked out to the beach near my house, the same beach where Chris and I had our first kiss. I stood out looking at the same bouy that captivated our attention that first night. There was something about the rhythmic swashing of waves against its exterior that comforted me. Something so warm about the little bell that sounded with its rock, of the gulls that perched on its metal angle iron as they sang their mockeries to the sea. I could spend hours watching that thing bounce around.

I felt a hand grace my shoulder, which startled me. In that exact second, the gulls on the bouy took flight and a loud splash sounded on the other side metal object, the sight of something large disappearing into the water. I swiveled around to see the hand belonged to Chris. I couldn't help but pounce on him, hugging him as I gently cried into his chest. He grasped the back of my head, letting me release my emotions. After a while, he grasped my face with two hands lifting my head to look at his. He planted a loving kiss on my forehead, and I knew that we would be okay, though there was still much we needed to discuss.

We talked for hours, walking up and down the beach. Airing out our differences. He'd explained how Samantha had forced herself on him, how she manipulated him, how his willpower slowly broke. I listened intently and for some reason, it all made sense, as many things tend to do when you just want the pain to stop. Soon I had quickly forgiven him for all that he had done. I was just happy he'd come back to me.

We decided to head back to my house, making one last turn on our many trips down the same beach, I clutched his arm like he was the godly figure I once believed him to be. He looked down at me with the same intensity as the first day I met him. I was so happy.

As my house came into view, we saw a sunbather lying on the cold ground. Our beaches are not known as the most sunny or radiant, but it isn't uncommon to see sunbathers soaking up the sun's rays in the summer. Today, however, was especially cold. The skies were grey, and a cold front sent the chilly ocean breeze inland. I had even pulled out my warmest summer sweater, for this occasion. Chris and I looked at each other in confusion, but we didn't say a thing, continuing to walk towards the figure.

The closer we got the more strange the situation was. Now about 100 feet from the person in the sand, I could see it was a woman, naked and bare. 50 feet, she was a brunette with excellent facial structure. 10 feet, I glared over at Chris who gulped at her exposed flesh. I was just about to erupt in anger at his action and at what we had just discussed. Chris shouted, "She's not breathing!"

I snapped out of my jealousy and watched as the medical professional pressed an ear on her exposed chest. He positioned her properly on her back, raised her chin upwards, planting his mouth on her lip blowing in a huff of air as her chest was forced to expand. I stood arms crossed, not knowing what to do. He kneeled erect, pushing down on her chest a few times before, returning to her face. Again and Again, he battled to save her. She eventually, spit out a lung full of seawater. She gasped and coughed, the air finally filling her lungs.  

Chris turned to me, 'Call 911' he said frantically.

"No!" The naked girl shouted.

"No 911 please!" She begged.

Chris looked at me and back to the girl.

"We don't know how long you were unconscious, or how long your brain was without oxygen, you need to go to the ER." He explains.

"No 911 please." the girl said whilst still coughing.

Chris scratched his head in frustration.

"Pick her up, we can take her to my house for now," I said.

Chris nodded in agreement. Scooping the naked girl up we made our way to my house that overlooked the beach. I opened the back sliding door letting Chris and the girl in. He stammered in with her in tow, letting her fall onto the couch.

"She's hypothermic! Go find her some blankets so she can get warm!" Chris commanded. In the properly illuminated house, I could now see how blue her lips actually were, and how badly she was shivering. I ran to my bedroom and ripped the covers off my bed, rushing them out to them. I was met with the sight of the naked girl and my boyfriend inches from each other's faces. The girl's face was no longer pale and blue, now a shade of rosy peach and red. I stood there watching for a good while, as they gazed into each other's eyes. The girl's demeanor looked cynical, Chris's face, on the other hand, looked mesmerized in a strange hypnotic limbo.

I caught the eye of the naked girl, and she slumped back onto the couch, regaining her icy complexion. The look of bewilderment melted off of Chris's face, taking a second to realize where he was. He turned to me as I clasped the bedding.

"What are you waiting for she could die, hurry we need to get her warm." I rushed over to them engulfing the girl cautiously with the sheets. Chris, seemingly unaware of what I had just seen tucked the sheets underneath the girl's bare skin. I ran over to the gas fireplace and flicked the switch on, the fire roared to life. The naked girl shivered, her eyes closed, losing consciousness. I looked at Chris as he noticed my face contorted in worry.  

"I think she's just tired." He comforted. The girl stirred, shifting her body over to Chris's warmth. Chris gave a dismissive shrug, almost as if saying 'What can I do, she's freezing to death', and to be fair it was a good point. The girl looked sickly, on the verge of death. I couldn't blame her for reaching for the warmest thing she could find. Just so happened that thing was my boyfriend.

The afternoon turned to night and the girl slowly regained her color. She was exhausted, only moving to reposition her head onto Chris's lap the whole time she was asleep. I questioned if we should get her medical attention, but didn't want to overrule Chris's better judgment. After all, I wasn't a PA.

The girl finally, rose to a seated position rubbing her eyes, while glaring around the room. She locked eyes with Chris, giving him a flirty smile. Chris nervously turned to me for help. The girl followed his gaze and saw me sitting on the other side of the couch, arms crossed unaware of what my next move should be. I bit my lip not wanting to say something, who would scold their boyfriend for doing their job? The girl and I locked eyes, I wanted to be angry but her deep dark eyes reminded me of someone I had known, as if I had met this person before. Our interaction must've seemed awkward to Chris because he felt compelled to break the tension.

"Hey babe, do you think she could borrow some of your clothes?" He was right, we couldn't let her sit here exposed all night. I stood to my feet, the girl's eyes never leaving my face. As I disappeared into the bedroom, I heard Chris trying to get some answers out of the girl.

"What's your name?" He questioned but I never heard a reply.

"What happened to you?" Still, nothing was said back.

"Can we call someone for you?"

Rummaging through my closet, I found some pajama bottoms and a T-shirt the girl could wear. By then it sounded like Chris wasn't going to get an answer from this girl, but as I walked the clothes out to them I was met with a sight of absolute horror.

Her arms were wrapped around the back of Chris's neck, her lips seemingly suckling at my boyfriend's tongue, and her eyes peering at me from around my boyfriend's head.

"Chris!" I yelled. The girl unclasped their faces, moving Chris's head aside to get a better look at me. For a second, her face was expressionless, but then the edges of her mouth gave way to reveal several rows of sharpened teeth. I stood there in shock.

The teeth slowly started to part, and I could see the inside of her slimy, cherry-red mouth playing with something. Almost as if reading my mind she decided to show me. She pushed the object to the front of her mouth, gripping it with her jagged teeth. It was a severed tongue... Chris's severed tongue.

I shrieked in terror. The look of demented satisfaction plastered its way across the girl's face. She forced Chris's head to swivel around like a powerless mannequin, showing me her handy work. A stream of blood oozed down his chin, but his face was expressionless. The same hypnotized expression I had seen on his face earlier that day. I wanted to run away but my legs were locked in place.

I stood there as the girl took to all fours, hunching her back like an angry cat, and her skin began to change. From the pale beautiful skin that toutted on the beach, she sprouted scales. From her dainty little ears grew webbed fans. From the top of her forehead came an ugly misplaced antenna. She had transformed into the creature outside my window.

It stood on its hind legs taking an awkward step toward Chris's immobile body. I found the strength to plead for his life.

"Stop." I quivered with fragile bravery, but the creature took a second step, wobbling slightly as if it were new to land. It bent over inches from my boyfriend's body. A long serpent-like tongue slid across the stream of blood coming from his mouth, until its long protrusion found a home down Chris's throat. A bump was visible from the outside of his neck as the creature plunged it in deeper.

"Please stop," I begged. The creature extracted its tongue from the depths of my boyfriend, its hand sliding on the outside of his jeans it reached its clawed hand into his pocket, pulling out his phone. It turned it on and held it up to Chris's hypnotized face, unlocking it with face ID. It stood up and carefully walked over to me. The creature placed it in my hand with an extreme amount of gentility, cautious not to frighten me. I didn't understand what it wanted from me, as it turned its attention back to Chris. Just then the phone vibrated.

I looked down at the new text message. My heart dropped at the person it was from... Samantha.

'Hey baby, are you okay? I haven't heard from you all day. When are you coming home?'

All the horrid feelings started flooding back to me. The images of my best friend straddling my boyfriend's hips, the smug little look on her face when I caught them, and the feeling of Chris's jaw on the other end of my knuckles. Then it dawned on me, the whole day Chris was baiting me into getting back with him while he was with my backstabbing best friend. I lowered the phone and over at the monster on the couch, while the creature sized him up.

Its bulbed antenna started to glow in this bright fluorescent white, and for some reason, Chris was drawn to it. He took to his feet, the reflection of the antenna twinkling in his eye. Then the creature took a backward step toward my back door that overlooks the beach. A second step and Chris followed, never losing sight of the bright fluorescent light. I ran over to slide the backdoor open, setting them free into the ocean breeze. I no longer cared what the creature wanted with Chris. For all I knew, it wanted to eat him. If it did, I wouldn't have batted an eye. This lying sack of shit deserved it.

They inched their way down my wooden porch steps. The creator's webbed feet made nasty sludging sounds with each embrace of the deck. When they reached the sand I was not far behind. I needed to see Chris's fate. The salty sea washed over Chris's ankles, the creature still leading inches ahead. I spectated from the sand, as the two gradually, made their way further into the sea. The waves crashed over Chris's head, only the creature's antenna was now visible. As that too met the water, it gave one last bright pulse before going out completely. The night was once again quiet, nothing stirred. Nothing until the sea bouy's little bell caught my attention.

I sat down on the beach, watching it bounce on the ocean current like the first day I met Chris. I don't know how long I watched it, but it must've been hours, the sun was now cresting at my back. I was jolted back to reality when Chris's phone vibrated. I looked down at the message.

'I'm really worried about you Chris, please call me.'

Samantha was stressing about her man, we couldn't have that. I took to the text keys.

'I'm okay babe.' I wrote, but my face lit up as I got a grand idea.

'Meet me at Ocean Lake beach right now.' I messaged.

'Okay, I'll be there in a few :)'

I laid the phone down on the sand, taking in a long inhale. As I looked back out at the bouy, a familiar pair of eyes stared back at me. The creature's face parted in a grin, I returned the sentiment.

I just hope my new little friend here likes the taste of traitorous bitch.   

“A nifty little gravity-disruption device of superior design was created for the sole purpose of bringing unpredictable chaos to the cosmos. It was employed a very long time ago, or possibly in the distant future. Time is a circular loop, you know. The ‘when’ doesn’t matter in this context. What does; is that its destructive effects are about to be felt, right here on the place you call home; ‘Terra firma’.

I offer this courtesy warning so the residents of this buzzing microcosm can get their affairs in order. I hate surprises of this magnitude myself and felt advance notice of the total annihilation of your primitive planet would be fair and appreciated. It’s of no consequence to me if you choose to expend your remaining moments trying to independently verify what I’ve so judiciously explained, or in wasteful collective bargaining for your insignificant existence.

All of that is between you and your ‘deity of choice’, but none of it will change the outcome. The disruptor served its purpose. It nudged the orbiting planetary bodies enough to cause irregularities and collisions. The once mercurial, and frankly boring programming of the universe was; or will be, effectively derailed. The ensuing chaos of removing ‘tracks from the train set’ put in motion an incalculable number of fascinating astronomical anomalies. One of those significant ‘variables’ is on an unwavering trajectory with Earth.”

The entire population took a collective ‘shit’ over the morosely-stark news by our unknown interstellar informant. It was one hell of a ‘first contact’ between mankind and whatever alien species the smug SOB was. Delivered in all languages and dialects, the condescending screed was clear enough. Most experts assumed the author was probably the uncredited creator of the ‘disruptor’ device itself.

Our first clues were the telling use of adjectives such as: ‘insignificant’, ‘primitive’, and boring’ in the warning subtext. It showed a transparent admiration for the events unfolding and lent strong support for the idea of culpability. To anonymously ‘humble brag’ about the accomplishment of screwing up the perfection of life, while cowardly ‘saving face’ and not admitting to being the architect of the problem. It was a chicken-shit thing to do, and suggested this ‘superior alien’ shared more in common with inferior humans it looked down upon, than it might want to concede.

At the very least, the unknown being was obviously a ‘big fan’ of the gravitational disruptor device, and was unabashedly gleeful of its use in ‘shaking things up’ for our semi-predictable universe. That strongly suggested a bias toward support or being the actual instigator of the chaos. Why even let us know ‘the end’ was coming if it truly cared about our feelings and couldn’t do anything to prevent the global catastrophe? The general assumption reached was, this ‘messager of doom’ was experiencing a tiny remnant of guilty conscience.

Those not already in a deep-spiraling depression from the doomsday news observed the subtlety in the announcement. They rallied against apocalyptic panic and analyzed the wording for important clues and hidden implications. We had no means of definitive verification that the message giver was also the culprit of our Armageddon event to come, but using that as our running theory allowed for a more calm and collected analysis. Thank goodness for their level heads. They alone formed some strategic plans as the rest of us threw up our hands and basically gave up.

Our unified response was a carefully measured and calculated feeler, sent by our greatest scientific strategists. The extraterrestrial author had taken great pains to discourage us from begging for our lives. Either it could not stop the deadly ‘variable’ careening our way, or would not. Why pretend to be sympathetic to our fate, if it could prevent the deadly event but refused? The most compassionate thing would’ve been to allow us to remain blissfully ignorant.

Telling us so we could ‘get our affairs in order’ implied the author wanted us to experience great fear and suffer hopelessness over deadly events which we couldn’t control. That was the opposite of ‘superior or compassionate’. It pointed to flawed vanity and sadistic manipulation. The nonhuman messenger wanted us to beg for salvation. Humanity refused to take the bait. Instead we subtly fished for more specific details. Our agitator correctly predicted we would do that anyway. We just played along with the intellectual chess match for another round.

“Thank you for the advance alert of our impending doom. We appreciate the opportunity to prepare for it and to savor our final remaining moments. You are most gracious to give us the warning. Since you were not specific, we would like to clarify some details for our final records. Using our Earth geological measurement system of longitude and latitude, would you please share with us exactly where and when this ‘disruptor variable’ will strike our planet?”

The messenger read the official Earth response with amusement at our predictability, and then with rising aggravation.

“Humans! There is no ‘when’! I’ve already explained that time isn’t linear. It’s circular in nature! It’s a shame you didn’t evolve and grasp a greater understanding of science and physics! As for your simple equatorial system of longitude and latitude; the coordinates of the 14 kilometer wide asteroid will occur at: ‘21°24′0″N 89°31′0″W. This deadly impact will result in 4km high tsunamis, volcanic eruptions, global earthquakes, and will wipe out approximately 75% of your species. There is no point in trying to avoid it. Now, stop with the pointless questions and prepare for your end.”

Despite the suspected motives of the mysterious extraterrestrial ‘advisor’, the follow-up response from it greatly relieved the contact committee organizers. The reasons for which would soon bring unexpected calm to billions of human beings worldwide. For all of the alien’s advancements in technology and evolution, there was one area where it still lacked in comprehension. The committee chairman actually laughed when he received the new message. He turned to explain his uncharacteristic amusement to his bewildered colleagues.

“Those coordinates are the Yucatán peninsula, or the Chicxulub impact! For a species who holds a circular concept of time, warning us about an event which transpired here 65 million years ago, is the same as telling us about it ‘in advance’. We refer to it now as the Gulf of Mexico!”

The entire room erupted in relieved guffaws.

“I’ll let our cosmic disruptor know that we’ll be sure to warn the dinosaurs, the next time we see them.”

We tried not to let that ruin the night. We left to get food at Waffle House and attempted to regroup. Kathleen needed the most cheering up, I could tell the elf's near assault nearly got to her. Barri did most of the work. My mind was half in it. I felt as if we were being watched the whole time. Then Kathleen spoke, and it pulled me back in.

"I just really don't want to die alone," she said.

"Hey, whoa, where's that coming from?"

"I don't know, it's just..." she paused over her words like she knew exactly what she meant but was too ashamed to say it. "When he grabbed me, I was like, 'oh my gosh, this is what everyone is talking about on TikTok, like rejecting a man and he kills you, and I'm just like 'I'm dead'. This is it, and no one is here to even care."

"We're here," Barri added. Kathleen might as well have not heard it.

"I'm 23 years old and I've never been in a relationship," Kathleen mourned. "No one wants me and no one cares."

"We want you," I said.

"Then where were you?" she asked. That shut me down. Neither I nor Barri replied.

"I'm sorry," she said after a minute of silence. "You saved me, and I know you did, and you always look out for me. I'm just shook a bit and feeling lonely."

"Come," I said. "Let me fly you to my house. Let's find out what this guy is and how to stop him tonight."

I flew the girls to my home to search for books to determine exactly what this creature was and how to stop him. I placed both of them on the ground and hobbled inside. My leg would heal in a couple of hours, but for now, I had a limp.

My mix of confusion, fear, and insult at this attack turned into pure fury. Which made me even madder because I couldn't even stomp properly with one leg. I hobbled. We journeyed in silence, the echoes of our footsteps spoke for all of us. The girls' steps were quiet and full of trepidation.

Finally, we arrived at the back of the cave where I made my home. Rows and rows of candles with dancing flames greeted us. 

The girls stopped walking.

"What?" I whipped around and barked at them, letting my frustration boil over.

They were huddled together, almost holding hands.

"Please don't yell," Barri said, and she covered her ears.

"Sorry," I said. That was the first time I remember raising my voice to either of them, and the feeling twisted my stomach into knots. I stepped toward them to hug Barri. Barri always craved physical affection. She took half a step back.

"Oh," I said aloud, not wanting to make her feel awkward but because I couldn't believe it.

"No, wait, sorry, you didn't do anything. Well, you shouldn't yell, it's just--"

"You live here?" Kathleen interrupted.

Oh, what a sight they must have seen. I forget how differently we live from you. We are just a darker people in tolerance and fashion. Portraits of my ancestors - men and women - line the wall, all in traditional fashion. They sit crouched in black leather with our family's blanket on them. Their fangs bared, their weapon of choice wet, and the head of the victim of choice on the floor. There were at least 100 pictures on the walls, and many had cow heads, rabbit heads, and chicken heads. We don't eat only humans, but of course, the first pictures they saw were of my oldest ancestors, and of course, freshly cut human heads were on their portraits.

I hate that I could hear their hearts beating faster, the shuffle of their feet wanting to escape, and the judgment in their eyes.

"Yes," I said to Kathleen.

They traded glances with each other and came in. That put my heart at ease.

I brought them to my library and tried to show off as little of my place as possible. My heart was at ease, but my shame had not left.

Regardless, together the three of us went through every book in the library to find out what exactly was attacking us.

"Wait, is this true?" Kathleen mocked. "Kill a vampire, get a miracle?" She quoted the unholy book.

"How would I know?" I shrugged. "I don't know, some people say we're cursed or not part of God's design or whatever."

"That would explain your taste in music," Kathleen smiled. "Drake over Kendrick is insane, especially conserving--"

"It's not true."

"Whatever," Kathleen closed the book and frowned. "That's mean though. I'm sorry you had to read that; that can't be nice to hear about yourself."

I shrugged. That level of intimacy made me awkward. It was quite unpleasant to read honestly. Especially since I knew no other vampires, and some days I frankly didn't like myself, so I thought, what if the books were right? What if we were cursed?

"Hey, did you hear me?" Kathleen rubbed my back with the gentleness a good friend shows. "I'm really glad we're friends."

"Same!" Barri said as she read a book and then waved it in the air. "I found something about him!"

We gathered around, and she summarized the passage.

"It looks like he's a Lusting Elf. The Lusting Elf sees his life purpose is to have everything his heart desires. He'd rather die than not have his lust satisfied. He or his friends will approach a target three times to get what he wants, and if he is denied all three times, he's gone."

"Okay, great, so we just have to prepare for him three more times, and then we're set," I said, still anxious about the situation. "Let's go home."

I dropped Kathleen off last and offered to sleep on her couch to help watch over her. I still felt that creeping feeling that someone was watching us. I did leave her side, though, because I smelled the blood of something non-human. I wish I hadn't; this is what happened.

At perhaps 2 am, while I flew down the streets chasing what I believed could be the man in the plaid suit based on the smell of his blood, something entered Kathleen's house.

This something cracked Kathleen's door open. The heart-stopping groan of the door roused her from her dream. She had enough time to let out half a gasp before she shut her mouth.

Something entered her room and slammed the door. It didn't bother with silence.

"Are you cold?" the thing whispered. Its voice was deep, adult, and male. Its outline barely visible in the room. The only light came from the thread of light from the streetlamps outside that the blinds allowed.

"Huh, what? What?" Kathleen whispered.

"Are you cold? You have a weighted blanket, so you're either cold or lonely?"

"Are you, um, the guy from the bar?"

"Him? Oh no, not me," it seemed confused at the question.

"What do you want? Please leave."

"Oh, well, can't do that. You should have asked me to tell you what I want. I could have done that."

"What do you want?" she said and reached for her phone in the darkness.

"Please don't do that! Please don't move!" the thing ordered and took three scratching steps forward, directly toward her bed.

"Sorry!"

It didn't reply. It only breathed, loud breaths through its mouth, she assumed. Unsure of what the silence meant, Kathleen wiggled her feet beneath the bed.

CRASH

Her lamp exploded in a scream. By force or by magic, she heard the clatter and the resulting drizzling of shrapnel on her floor. Kathleen screamed,

"I said don't move!" the thing in the dark shouted.

"I'm sorry," Kathleen sobbed, open and raw. She was terrified, and there was nothing she needed to hold back.

"You have so many blankets on. Are you lonely or are you cold?"

"I'm lonely."

"What do you want other than for me to go away?"

"Someone to hold me and tell me this isn't happening." Her words morphed into pitiful, childish blabber. The thing did not comment on that. It walked closer and closer still, until it bumped into the front of her bed.

Thump.

The bed said, and Kathleen did not respond. She could not respond.

"Do you want to ask me what I want again?" the thing whispered.

Kathleen flinched in an attempt to nod her head and then remembered he demanded stillness.

"What do you want?"

The thing in the dark thumped twice against the bed frame,

Thud.

Thud.

Then it climbed into the bed. With the gentleness and absence of an Arizona breeze, it pulled back the covers to reveal her toes. The thing in the dark grabbed Kathleen's toe, its hands small, baby-like, perhaps the hands of a one-year-old. Kathleen loved children.

"Before I begin," the thing said. "I must ask you, do you still deny the advances of my friend. Will you accept him as your master?"

"No, but we can--" she cried.

"Then enough," he said. "You won't be lonely much longer. I am a cousin to the Changeling. I am sort of a cuckoo. I will place my body inside of you from my head to the soles of my feet, and I will nest there. You will never give birth to anything that lives, and the babies who die (if you selfishly choose to have them) shall be denied heaven and hell; their souls shall journey to be slaves for all eternity in the other world."

And then the strange creature parted her legs.

And that is where I come in, having smelled the blood of another inhuman. I flew back and crashed through Kathleen's window. I grabbed the thing by its neck and beat its head against the floor.

CRACK

CRACK

CRACK

I eagerly lapped up the blood, relishing my revenge and the opportunity to feast on something great. But the texture, the flavor, the way it oozed - this was not what the man in the plaid shirt's blood would be like. Mouth covered in blood and senses returning, I turned on the lights to see Kathleen huddled under covers, shaking, sweating, and crying.

"Where were you?" she asked. "I needed you here. I needed you with me. Protecting me!"

She would say she accepted my apology and understood later, but that night she told me to get out of her house. No more attacks happened for weeks, and things went back to normal-ish.

When I said there was a 50% chance Barri didn't know what was going on, I meant it. So, perhaps we shouldn't have left her alone at the Lesbian bar.

Believe it or not, it was my decision to go there. Hear me out, I was a big Drake fan, and there was a certain song on the radio that summer that ran, dissing him. You might have heard it; it was called "Not Like Us."

Certified Lover Boy

Certified Pedophile

Whop

Whop 

Whop

Whop

Whop

Whop

That song.

It played everywhere, multiple times a night. So, of course, I went to the one spot in town it would never play, or so I thought.

Long story short, it did play. The song played, and Barri proved again why she was the best dancer out of all of us.

A crowd of lesbians formed around her, enamored, cheering, and throwing back drinks as Barri crip-walked in a circle to the song. For those that don't know, a crip walk is a dance that members of the Crip gang do, a complicated side-shuffle that impresses at a party.

Barri had mastered it. I believe she liked dancing because it was so simple. Do good moves, people applaud. Unlike relationships and social dynamics where there were so many lies and half-truths that confused Barri, Barri was too authentic to understand that, and I loved her for it.

She bore her soul as she danced, slight smiles popping out as she moved. She was so controlled, every movement purposeful. No step wasted. Honest. When she got bored, she simply freestyled until the song called for her to crip walk again.

She was extraordinary and in her element. I felt it was safe to go to the DJ and bribe her to play Drake while Kathleen somehow found the only other single straight male to talk to.

The song switched to something more slow and intimate, perhaps "Drunk in Love." Feeling confident and proud of herself, with one finger, she pointed to the crowd and beckoned for someone to dance with her, a slender pixie-cut red-haired girl.

In the flashing lights, Barri grinded on the girl as Beyoncé serenaded Jay-Z. Confidence growing and alcohol taking effect, Barri sang with Beyoncé and bellowed the chorus and name of the song; "Drunk in Love." Their hips matched in sync, and Barri turned her head so her eyes could see who she sang to as they danced to the tunes of two American legends.

As the song ended, Barri said her goodbyes.

Barri looked for us post-song, exhausted but flattered by the love. As Barri walked through the crowd, she was confronted by the aforementioned lesbian.

"Honey, you did so good," she said and grabbed Barri by both cheeks and kissed her on the lips.

"Eeeh," Barri screamed. She tended to scream like an anime character at times.

"What?" the strange woman said. Her red lip gloss smudged.

Barri motioned to wipe her mouth but froze, debating if that would be rude or not. She decided it was and put her hand down.

"Like, whoa," Barri said, "You can't just be kissing people." She said and pounded away to the bar. Cautious of the women who Barri thought still stared at her.

At the bar, she was served by a disinterested muscular woman. She mused over the moment and dipped into depression. She didn't want to hurt the red-head woman's feelings, she thought. She was just dancing. Was it her fault?

Like Kathleen, she had been hurt a lot and would prefer not to give anyone else that feeling. But she did, she felt somehow she had led on that girl. Her depression spoke to her.

"Why couldn't she get this? Why couldn't she get people? She was trying to be good, trying to understand people, and she sucked. She sucked. She failed. She got confused. That's all she was, all she'd ever be."

"Oh, honey," the disinterested bartender said to her, seeming very interested all of a sudden, too interested, frighteningly interested in her as if she was fresh meat to a starving man. Her eyes ate up Barri's body, her smile bent beyond normality, and she leaped over the bar counter.

Barri leaped back, unsure of what she should do now. No one addressed the menacing bartender.

"They. Can't. See me. Swee-tie!" the bartender sang. "It's just me and you. I'm glad your thoughts were so loud, you're telling me exactly what to do."

The bartender was massive, a pale woman that could pass for a viking. Her cold gray eyes aged her beyond this decade.

"I usually have to dig and dig and dig to find out how to play with one's mind, but you were shouting it," the large woman announced. "Before I begin, quick question, will you submit to my friend the elf?"

Barri sprinted away.

"I'll take that as no," she shouted and tackled Barri. "Let's see how many days you'll say no."

I still do not know what creature this was.

It was both weightless and held so much mass it made Barri fall to her knees. The woman creature wrapped around Barri like a koala and put her somehow translucent hand in her skull and began to play.

She made the world black and white and then purple and green, and then settling on only orange and yellow. She switched Barri's vocal motor functions so, although she wanted to scream, it came out a whisper.

Scared and unable to speak, Barri ran out of the club. Then the thing that played in her skull spoke only to her. "Your want was so loud," she said. "To be understood, and to understand, specifically for one person to do that, one man to hold at night and to understand you. Oh, I heard your request and it shall be denied."

The woman on top of her disappeared in weight and vision, and yet Barri could still feel her crawling in her head. The monster played a game of mismatch with the words in her brain. She felt herself forgetting the right words - "Hello, goodbye, thank you, my name is, help" - all vanished.

When to smile and when to frown slipped through her mind. How to get home and how to speak vanished.

Barri knew how to sit, she knew how to cry. So she did. Her mouth turned into horrible and painful amalgamations as she tried to frown.

And yet, someone still had mercy on her. 

"Hey, honey, are you okay?" a group of girls asked as she cried on the sidewalk.

"No, no, I want to go home," is what Barri wanted to say, but her mind couldn't form the words. Instead, she screamed. The girls ran away. This didn't stop her screaming. She screamed until her voice cracked into oblivion.

The streets eyed Barri with suspicion and disgust. Barri felt this and mourned how she wasn't able to explain her case. She couldn't explain that she didn't have control.

The girls ran away from Barri, and Barri away from the world, trying to find us. But her brain jumbled all of them together, and for three days, she lived as a vagrant, as a homeless woman in a dangerous city that cared for no one.

When we found her, she was shivering in the rain under newspapers beside a garbage dump. Her bright dress from three nights ago was gone. Instead, she wore stained brown sweats and an oversized jacket. I do not know what happened to her in the three days. She never found the words to explain it.

I didn't want the words anyway; I wanted revenge. The monster could not hide itself from me. It saw I saw her and leaped from Barri. I leaped on it and plunged my teeth into its neck. Cold silver blood sprouted from it and wet my face in vengeful satisfaction. With three mighty punches, she unfortunately got me off of her. It grew strange batish wings and flew into the sky.

"I will kill her," I said to them, and that is what I set off to do.

I was so mad it was comical in a way. This creature, this thing, really thought it could escape me. I had bitten into its flesh. There was nowhere it could go that I wouldn't find it. It's a shame too because it blended so well as a human before me.

She had a job.

I caught off all the power in her office and stormed through the darkness, like the true creature of the night I was. I'm sure I gave nightmares to everyone, but again, she escaped me.

She had a boyfriend.

I came from under their bed like the boogeyman. I knocked him unconscious, and she escaped.

She had a son.

I suppose at her ex-husband's house. She thought hiding behind the boy would be enough to save her. She thought I could not be so monstrous as to whisk her away in front of her child, but I was one, and that is what I did.

Once in my home, I threw her on the ground and got to work. I only asked once where the elf was. She said she didn't know, as expected. I got to work. Knives, ropes, and tools of the trade of torture brought the answer out in 7 sleepless days. She was rewarded with a broken neck.

She gave me an address to some apartment complex. It could have been a lie, I suppose, but my anger had not subsided. I decided blood must be shed.

I flew to the third floor of that apartment and crashed through. Glass shattered, and I pounced on a chair I thought was him. It crushed under my weight and split under my claws, but it was not him. I wanted blood.

I wanted a battle and was met with silence. That made my blood run still. The living room was empty, but I could hear stirring outside the door and in the hallway. I didn't move. My fear of this man was coming back to me. I looked at a mahogany door leading to the bedroom and knew that's where he would be waiting for me.

I did not want to go, fear still shackled me. Unfortunately, I had no choice. This needed to end tonight.

I pulled open the door and saw him dead!

My revenge was again denied! I was shamed. This is not something a vampire does. This is not something a vampire can tolerate. To be denied their vengeance. I didn't even think I'd care. I never knew most of my family, only my mother, and yet I felt all of their long-gone eyes on me. By not killing him, I failed them.

I shook the dead body and bit into its flesh to taste only dried blood. I spit it on his face and screamed. Someone knocked on the door. My noise had brought onlookers; I had to go. Still full of rage, I grabbed the paper off the bed and read it.

"Everyone has a cost, boy. Don't blame me. I just had to remind them they were mortal and alone."

"Nonsense," I thought. And brushed off the note of ignorance.

Three attempts... I realized as I flew away. Three attempts, and then he'd rather die. The first attempt was that night. The second was to attack Kathleen, and the third was to attack Barri. He was already gone.

It was already the weekend again, and we all decided to go out. Disappointed in myself for not getting revenge myself as my ancestors would have, I didn't mention he was dead yet. I needed a couple of drinks first to swallow my pride.

That night we pre-gamed, I foolishly believed things had gone back to normal. In my mind, everything had reset. I was even playing Drake. I showed them one of his songs post-beef, and we pre-gamed and drank until the world shook, and I was singing my heart out and swinging my hips like I was a Brazilian at Carnival.

Thirty-six in the chest, okay

Twenty-eight in the waist, okay

Forty-six in the hips, come swing my way

Swing my way, drop for me, sing for me

Bruk your back and bend up your knee

Badmind gyal can't friend up with me, no

As I danced, I noticed I still had dried blood on my nails. The blood from her boyfriend, no doubt. It seemed I had become the monster I never knew myself to be, and was that such a bad thing? It was for the safety of my best friends after all.

"Can you help me zip up my dress?" Kathleen asked.

Drunk and wobbly, I went into the room of my best friend.

Kathleen had her back to me, and in the bathroom mirror, I saw Barri behind the door with a stake. And then it all made sense.

"Kill a vampire, get a miracle."

"Everyone has a cost, boy. Don't blame me. I just had to remind them they were mortal and alone."

Kathleen was almost cursed to not have a kid, what she wanted most. Barri was left misunderstood and homeless for three days. They were faced with mortality and decided what they really wanted. They wanted a miracle, not me. I ran out of the room, popped out of a window, and burst into the night air.

I have found a new cave, not the home of my ancestors, somewhere to die alone.

There will be no revenge, no grand plan to dominate, nor bats haunting them to alert them of my absence. I didn't want it then, and I don't want it now. I wanted friendship, and you all have denied that from me. So, I must be alone. My mother was right, your mythology was right: blood is all that matters, and blood is what we're all seeking. Blood is what they were born to see. Blood is what I was born to chase.

There are not many of us vampires left; we will die soon. But I write this note because I am begging you, dear reader, if you happen to run into someone different from you, a little strange, and with some features that scare you - that is to say, someone who is a vampire - if they want to be your friend and treat you as a friend, please be kind to them. I have not eaten nor drunk in so long. I will die in this cave, and I am so sad I will die alone.

THE END OF HIS TALE

"So," I said to the vampire, "you prefer to die in this cave instead of being surrounded by monsters?"

"Yes."

"But what if humans were as diverse as you in their monstrosity? What if they were capable of disturbing acts as well as great virtue? What if that was not just as a species but for person to person as well."

"What?" he asked and looked up at me. I tossed away the stake, tore off the garlic, and threw the book against the cave.

"What if all that garbage really was for my protection, and I meant no harm? What if two girls forfeited college this semester to pay for my quite pricey service fee to find you and simply ask you for forgiveness?"

"What? No way. No--"

"And to ask you to come back because they miss you. They knew they were wrong? What then? Would you still choose to stay in the cave? I won't drag you out of this cave, but Kathleen and Barri want you back. The choice is yours."

It tackled me and grabbed hold of my throat, its long thin claws digging into my flesh and turning the skin of my throat to rock. I clenched my teeth till they nearly shattered and ran my fingernails through the wood, grasping at the shards and bolting upright. I slammed my head into the monsters and gained on top, gripping the neck as it had gripped mine. I wrapped my fingers around and squeezed as the flames crawled up my arms and the hairs of my body lit and exploded like the many fuse strands of a cannon. Before I knew what I was doing, I had already squeezed every last drop of life from the cur that took her from me. As the fire receded and the room grew dark, i realized i was not choking a spirit…but rather…I was choking her.

“No…no no no no….BEATRICE NO!”

A single tear ran down her face as the screams from outside deafened me to her final words. I leaned forward and pulled her head into my shoulder.

“No no my love im so sorry”

She grazed my cheek with her hand and spoke softly

“Its alright my love…its ok”

She took a last labored breath and I watched her once eternal body crumble,the beauty and color in her eyes leaving at the same speed at which i had taken her life. I shook her shoulders as I wept, my tears falling on her own and mixing on the floor beneath. As the building crumbled and fell, I could only utter a few saving words, for any more speech that I could produce would be a fallacy.

“I didnt know what I was doing my love…you have to believe me I thought I was saving you…I thought…I was doing the right thing”

But i wasnt, so rarely does the right thing ever feel quite as dark as what I have done. I wandered out of the room, tripping over myself as I made my way down the cracked steps of the inn. People ran by me and screamed as they overtook the rooms, searching for any solace from whatever kind of chaos had erupted outside. I mumbled to myself, just barely breathing as I fell down the stairs and kept trudging. The cold air bit at my chest and I felt the freezing winter surround me…I killed my wife…my love…the one thing that had brought me back from all the hells id seen before…and I killed her. It takes a lot to fix the kind of darkness I had inside me and she had every ounce of ability to save me. But who would save me now?

“Noone…im afraid”

I looked up and saw a tall man, his arms exposed to the winters just as mine were. He stared off at the legions of darkness that fell upon the city, his goggles hid his eyes but a faint yellow glow from beneath the mask told me there lie more power then I had ever seen. I looked to him and spoke softly.

“Are…you one of them?”

He shook his head, his long beak moving from side to side

“Not in the slightest. I am a doctor, and I know the darkness you are holding now.”

I looked down at my ashen hands, the cold terror of the night blending in with my damaged skin and solidifying the cloud that now latched itself to my soul. 

“I hold nothing, it is stuck to me like an urchins spine. I want it out of me”

He knelt before me and removed a bottle from his waist, dabbing a small drop of fluid in his palm and pressing it to my skin. Smoke rose from his glove as the liquid seared and sizzled, boiling my flesh as I threw my head back and screamed into the night. He looked up at me and shook his head

“The miasmas got its hold on you, but this one is quite weak. Ive no idea why it sought you out but as we speak its becoming entwined with your body…and your soul”

I pushed his hand tighter against my chest

“Destroy it then, with me attached!”

He shook his head again and threw me off. He looked down at me with a mixture of disdain and pity, as if he knew what I had done when I turned. As my flesh began to wither away and the bulk that I had grown comfortable in turned to muscle and bone, I turned down my head and began to sob.

“I just want to be with her”

The winter bit at me again and suddenly a hailstorm of frozen daggers were bearing down on us, ready to impale and maim anything in their path.

“Make it right”

All my friends were pointing and laughing as he came trodding down the street. His wooden feet clunked and clacked on the cobblestoned road.

One of the girls in our group wiped the snot from her nose as she sized up her target. As he came into range she flung a rock the size of a baby's fist at his wooden head. A hollow thud echoed around the street as he fell to the floor.

“I told you he had an empty head,” shouts one of the girls as the rest fall around laughing.

My heart broke for him as I stood there watching as he tried to get back on his feet. He stumbled back and forth as he tried to steady himself on his bent wooden legs. The other girls jeered at me as I ran over to help him.

His faded, painted face made his sad, weary voice sound lost. The only thing that looked real about him was deep, soulful blue eyes and even they seemed void of joy.

“My name is Lucy, what’s yours?”

The wooden boy looked away in embarrassment.

“I don’t have a name,” said the boy as his blue eyes burned into mine.

“Everyone’s got a name. Even my dog has a name.”

“My father just calls me boy,” he says in a shameful soft tone.

His wooden frame was warped and infested with woodlice from years of neglect.

“I know what to call you. From now on, your new name will be Woodworm.”

When I held out my hand to shake his hand, his eyes lit up. “It’s nice to meet you, Lucy,” he said as he gripped his cold wooden hand around mine.

Days passed with no sign of Woodworm. I stood at the top of the street waiting for the sound of his wooden feet to come clip-clopping down the street. Instead, Woodworm's father came stumbling down the street drunk.

“Have you seen your son, today,”

He looked at me cockeyed.

“Who are you?” he incoherently blurted.

“My name is Lucy. I’m a friend of your son.”

“Who would want to be friends with that freak?” he said as he stumbled away mumbling to himself.

Woodworm's father was the local carpenter and drunkard. When he wasn’t busy mending barrels for the brewery he was busy drinking it dry. You always hear him cursing as he staggers home at night with a belly full of whiskey ready to unleash what demons stir in his soul on poor Woodworm.

The town was busy getting ready for the spring festival, and all the wives were busy scrubbing the year-old grime from the cobblestones.

I cut left down by the old flour mill and made my way towards the field at the back of the church. As I neared the rusty iron gates, I got a strange smell of burning damp wood.

When I crossed the clearing, the burning smell intensified. Across the field of bright blue wildflowers, I saw a group of boys dancing around an open fire as two other boys held Woodenworm over the flames.

“Leave him alone,” I shouted while holding a thick tree branch above my head.

One of the older boys looked me up and down with contempt

“This is none of your business. Now go home before we throw you on the fire with him.”

I brought the branch down on his brutish shaved head, knocking him to the floor. I swung the branch around like a crazy person hitting anything that got in my way.

The boys left standing, picked their friends off the floor before making their escape from the field.

I brought Woodworm to the river and threw water on his smouldering backside.

“That should do it. Just a little scratch.” Woodworm looks to the ground in silent shame.

“As the boys held me over the flame I wondered if the flames felt as nice as its glow,” he said as he looked down at his wooden hands.

“Why does your father treat you so badly,”

A sadness emanated from Woodworm's eyes.

“My father and my mother couldn’t have kids so he made me. But when my mother got sick he blamed me for dying. He said I was an abomination that shouldn’t have existed.

I took his hand and placed it on mine before kissing him softly on the cheek. “I’m glad you exist,” I whispered gently in his ear.

Today was the spring festival, and the people were busy getting their stalls ready. The fresh spring morning brought a happy vibe, and everyone was eager for the festivities to begin. Amongst the hustle and bustle, I caught two of the boys from yesterday whispering to each other before running down one of the side lanes.

“Knowing those two, I’m sure they’re up to something,” I thought to myself as I followed discreetly behind them.

I followed the winding lanes to an old abandoned tannery and watched as they disappeared through a broken window. I run to the window and watch them scurry through the dark, damp building, laughing and hollering to themselves.

The first thing that hit me was the unforgivable stench. I held my nose as I followed the sounds of laughter up a dilapidated staircase. I made my way down a narrow hall to a room with a large tanning pool in the centre.

The same boys from before, along with some of my so-called friends, stood around jeering as they held Woodworm over the stinking, festering pool of sludge.

“Go home, traitor. You’re not wanted here,” shouted one of the girls.

“We want to know if it floats like a boat,” laughed one of the boys.

I puffed my chest out in defiance. “Put him down, or you’ll have me to deal with,” I screamed”

“What will you do? You're just a weak little girl.”

I walked over and punched the boy in the nose. He stumbled before dropping Woodworm to wipe the blood from his face.

“That’s the second time you’ve embarrassed me,” he bellowed as he came at me.

He grabbed my neck and squeezed it tight. I fought to get his hands off me, but his grip tightened around my neck. I felt my legs go weak as I gasped for breath. I pushed and shoved when all of a sudden, he lost his footing and fell backwards into the pool of sludge.

Some of the boy's friends ran for home, while the others stood and watched as their friend struggled to keep afloat before he disappeared into the murky depths of the pool

I picked Woodworm up and we made a run for the woods. We both kept running and didn’t stop until we got deep into the woods

Too tired to keep going we stopped and huddled behind a tree.

“We’re in trouble, Woodworm. I just killed that boy.”

I felt his cold wooden arms wrap around my waist.

“It was an accident, right,” he says softly.

“That won’t matter to these people. Trust me. I know what they’re like.”

Beams of golden light shone through the branches as the sun started to set.

“Why are those boys so mean to me,” he asked with a saddened voice.

It’s because you are different and not like them. People in our town don’t like different.”

Woodworm looked up at me with sad blue eyes.

“I dream about becoming a real boy. In the dream, there’s a beautiful woman with arms of fire, and she wraps them around me in a warm embrace,” he said in a soft broken voice.

“You’re real to me,” I said as I drifted off to sleep.

I woke to angry eyes staring down at me. I tried to scream, but they grabbed me and stuffed me in the back of a horse-drawn carriage.

The carriage stopped in the middle of the town center. A crowd of people were waiting and started throwing rotten fruit as we emerged from the carriage. I saw my dad, who barely made eye contact as he hid behind his shame.

My heart started racing with dread when I caught a glance at the large stack of wood piled in the center of the town

“What are you going to do to me? I didn’t do anything.” I pleaded

Three of the town elders sat at a makeshift bench, waiting to pass their judgment on me. They looked down on me from their pedestal of righteousness, judging me with their leering eyes.

“For the murder of Mr Goldberts, son, what do you say in your defence?”

I looked around at all the angry faces and realized my fate was already sealed. One of the boys from before stood by the bench and pointed aggressively towards me.

“She did it. She pushed Henry in the pool.” A feeling of anger rose from the pit of my stomach.

“He’s a liar. It was an accident. He was trying to kill me, I swear on it.”

As I pleaded my innocence, a piece of rotting fruit hit me in the face. The crowd started shouting even louder. “Burn the murderer.”

Men in black hoods began pouring oil on the stacks of wood. The guy that grabbed me from the woods stepped out from the crowd with Woodworm in his grasp.

“We believe this thing was with her when it happened.”

He shoved Woodworm in front of the elders, who stared at him as if he was worthless.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” He looked at me with sorry eyes before looking back to the bench.

“I did it. I killed him. He was going to kill Lucy, so I pushed him.”

The three elders started whispering back and forth.

One of the girls that took the most pleasure in tormenting Woodworm stood from the crowd.

“He’s telling the truth. I saw it myself. We need to burn him.”

The crowd jeered and hollered as the elders continued to whisper to each other.

“We have made our decision.”

Their eyes focused on Woodworm as he stood there shaking.

“For the crime of murder, we sentence you to death. Take him away immediately.”

I felt my heart snap in two as they dragged Woodworm to his death. I ran to the front of the screaming crowd.

“Please, Woodworm, you can’t do this. You can’t leave me. Please, I love you.”

He reached down his hand out close enough for me to touch the tips of his wooden fingers.

“I’ll never forget you, Lucy. You made me feel like a real boy. I love you too.”

I looked up at his sparkling blue eyes, and the painted-on smile disappeared. The tips of his fingers start to feel warm, and his cold, wooden hands turn silky soft.

“Look at your hands, Woodworm.”

“What’s happening to me, Lucy,” he said as the momentary excitement was broken as the crowd pulled me back.

I stood and watched him turn from a broken wooden toy into a handsome blue-eyed boy, as one of the hooded men set the wood alight.

The look of sheer terror on Woodworm's face sent me into a hysterical mess. I pleaded for them to let him go, but my words got lost amongst the roaring crowd.

The crowd went silent as the fire engulfed his entire body, and his unmerciful cries rang out through the town.

Some people gasped in horror as others walked away in shame. I stood there helplessly when all of a sudden, Woodworm's tortuous screams stopped. The flames started twisting around his body and a sudden calm appeared on his face.

Woodworm's eyes focused on something within the flames. He beamed a big bright smile as the figure of a beautiful woman appeared. Just like the woman from Woodworm’s dreams, she wrapped her fiery hands around him, engulfing his entire body. The fire quickly dissipates, and all that’s left is a smouldering pile of wood.

As I sat by the river, hoping to feel Woodworm's presence, I looked out over the blue fields and saw the figure of a beautiful woman and young boy dancing amongst the glow of the setting sun.

I write my story to let the world know that the blue-eyed boy I called my friend existed.