If you have any additional tips for this writing, I'd appreciate it! I don't think this is my best work.

No peace, no silence. Just creaking. The constant, ever loud, squealing of wood brushing against itself. Hinges scream with every thud, thankfully just loud enough to cover the noises I don’t care to hear. The sounds I can’t bear to listen to. Sally, I’m so sorry.

It’s looking for me. Crashing its way through the house, bashing its heads against the walls, trying to sense the vibration of my body. It probably knows where I am already – just taking a while to reach my room, where I lean against the door, waiting.

I let it into the house. I gave in. I deserve this. I betrayed Sally, and now she suffers the consequences that were meant for me. I knew better than to let it in.

I’m weak, though. A feeble soul. No spirit to fight, nor a will to stand.

I could offer a million apologies at best, but who would hear them? Forgiveness offers no ear.

Judgement is all that lurks and listens.

It crashes through the kitchen, spilling silverware and dishes, hiding more of poor sally’s suffering. I never saw what happened to her. I only heard the sloshing of blood, the tearing of paper, and her screams. I’ve never heard her like that, so terrified, so pained, so mournful. I wish I could undo it all for her sake. My only fear is that nothing would change – it would only be a matter of time before I did it again, and all this would have happened anyway.

The thudding vibrates the house, and the floors creak. The door behind tells of my presence – the whole house stands against me. As much as I’d like to curse it for the betrayal, I cannot blame it. I’ve allowed my sin entrance, and now it stans the wood I’ve cut and placed.

I built this house with my sweat, and destroyed it with my failure.

The bashing of welded bodies against the walls and ceiling rattles my bones. The thing is trying to get through the hall, coming straight for me.

The feminine whispers call out my name, beckoning me to allow it entrance once more. It knows everything, for I’ve offered it all my knowledge. It crawls, stomps, and bashes. The hinges upon the door wail, “He’s here!”, and the wood tiles below pinpoint my location.

Silence follows after one final thud. I find no solace in it, though. Sally’s pain cries out, ripping my hardened heart in two.

Worse than that, though, is the whispering.

Men and women alike, just behind my door, describe what they’ve done for the flesh. The violence of carnal desire, the desecration of something so sacred to mankind, all while children whisper things they should never know.

I run to hide beneath the bed, the sheets fall and cover the underside. I’m hidden, but that thing doesn’t need eyes to find me. The door slams open, and the whispers become more clear. More horrid things they speak of, the force, the pleasure, the overabundance. Indulgent days pass as it approaches.

Then the whispers grow faint, then fall to inexistence.

Bed sheets shuffle to my right, as though they’re being lifted up. Then comes a horrid feeling, the dread of closing my eyes in a room I feel I’m being watched in. A warm wind is carried to the side of my face, the source of which I never wish to discover. I stare at the bed frame, never to turn my head.

Years pass, it feels, until the sheets are lifted again, and the breathing stops. I turn to check.

There’s a woman’s face – one I’ve never seen before. Beautiful, impossibly so. Indescribable in her features, and any attempt to do so a disservice to her loveliness.

Against my own interest, I long for her in that short moment. I’ve learned nothing.

She smiles a toothy grin – the grin the lustful bear when they get what they want – and screams through her teeth.

The thing flips the bed and reveals itself entirely. A writhing mass of bodies – a jungle of women, men, and hollow-eyed children. They grin, screaming through their teeth. Not in joy, but rather in rage. They bash against the ceiling of the room, smacking the walls, screaming through their grinning teeth. Their flesh begins to melt, their teeth begin to rot, and they grab me by my arms and legs. Hoisting me up, they scream so hard blood flies from their throats, and in a swift motion, they pull my arms and legs in opposite directions.

Blood sloshes, I scream and groan in pain for a long while, until I am no more.

I am not gifted inexistence, though. I spend my eternity with the welded flesh, being ripped apart constantly, and reminded that it was my face that Sally saw. It was her longing for me, her faithfulness in me, that had her bear my consequence in those short moments. I can only hope she has been given the rest I’ve been denied.

New horror novella...

https://youtu.be/l_ABy3El0ss?si=9VdyBNxMcvGJSEGS

As a man walked into the woods that he had walked in for years he noticed how empty and dark it was there were dark clouds rolling over ahead he knew he couldnt be in the woods for very long but he loved to go for walks so he kept on going as he got about 8 miles from were he entered he heard a whistle. He stopped and looked around thinking “Im the only one who comes into these wood who else could be out here?” He just ignored it and started to walk back to his car that is when he heard another whistle come from in front of him he stopped to look around again his heart pounding this time! He started to run pulling out his pocket knife if shit went wrong. As he kept running he could hear the whistling turn more into a song. He couldnt make out what song it was but it chilled him to his bones. He had finally gotten to his car when he saw a figure standing there in the forest line staring straigh at him it was almost hellish it had no human figures its fingers were 3 times the size of human fingers and its body almost look like he was starving it also had a flute in his one hand in the other he had a long 8 inch hunting knife in it! That is when the man Put his car in difrve and sped off down the road.




As the rain started to come down he could barley see the road when he left the wooded area he drove into a motel that was on the highway. He got out of his car and bought a room for the night he pulled out his phone to call the police when he noticed that his phone was recording he forgot that he had recorded adio of the walk for his youtube page. He stopped it and then rewinded to the part he thought the song would be in. He had heard the song somewhere it was the Path of DArkness a flute song he had learned in collage. That is when he heard a knock at his door “Who is it?” there was no answer he got up and walked to the door to see who was there he saw nothing thought the peep hole so he gathered all of his courage and opened the door as he looked out he felt a knife go into his stomach as he looked up he saw the thing that was in the wood staring straight at him it was atleast 8 foot tall with almost no facial features but he could see a sick smile emerge from the darkness with two glowing red dots for eyes. 




As the monster turned the knife sideways the man screamed in pain as the knife was ripped out of his he could tell there was a wood cutting part on the knife as it ripped thought his flesh the monster than let out a dark laugh and kicked him in the face as the man flew back and hit the wall knocking him out for a minute. He woke up to find himself in the hospital he was missing both of his legs and arms he screamed in terror “What the fuck is going on!” 

Looking for all the people out there hustling for their passion. How long have you been at? What sub genres do you write in and how is your journey going? Been at it myself for just under a year and while I’m only breaking even I truly enjoy it! Just looking to hear your stories.

Hello, I am seeking a beta reader for my psychological horror story. I am willing to swap if the stories are similar in length. Dm if you are interested! Link to the document below and feel free to comment, I have it set so that you can.

Simon Neville, a retired operative, joins his son, Remmy, a zoologist, on an expedition to a remote island to study a newly discovered species of vampire bats; aboard the research vessel Spearhead, their journey takes a deadly turn.

Dark, unseen forces invade the ship, slaughtering or abducting the crew and passengers one by one. Simon and Remmy struggle to survive, they face a desperate race against time—trapped in an endless expanse of ocean, hunted by creatures beyond their comprehension. Can Simon’s skills as a former operative protect them both, or has retirement dulled his edge and slowed his step, thus sealing their fate in the veiled darkness?

Find out in Crooked Fangs.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1sksSFH5t1upwzpjZ-K9LzCTprU6ricltUtebLuLaiV8/edit?usp=sharing

September 1919, Morning
Barahpur village, Punjab, British India

The sun shone like it was the last sunrise. I was at the top of the world. Serene. With my beloved.. I held her. My lips covered her mouth. The sky went crimson.

Then I woke up.

‘Murtad!’

‘Blasphemer!’

‘Gadhaar!’

It has been going on for a week now. The name-calling. Truth be told, I am used to it by now. What woke me up now was not the incessant barrage of slurs heading my way, but some vandal’s projectile through the window. The pane was already broken in yesterday’s stoning. This time it smashed into a water pot loudly. That was what woke me up.

There was a loud cheer outside. The satisfaction of the stone having found a mark. A sign of some damage being done. In a way it was good. This way the mob found catharsis before they decided on lynching me. And they will lynch me one of these days. They have their reasons. 

Murtad! Apostate. That is a fair accusation. When the village qazi told me that my wife and son died because of my behaviour towards my fellow moslems, I shoved him into a drain. I had fought in the Mesopotamian campaign of the Great War against the Turks, and in Afghanistan against the Lashkars. He said I had picked the wrong side.

Gadhaar! Traitor. That is one that I do not accept. While I was a Subedar Major in the Army in service of the British Empire, I never had to fight my own countrymen. Earlier this year in April, the Amritsar massacre had happened. General Dyer had ordered his men to fire at hundreds of men, women and children. That made every Indian I know fiercely hateful of the general. A bastard let out a rumour that I fought under General Dyer in Afghanistan. It didn't matter to the people that we weren’t even in the same division. In village news, I was the general’s right-hand man.

Cursed! That unfortunately is true, and probably the only thing keeping me alive. My family is cursed. My father was cursed in his youth by a chudail he killed. That all his bloodline will cease to exist in a generation. This is just one of the six stories going around in the village, and also one of the most plausible ones. My mother had six miscarriages before having me and my sister. My sister was fifteen when she died during childbirth. My mother dropped dead in her kitchen one day. My father, a man whom I believed to have an iron will and a lion’s heart, walked into the sun-set one day and was never seen again. The flu took my wife and son while I was on the frontier. I am the last of the bloodline, and anyone associated with me dies. That is the general consensus in the village.

‘Happy now, right? Now leave. Let him be.’ 

Qasim’s rough voice chided the crowd. He was the village barber. People were used to listening to him. The mob started to break up, the murmurs ranging from a jolly sense of achievement to curses over the spoilsport. 

‘Wake-up, you..’

Qasim kicked open the door. He took a long look at me and sighed. ‘I was half-hoping that you would have left this place by now.’

I didn’t say anything. I’m used to his loud sighs. It was his way of showing disappointment.

‘One of these days, it won’t stop at a smashed clay pot,’ he sighed again.

‘Let it burn. Let it all burn.’ My voice gurgled with suppressed rage and grief, as I spoke. ‘I don’t care, Qasim. What is there left for me in this wretched place?’

Qasim pulled the teapoy close to my sprawled self on the mat.

‘If nothing is left, why do you have to stay here? You know the mullah will not stop at this. He wants your blood and he will have it. Every friday sermon he mentions you - enemy of the qaum and millat. None of the shopkeepers will sell you anything, and your neighbours’ cows are feeding on your crops.

‘Even if the mullah quietens done, do you think your wretched brother-in-law will be silent? He is the one who spreads these rumours. Allah alone knows why people listen to him.’

I nodded. Whatever Qasim said was the truth. While I had lost interest in confronting the qazi and the mob he brought, I was sure I would drive a dagger through my wicked brother-in-law’s heart if I ever set my eyes upon him.

‘I swear it’s the end times. War and disease upon us. Men turning on men for a bigha of land and a bottle of arrack. Leave this land and go somewhere else. I will ask your brother-in-law to buy your land. He won’t allow other buyers to approach you. Take whatever pittance you get, and abandon this foul village. It is not you who are cursed, it’s our village.’

Qasim took a broom and swept off the clay shards.

I got up, washed my face from another clay pot.

‘I am not going, Qasim. Not until I stab that bastard through the eye. Then the whole village can tear me apart and set me upon fire.’

‘I hope they won’t. There are always a few people who don’t believe in the curse story. I don’t know if that is good or bad.’ Qasim tried to fix the window pane. It was a lost cause.

‘Like you.’ I snickered.

‘Yes, I am more of a man of practical means. Chudails and curses do not scare me. Monsters do not exist.’ He searched the kitchen for tea. ‘You’re out of sugar.’

‘Monsters do exist. They are men!’ I spat. There was no spittle. My throat was as parched as my land.

‘Talking about monsters, there is a man whom you might want to see. He’s from Kumaon. Some village closer to the Nepal border. They need a hunter.’

‘That is in the United Provinces of Agra and Oudh, and they are probably looking for tiger-hunters. I hunted wolves in Behar ten years ago. They are different things. Besides, why is he searching for hunters so far?’

‘He’s a travelling apothecary. The village can’t afford a hunter. The whole province is overridden with man-eaters. Why don’t you go there? Help some folks out, and then this change of atmosphere will help you as well. Come back when it’s all cooled down. Or..’

‘Or?’

‘Don’t come back at all. Find a good girl. You’re young. Find a place where they don’t remind you of curses and deaths.’

I didn’t say anything.

He placed the tea-cup beside me, and walked towards the door. 

‘I have asked him to come here at noon. See if you can convince yourself. You deserve a good life.’ Qasim left.

They did too. Hot tears ran down my cheeks and sank into my beard.

* * *

I donned my last set of fresh clothes. The washerwoman has not turned up. She wouldn’t. Hindoo or Moslem, no one would go against the qazi. 

As I approached the well to get a pot of water, women gathered their water pots and moved away hurriedly. Children squinted and stared while I filled the pots.

I hung the washing on the clothesline. It might not take all the stains out but certainly would help with the smell. I needed to visit my family. Then find a shop that would sell me some sugar and wheat.

* * *

It was peaceful today. A great contrast to what transpired in the morning. Probably because nobody noticed me here. The birds chirped and squirrels ran up and down the trees. The sunlight was pleasant, sieved down through the babul leaves.

The marker over mother’s grave had worn off. The ones over my wife’s and son’s were wooden and won’t last beyond a few years. I had intended to replace them at first, but never got around to it. My sister’s grave marker had all but disappeared. The weeds had covered the place.

I’m sorry.. I whispered. I should have been here, instead of fighting another man’s war. Instead of fighting for a country that wasn’t mine against another country in yet another country. I should have stayed and died with you. I should have been a good husband and a good father.

I was away for four years in the Great War. Four years without seeing my wife and child. Four years where I abandoned her to her greedy brother. Four years after which I was given a second chance. A chance which I should have taken.

‘You!’

The voice was too familiar. The last time I heard it was from the depths of a storm drain. 

‘Not now, Qazi. I am leaving.. Just let me be..’

‘No, you get out now! You unbeliever! Hypocrite! Traitor!’ The qazi’s spittle spotted his beard. His followers stood at a distance. Their courage depended on the qazi’s.

I raised my palm, signalling that I was leaving. Walking away. I didn’t have the strength to shove him into another drain.

‘If I see you again near my mosque, I will dig up those graves and you can carry your cursed family back with you.’

The qazi knew he had spoken too much. I could see it in his soul, when I ran towards him with murder in my eyes.

------------------
To be continued

Murtad - Apostate (Islamic/Arabic term)
Gadhaar- Traitor
Chudail - Witch (In Indian languages)
Quam - Religious community
Millat - Nation
Mullah/Qazi - Muslim priests
Hindoo/Moslem - Archaic terms for Hindu/Muslim
United Provinces of Agra and Oudh - British controlled province, corresponds to modern day Uttar Pradesh and other states in India
Great War - Preferred term for World War I before the 1940s

Just wanted to say hello and express how excited I am that there is a group of like minded maniacs out there.

                      I.

Oh, hush now, child, just take a bite and gain your strength. A growing boy needs to eat. While you eat, I'll tell you a story. A stormy night like this reminds me of my first born, rest his soul. His name was Anton , and he was brought into the world on a night just like this. Storms brewing, thunder rattling the windows and the sky lit up with streaks of lightning. What a glorious scene to bring life into our home. I was so proud to be his mama, can't say the same about his pa. Don't worry, I'll explain that later. Eat up now. Ronald was a strong and handsome man. The best crop of our family. See back in my day, to keep the bloodline strong, we were courted by our cousins. And he was my chosen beau. My, my, my was he a dreamboat. Muscular arms, tall and full of wonder. His mama, my aunt Vera, happily took the four cows and Billy goat for the dowry. The two of us were married in the old Abbadon church up on the hill near Necropolis Creek. It was a small ceremony but oh, was it beautiful. I sure shed a tear or two when he put that ring on my finger. The first few years were a dream, but then Ronald started up his still. That corn liquor he made sure brought the devil out of him. He would beat me something fierce if I didn't have dinner ready the moment he came home from the mines. Ain't nothin worse than taking a coal dust covered fist to the face. That black powder leaves a harsh sting in your eye, and the swelling is horrendous, to say the least.

What's that? Oh, you don't like the soup? Well, that's quite alright, I'll sit it over here for now. Hm, where was I? Ah, that's right. After I learned the proper way to avoid Ronald's fits of rage, I did my best to keep him in good spirits. Freshly baked cookies filled with barbiturates did the trick. But it tended to put him in a certain mood. The downside of his giant size was his lustful manner and what he was equipped with. I'll spare you the details, but let's just say he would leave me sore and praying for the nights to end quickly. It made matters worse when I would ask him to stop. Didn't take long to learn to bear the burden and just let the man get his fill. It was a painful process, but I'd rather have dealt with that than that thick leather strap being brought against my back and cheek. Especially when he swung it with the brass buckle at the end of it. Never a fun experience, trust me, deary.

As luck would have it, we were eventually blessed with a visit from the stork. Yes, sir, I was pregnant. And let me tell ya, the weight and pains were absolute hell. It made cooking and cleaning difficult with a giant belly in my way. Ronald was not at all pleased by that, which meant he would either take a strap to me or throw a few punches to my stomach. But that's just how the man was, so I had to up the dosage on the barbiturates in order to calm his fits of rage. But that also meant he would be even rougher in the carnal way. Eventually, one thing led to another, and during a session of rough passion, he caused my water to break. I was new to the realm of pregnancy, so I didn't know that blood was a bad sign. What fourteen year old lady would know such things? What's that? Oh, why yes I did get married young but that was normal back then. Ronald? I believe he was nineteen when we wed. Don't look at me like that. You kids nowadays live differently, in my day, that was normal. Shoosh now, and let me continue. Like I said, I was new to motherhood and didn't know what to expect. Although I did find it odd that I also bled out of my nose while pink foam oozed out of my eyes. It was a mess of fluids, and oh my, the birthing pains. Child, let me tell you, I would rather have been beaten with Ronald's hickory cane than go through that again.

After the straining and pushing through my labor, our little boy was born. Ronald gasped and yelled when he caught a glimpse of the baby. I believe his exact words were, "Shit! What the hell did you grow in your body, woman? Toss it off the cliff out yonder!" He was not happy with the child he had a hand in making. Granted, Anton wasn't the most handsome boy, but he was such an angel. He had one of my blue eyes and one of Ronald's hazel eyes. His hair did grow in odd places due to the patches of orange scales that protruded from his scalp. But it was clear the hair color came from my side of the family. His olive skin was a sure sign of Ronald's side. But the jagged horn above his left eyebrow was a mystery to me. As was the tail with its heart shaped tip, it caught me off guard as well.

I refused to listen to Ronald, no matter how much he beat me. Anton was our baby, and I would protect him no matter what. Motherhood is sure difficult. I'll tell ya. Never knew that babies drank blood along with breast milk. But Anton sure loved to bite hard enough to break the skin. Sometimes, he preferred to feed from my wrists instead of my breast. He would use a small set of rather sharp teeth to make a hole in my vein. It was a little uncomfortable but what can you do? Huh? Sorry honey, you need to speak up. I don't hear so well anymore after Anton chewed this ear off. Oh no. I never had relations with anyone else prior. Anton was definitely Ronald's child. What's that? Oh no, no, no. Why would I ever beat my child? It was just an ear. Besides, Anton didn't know what he was doing. And he seemed rather happy after he ingested it. He had been struck with a terrible tummy ache that week, and after he swallowed my ear, he was cured. It was so strange, but I was relieved that my boy felt better afterward. How could I punish him for that?

Anyway, as the years went on, Ronald got worse with his drinking. This meant he got meaner. He tried many times to take Anton away and throw him off the cliff near our home or leave him outside in the cold during the winter following his birth. One time, he got so angry that he threw the boy through our window. I tried to warn him about Anton's dewclaws, but he refused to listen. And he would complain about the boy's glowing eyes. To be fair, it did give me a start the first time I saw Anton's eyes glowing in the dark. But that was no reason for him to be thrown out like a piece of trash, especially out a glass window. Luckily, our baby boy was a tough little cookie. He barely bled and received no broken bones.

On his fourth birthday, we had both had our fill with Ronald's bad behavior. I had spent all day making a nice cake full of Anton's favorite flavors. Buttercream, chocolate, blood, and stag beetles. I spent that day slaving over the stove to fry up the possums who had been rummaging through our trash. They're a bit gamey in taste, but Anton loved to eat them. I added some mashed potatoes and deep-fried scorpions drizzled in honey, and the dinner was complete. I even clipped off my pinky toe to give the birthday boy an extra treat for his special day. After all, he did have a fondness for the taste of my flesh. I'd do anything for that boy.

Ronald barged in shortly after Anton had blown out his candles. The man reeked of corn liquor and cigars. He slapped my poor baby across the face so hard that a tooth flew out of his mouth, I heard it bounce onto the floor. He shed those green colored tears and ran to his room. I threw off my apron and ran after him, but Ronald stopped me. He gripped my arm hard and spun me around. Fire burned in his eyes when he scolded me. "You worthless bitch! Why are you celebrating that creature? He needs to die!" He slapped me in the face then stormed towards Anton. I heard the door fly open, and the sound of his hand pummeling against my child sent a jolt in my spine. Anton wailed in pain while Ronald screamed at him. Calling him a beast, monster, and bastard.

I hit my breaking point then and gripped the knife I was going to use to cut the cake. The wooden handle creaked when I squoze it. I slowly started walking towards the sounds, my heart thumped so hard that I could feel it in my temples. My ears buzzed, and my legs felt stiff. I wasn't sure what my true intentions were but I knew I had to stop Ronald. Right as I got to the doorway, the commotion ceased and was replaced by a wet noise followed by a long moaning gasp of air. I walked in to see Anton pulling his horn out of a hole it had created in Ronald's stomach. The red liquid spurt, and some landed on my dress. The fluid slowly dripped off of the horn, and a pool surrounded Ronald. He glared at me and rasped. "Kill that damn thing, Mabel. Now!" His hand squoze my ankle. I kicked him off and dropped to my knees. A spark lit up within me, and i watched my arms raise and bring that blade deep into the chest of the man I once loved.

I can't tell you how many times I drove it in or how long I spent cleaning the mess we had made. Anton helped move the body into our little shed. Over the course of a month, my growing boy had completely devoured the corpse of his late father until there was nothing left but bones. Such a helpful child. I sold Ronalds still and his tractor in order to make ends meet. Eventually, I opened up my own bakery down on Dartmoth Avenue. Anton helped me for a while but avoided every customer that came in to buy my baked goods. He was such a shy boy. Oh, here. Why don't you have a cookie sweetey. They're fresh and made from real strawberries. They were one of my best sellers at the bakery.

Help yourself while I continue. Now, when Anton was fifteen, he became interested in girls. He had his eye on a few and I did my best to educate him. At least from a woman's perspective. He went a courtin' but sadly all the girls ran away from him. He was reaching seven feet tall and I guess his horn, tail and dew claws seemed off putting. But if they had looked past those things, they would see what a sweet boy he was. He soon went sneaking out periodically. I knew it was happening, but I didn't yell at him for it. I thought the freedom would break him out of his shell. Little did I know what he was doing during those nightly adventures. I soon found out when I discovered the scalps of a few girls along with their torn dresses. The fabric was tattered and stained red. The scalps look to have been crudely ripped off. Clearly, things didn't work out with them, and Anton. Before I could hide these things or talk to my son, there was an orange glow outside and a loud banging at the door. I answered it to see the entire town in my yard. All equipped with torches and a few had rope and knives. They demanded Anton to come out. They were gonna lynch my poor baby! I couldn't let that happen so I tried to slam the door. Unfortunately I wasn't strong enough and they busted in. Two men hit me then held me down while a few others ran into Anton's to discover the scalps and dresses. They destroyed the house, trying to find him. Eventually, they caught him while he attempted to run out of the back door.

I was dragged to witness the heartbreaking event. I was to be there to watch my boy hang. The men tied his hands behind his back and pushed him to the center of town. They strung up a rope and tied the noose while a group of five beat and stomped on my poor Anton. He shrieked with agony as the blood spewed from his mouth. One man gouged his beautiful blue eye out. In a twist of events, he broke his restraints and was able to hold his own for a while. He ripped the throats of two, then snapped the neck of another. I cheered for my boy as he fought for his life. But he was soon overpowered. The mayor stuck a knife in his back, then they put that rope around his neck. They pulled him off the ground and forced me to watch him flail and kick until the life fluttered from his one remaining eye. They left him hanging for three days before setting his body on fire. I was punished for trying to save him. The bastards burned my bakery and locked me in the courthouse jail for eight days. Seeing that they saw me as a sad old woman, I wasn't banished or anything like that. But for a while, no one spoke to me.

I still miss my son dearly and these stormy nights remind me of him. And your bright blue eyes remind me of him too. Oh, you wanna know what makes those cookies so crunchy? Why those are the bits of stag beetle wings. Anton loved those! Ugh! How rude. Why would you spit those out? Such disrespect. I'm gonna have to leave you here to sit and think of what you've done. Distasteful display, I swear.

                      II.

Have you thought about your actions, young man? No? Just gonna sit there in silence? Fine then. You know, you should be grateful for every meal you receive. Some day things like that won't be around. It's a good thing you weren't here for the famine of '82. My, what a dreadful time to be in Azazel Pines. There was a terrible drought followed by a monstrous plague of black mold, which decimated everyone's fields. Not a single ear of corn or grain of wheat could be eaten. What crops didn't die from lack of rain were destroyed by the black pulsing veins of that nasty disease. I remember watching old Cotton Athens trying to eat an infected batch of potatoes. They were covered in that mold, and two days after he ate them, he ran outside screaming. His eyes were oozing pus, and his stomach was bloated. As I watched him fall to his knees, his stomach burst open. Blood and intestines splattered on the yellow grass that had been dead for months. Large insects popped out and dug into the dirt. Poor Cotton rolled in pure terror and agony for a few minutes before bleeding to death. There were a few other residents who tried eating the plagued crops. Each one died in about the same manner. The whole damn thing caused the population here to dwindle drastically.

This led to everyone around here turning to hunting. Now most folks around these parts did hunt on occasion, but now it was becoming a necessity. However, the problem was that you had to look out for the animals with black mushrooms growing from their ears and nose. Or pay attention to the green sludge that dripped from their eyes or mouth. Those ones were rabbid and infected with that black mold. If you ate them, you'd go insane. It was a time of discovery because no one in the beginning knew the effects of eating those poor critters. I heard a man down the road lost his mind and tried eating his wife. I don't know how true it is, but I didn't want to take any chances. So I made sure to steer clear of any odd looking animals just to be safe.

With the fear of the mold and crazed animals, resources became limited, and the stores barely had any reserves. Now, being alone with barely any money, I couldn't really get any provisions from the markets in town. But I was smart and had a basement full of preservatives and pickled vegetables. Due to the famine and such, I made sure to eat them sparingly. To save on the food that was stored in jars, I did take to looking for a way to trap healthy animals for the protein. Not being much of a trapper myself, this was a bit of a struggle. However it was easier than expected to catch a few squirrels and raccoons when they came around. One of these critters was already infected so I had to toss it out. That was a mistake, though, because the neighbor's dog ended up eating it. I guess I should have either burned or buried it. I would soon pay for that mistake.

That was a terrifying night, nearly had a heart attack. The damn thing busted through my window and tried to eat me. The crazed mut ripped right into my leg. Take a look. I still have a nasty scar from it. Hideous sight, ain't it? When it latched onto my leg, I panicked and hit it upside the head. That briefly stunned the animal long enough for me to run in the main room and grab Ronald's old rifle. He only showed me how to shoot it once, so I was nervous about firing it. The dog crept in on shaky legs. A long trail of green mucus fell from those nasty teeth. There were polyps and other disgusting tumors that littered its body. Some pulsed and spewed gut wrenching fluids that smelled like death. I swear I could hear its heartbeat as it got closer. The thing lunged at me and I closed my eyes then pulled the trigger. The sound made my ears ring, but I got lucky and hit it. Upon opening my eyes I saw the blood and brains of the animal all over my walls. The head completely exploded. Weird writhing black insects squirmed out of the crude opening of what was once its skull. They fell from the opening and wriggled to the spaces in between the floor planks and fell through the cracks. Smoke rose from the pungent blood that almost looked like tar. The dog's legs twitched, and it sent me in a panic. I gripped the gun and shot it one more time. After that, I buried the body out back and spent hours cleaning the mess.

I learned real quick how to use that gun afterwards, making sure to have it on me at all times. Crazed animals with those growths continued trying to attack me which ended up leaving a literal pile of dead critters. Eventually I had to burn them in a large fire pit out back. It got worse when the neighbors started trying to come after me. The worst was Sheila Evans. Her haggard shape and jerky steps scared the dickens out of me when I was sitting on my porch. She screamed at me, but it sounded like a dying wolf or something. Her eyes were gone and all that was left was vacant holes. And these strange ropes of blue material were there. They swayed back and forth like a group of earthworms. Her teeth were gone, replaced by what I can only be described as insect pincers. You know, like what beetles have in the front of their heads. The sides of her mouth were cracked, flesh split all the way up to her ears. When she screamed, it opened up wide to show her spine behind that disgusting purple tongue littered with yellow boils. The worst part was when she bent over and started galloping towards me on all fours. Large talons had grown over her fingers. A mass of waving tentacles burst from her back. They flailed in the air, sending a sound that resembled a distorted windchime.

Her speed was inhuman, and I surprised even myself when pulling the trigger to landed a shot right in her skull. It only slowed the deformed woman down. So I hastily unloaded a few more shots until she fell limp. As I approached, Sheila was breathing heavily and leaking a fluid that looked like oil. She stunk of rot, and then her head snapped towards me. A mucus of red escaped that horrifying mouth and hit my face. Some of the remnants landed right on my tongue. The taste sent me into a world of disgust accompanied by a fit of blind rage. Without thinking, I took the butt of the gun and bashed her head in until I heard a loud crack. Once the body ceased moving, I doused it in gasoline and let it burn to ash.

What's that? Oh heavens no. We were never friends so I didn't feel too bad. But then again, I doubt Sheila ever wanted to become something so macabre. Don't you worry child, she's in a much better place. I'm glad you decided to finally chime in. Are you hungry? No? That's alright. I'll make you something when you're ready. Now the famine continued like this for almost an entire year. During that time I had to end countless animals and about eight townsfolk. All of them resembled what poor old Sheila had turned into. And towards the end, I started getting strange cravings. I had found a pack of dead possums near my trash can, and I don't know what came over me, but I ate them. It was like some animalistic hunger came over me, and I couldn't hold back. Something about the smell of expired meat and their soiled fur, it just sent a terrible hunger in my stomach. I'll tell ya, raw meat takes a lot of effort to chew. It's even worse when you're trying to tear it from the bone with your teeth. Tends to be a little easier when the meat has been rotting for a week or two. And boy, do the clumps of hair hurt when you try to pass them on the toilet. Oh dear, I apologize. Talking like that isn't very lady-like. So sorry, deary. Huh? Oh no. I never went and tried eating a neighbor. I'm no cannibal. Just the occasional rotten rodent. The deader, the better, was my motto back then. But I tried to eat the corpses before maggots began squirming around the spoiled meat. Those damn creepy crawlies taste way too much like almonds, and I absolutely despise almonds. So usually, I would brush them off before eating the pieces of meat with that green shimmer and sickly sweet scent.

After the famine finally ended, it seemed like I saw less and less of those random dead critters. This meant I had to teach myself how to eat normal cooked food again. It took some time, but eventually, I trained my body back to normalcy for the most part. But I'll tell you a secret, sometimes I'll go out and shoot me a squirrel or raccoon and leave their body out for a while. Let them bake in the son until they're good and bloated, then have myself a nice little snack. It's like a delicacy. After the gases in the body make it expand, that's when the savory flavors really bubble to the surface. Maybe if you're good, I'll bring you a slice of some spoiled raccoon liver. I believe I have a few scraps left from the last time I did that. No? Well, suit yourself. So are you ready for your lunch yet, deary? You should eat something. Don't you starve yourself now. Okay, then I'll check back on you later. You just relax and try to get some rest. You look quite tired.

                  III.

How are we this morning deary? Oh that's too bad. You must have not gotten much sleep. Calm down, calm down. I'll get you some water. There ya go. Oh! Why would you do that? Such a rude boy. I didn't want to have to do that but you forced my hand. That slap is mild compared to what I did to the last person who spit in my face. Oh don't you get that tone with me. You're gonna sit there and listen. There, since you want to be such a problem, you're gonna sit there with that sock in your mouth. Keep it up and I'll get a switch. Hmph.

This story will be a lesson of what happens when you disrespect a lady. Hopefully you learn somethin' from it. Hush. Ain't no sense in trying to talk. If you stay calm and quiet, then maybe I'll take the sock out and let you speak. But you'll have to earn that privilege. Now then, I'll start the tale. In my later years after the loss of Ronald and my sweet angel Anton, I longed for companionship. My books were open as was my heart. So I went searching for love once again. The first attempt was not the greatest. He was nice enough, but he was too handsy. I'm a modest woman and am not accustomed to necking on the first date. Well this fellow was. I believe his name was Hank. No. Harry? Oh my, this old brain of mine. Age tends to creep up on you when you least expect. Oh! Harold! Harold Devine was his name. He held the persona and image of a true gentleman when I first met him. I would learn his true nature during our third date. He took me to dinner, and we went on a drive to the peak of Pestilence Hill. We sat and viewed the blood moon in the sky. We kissed, but then this man tried to put his hands all over me. I wouldn't stand for that and demanded he stop.

After the third attempt to get his hand under my blouse, I slapped him across the face. This led to a scuffle that ended with me getting a busted lip and his eye being jabbed by one of my nails. He screamed and cursed. He lunged forward, his body hovering over me as he began to squeeze my throat while calling me a cunt. Such a nasty word. So I threw my knee into his groin as I began to see stars. He jerked back, cupping his crotch. That's when I pulled the knife out of my purse, a habit I picked up from the time of the famine. I took that blade and slid it across his throat. Sumbitch deserved it in my opinion. I watched him cry while clutching his open neck. He bled out all over his fancy button up shirt. After he finally died, I put the car in neutral and pushed it towards the cliff. Huh? Alright, well you've been good so I suppose I can remove the sock and let you speak. Why yes I did. I know I'm small, but I was able to do it. It helped that where we were parked was on a downward slope. So eventually, gravity took hold, and Harold rolled down to the woods below with his snazzy car.

Don't give me that look. He tried to kill me. I'd be damned if I allowed that. So I took him out first. Stop interrupting and let me finish. Disrespectful boy. You don't want the sock put back in your mouth, do you? That's what I thought. A month after the sheriff found Harold's body, I was being escorted around town by the most handsome farmer in Azazel Pines. He was a lumbering giant of a man by the name of Bartholomew. He proposed to me countless times, but I kept refusing. The time didn't feel right. I wasn't ready to be married all over again. At least not at that point in time. I did fancy him, but I was in no rush to get hitched, especially to someone outside of the bloodline. But all the other men in the family were spoken for. This meant I had limited options.

Anywho, Bartholomew treated me like a queen and never tried to hike up my skirt, so to speak. Such a gentleman. However, I later caught him swapping spit with Ol' Suzy Lumbar. The town Harlet, who had her honeypot dipped by many a men. I caught them in the act in the alley near Beelzebub's Tavern. I startled them with my approach, and Bartholomew tried to bold face lie to me. When I berated him, he spat in my face and called me a jealous winch. I saw red and as if controlled by pure rage, I attacked him. The surprise of my attack caused him to fall. I beat his face until my fists throbbed. I then took off one of my heels and pummeled him. The sharp end of the footwear stuck deep in his eye. This caused him to shriek, and behind me, Suzy screamed, then fled. I got up and tackled her. There was no way I was letting this whore get away.

In the struggle of our fight, she tried to crawl away. I believe I heard one of her nails snap off on the asphalt. She put up some resistance, but there was no chance of escape. Especially after having her nasty thin lips on my Bartholomew. I hit her continuously, and eventually, I stood up and stomped on her head until I heard a sickening crack. I tell ya, my foot was swollen for weeks after that. I may have broken something because it has never felt right since. To this day, it still hurts to walk, and that was almost twenty-five years ago.

Being that I couldn't just let the carnage be left for someone to discover and fingers being pointed at me. I ran to the butcher shop down the street and asked for help. I spun a tale of Suzy getting handsy with Bartholomew and assaulting me before turning on him. I told the sheriff that Bartholomew lost control while defending me, accidentally killing her. Well, Suzy was buried back in the cramped cemetery on Cretan Park. Bartholomew, on the other hand, was hanged for his assault and murder. Apparently, I didn't kill him after stabbing his eye with my high heel.

My heart broke watching that poor man swing from a rope. His legs twitching and that awful sound of his neck snapping. I cried myself to sleep for weeks. But then, one day, I got a bright idea. My heart fell for him, and I could make him mine due to my hesitance. But I was finally ready to settle and he was the one. So I scrounged through my grandmother's things that were kept in a large trunk up in the attic. It took some time sorting through the vials, bags and countless tomes but eventually I found that special black book of hers. I scanned the pages until I found the chapter on resurrection. In order to do the spell correctly, I had to wait for a hunter's moon, which gave me about five days. In that time I had to sacrifice my neighbors stallion to the demon Ba'al, drain the blood from a venomous snake and store it under my bed, eat a raw heart from a toad amongst other things. Those details aren't that important to the story. What? Oh, yes this is all true. Crazy? Of course not. I am many things but a liar is not one of them, deary.

The most important part of this ritual was making sure to have these things done in time of the celestial event and dig up Bartholomew in order to bring him home. I was able to get what I needed just one day before the hunter's moon. Let me tell ya, digging out the earth of a fresh grave is not as easy as it sounds. Neither is trying to remove the body, either. Good thing I had a rope in the bed of Ronald's old pick up. I was able to tie up the body, attach it to the bumper and pull him out of that hole. I won't get into the full details, but after some time and effort, I was able to bring my love home.

I followed the directions and spoke the incantations properly within the allotted time. I went to bed with a corpse on my living room floor. I woke up the next morning to find Bartholomew alive and chomping down on a dead deer he had brought inside. The mess took some time to clean, and the revived man did try to attack me. But thanks to my grandmother's book, I was able to create a dust to make him compliant. A little handful blown in the brutes face, and he became open to suggestions. At least enough to lure him to the basement. The chains held well and kept him in place. We had a glorious relationship while it lasted. Although he couldn't talk beyond the grunts and screams, he was still the man I fell in love with. He just smelled a little different and a tad bit more aggressive. I didn't let that ruin the time we had together. We made love every night right over there where that bed is in the corner. Oh don't give me that look, it's completely natural. Don't act so disgusted. Anyway, I eventually became pregnant, but sadly, the child inside of me didn't make it. None of them did. I don't know if you saw the crosses in the front yard or not. Those are all of the children Bartholomew and I lost during our time together. After the fifth attempt, we gave up on trying to start a family.

I didn't read the fine print on the resurrection page and soon learned that even though revived spiritually, Bartholomew's body was still dead. This meant he continued to decay over time. He was losing limbs and becoming more and more ravenous in his attempts to get free and bite me. Sadly, I had to put him down after he escaped his restraints and tried to kill me. Two shots to the head and my sweet farmer could finally rest in peace. After burning his body, I accepted that love was lost to me. Since then, I have lived a solitary life. Tending to my garden, occasionally cooking the animals I catch in the traps. Just keeping to myself. But then you came along.

And what a blessing if I do say so myself. You are a spitting image of my late Ronald and yet your eyes resemble Bartholomew's. It's as if the universe sent me another chance at happiness. Combining the men who stole my heart when I was young. The moment you came to my door, I knew love was not lost. Oh, stop it. There's no need to get all riled up, deary. Just hold still. The more you struggle, the worse it's gonna be. What? How dare you! Don't ever call me such a name! Stop fighting. Acting like this will not get you out of those chains. And I damn sure won't let you out of this basement while acting in such a crude manner. Just relax my love. Hold still and give Mabel a kiss. Ow! Son of a bitch! What kind of animal bites a lady's lip? Bastard! Ugh. Well you didn't want to listen and now look at you. Sitting there, bleeding out like a stuck pig. All you had to do was behave and let me love you. But no, you had to act out in such a horrible way, forcing my hand to jab this knife in your chest. Ugh. What a waste. No worry. I've got plans for you young man. I'll be back after you bleed out with my grandmother's book. This time I'll make sure to read the fine print this time. Maybe find a better resurrection spell. Don't want you falling apart on me like Bartholomew.

April 25th 1972

Nora:

”What do you think it means, Nora?” Sam choked out, gaze fixated on the cryptic mural that adorned the stone wall in front of them.

Unable to suppress a reflexive eye roll, I instead shielded his ego by pivoting my head to the right, away from Sam and the mural. My focus briefly wandered to the gnawing pain in my ankles from the prolonged hike, to the iridescent shimmer of sunlight bouncing off the lake twenty feet below the cliff-face we were standing on, finally landing on the relaxing warmth of sunlight radiating across my shoulders. It was a remarkably beautiful Fall afternoon. The soft wind through my hair and faint birdsong in the distance was able to coax some patience out of me, and I returned to the conversation.

”Well, I think there could be multiple interpretations. How does it strike you?” I beseeched. I just wanted him to try. I wanted him to give me something stimulating to work with.

Granted, the moasic was a bit of an oddity - I could understand how Sam would need time to mull it over. The expansive design started at our feet and continued a few meters above our heads, and it was three times wider than it was tall. From where I was positioned in front of the bottom-right corner, I slowly dragged my eyes across the entire length of the piece while I waited for his answer, taking my own time to appreciate the craftsmanship.

Despite a labor-intensive canvas of uneven alabaster stone, the work was immaculate. As smooth and blemish-less as any framed watercolor I’d ever curated at the gallery. Hauntingly precise and elaborate, even though the piece was clearly produced with a notoriously clumsy medium - chalk. And those were just the mechanistic details. The operational details were even more perplexing.

For example, how did the mystery artist find and select this space for their illustration? Sam knew of the serene hideaway from his childhood, tucked away and kept secret by the location being a thirty-minute detour from the nearest established trail. Upon discovery, Sam and his boyhood friends had named this refuge “The Giant’s Stairs”, as the main feature of the area was a series of rocky platforms with steep drop-offs. From a distance, they could certainly look like massive steps if you tilted your head at exactly the right angle.

Each of the five or so “stairs” could be safely navigated if you knew where to drop down, as the differences in elevations changed significantly depending on where you positioned yourself horizontally on the stairs. At some points, the distance was a very negotiable five feet, while at others it was a more daunting twelve or fifteen feet. This was excluding the last drop-off, which lead to the hideout’s most prized feature - a lake that served as the boys’ private swimming pool every summer. There was no way to safely climb down that last step.

Between the ninety-degree incline and the larger overall distance to the terrain below, Sam and his friends had no choice but to find a safe but circuitous hill that more evenly connected the landmarks, rather than going straight from step to lake. There weren’t even nearby trees to jump over to and shimmy your way down to the body of water, which was also far enough away from that last stair to make leaping into it impossible. Even as I peered over the edge now, there were no obvious shortcuts to the lake. The closest tree had fallen in the direction opposite of the last stair, making the nearest landing pad a decaying bramble of jagged, upturned roots.

In all the summers he spent at The Giant’s Stairs, Sam would later tell me, he could count on one hand the number of trespassers he and his friends had witnessed pass through the area.

On top of the site being distinctly unknown, there was another puzzling factor to consider: A torrential rainstorm had blown through the region over the last week, going quiet only twelve hours ago. This meant the entire piece had been erected in the last half day. Confoundingly, we hadn’t passed a soul on the way in, and there were no tools or ladders lying around the mural to indicate the artist had been here recently. No signature on the work either, which, from the perspective of a gallery owner, was the most damningly peculiar piece of the mystery. With art of this caliber, you’d think the creator would have plastered their name or their brand all over the whole contemptible thing.

So sure, stumbling on it was a bit eerie. The design felt emphatically out of place - like encountering a working ferris wheel in the middle of a desert, running but with no one riding or operating the attraction. A sort of daydream come to life. The type of thing that causes your brain to throb because the circumstances defiantly lack a readily accessible explanation - an incongruence that tickles and lacerates the psyche to the point of honest physical discomfort.

I could understand Sam needing time to swallow the uncanniness of this guerrilla installation. At the same time, I felt impatience start to bubble in my chest once again.

I watched as he took off his Phillies cap and contemplatively scratched his head, letting short dirty blonde curls loose in the process. Seeing these familiar mannerisms, I was reminded that, despite our growing friction, I did love him - and we had been together a long time. We probably started dating not long after him and his friends had formally denounced “The Giant’s Stairs” as too infantile and beneath their maturing sensibilities. But we had become distant; not physically, but mentally. It didn’t feel like we had anything to talk about anymore. This hike was one of a series of exercises meant to rekindle something between us, but like many before, it was proving to somehow have the opposite effect.

”It makes me feel…honestly Nora, it makes me feel really uncomfortable. Can we start walking back?” Sam muttered, practically whimpering.

I purposely ignored the second part, instead asking:

”What about it makes you uncomfortable? And you asked me what I think it means, but what do you think it means?"

In the past few months, Sam had become closed off - seemingly dead to the world. I recognize that the mosaic was undeniably abstract, making it difficult to interpret, but that’s also what made it intriguing and worth dissecting. I just wanted him to show me he was willing to engage with something outside his own head.

The background was primarily an inky and vacant black, split in two by a faint earthy bronze diagonal line that spanned from the bottom lefthand corner to the upper righthand corner, subdividing the piece into a left and a right triangle. My eyes were first drawn to the celestial body in the left triangle because of the inherent action transpiring in that subsection. A planet, ashen like Saturn but without the rings, was in the process of being skewered by a gigantic, serpentine creature. The creature came up from behind the planet, briefly disappearing, only to triumphantly reappear by way of burrowing through the helpless star. As the creature erupted through, it seemed as if it had started to slightly coil back in the opposite direction - head navigating back towards its tail, I suppose.

As I more throughly inspected the creature, I began to notice smaller details, such as the many legs jutting off the sides of its convulsing torso, all the way from head to tail. The distribution of the wriggling legs was disturbingly unorganized (a few legs here, and few legs there, etc.). Because of this detail, the creature started to take on the appearance of a tawny-colored centipede of extraterrestrial proportions.

In comparison, the right triangle was much more straightforward. It depicted a moon shining a cylinder of light on the cosmic pageantry playing itself out in the left triangle, like a stage-light illuminating the focal point of a show. As its moon-rays trickled over the dividing diagonal line, the coppery shading of the boundary became more thick and deliberate, extending a little into each triangle as well.

From my perspective, this grand tableau was a play on the legend of Ouroboros - the snake god that ate its own tail. In ancient cultures, the snake was a symbol of rebirth; a proverbial circuit of life and death. More recently, however, philosophical interpretations of the viper have become a bit nihilistic. Instead of an avatar of rebirth, the snake began representing humanity’s inescapably self-defeating nature, always eating itself in the pursuit of living. I believe that’s what the mosaic was attempting to depict: A parable, or maybe a tribute, to our inherent predilection for self-destruction.

After a minute of long and deafening silence, Sam finally took a deep breath. I felt hope nestle into my heart and crackle like tiny embers. Those embers quickly cooled when he sputtered out an answer:

”I…I think it's a warning”

I paused and waited for more - a further explanation of what he meant by the piece being a “warning”, or maybe more elaboration on why it made him uncomfortable. Disappointingly, Sam had nothing additional to give.

In a huff, I dug furiously into my backpack and pulled out my polaroid camera. When Sam observed that I was carefully stepping backwards to get the whole piece into the frame, he briefly pleaded with me not to take a picture. But I had already made up my mind.

He stood behind me as the device snapped, flashed, and ejected a developing photo of the mural. I swung it up and down vigorously in the air for a few seconds, and then I jammed it into his coat pocket with excessive force.

”Kindly notify me once you have something better” I hissed, starting to wander back the way we’d arrived as I said it. Once I heard the clap of his boots following me, I didn’t bother to turn around.

---- ----------------------------------

April 25th 1972

Sam:

”What about it makes you uncomfortable? And you asked me what I think it means, but what do you think it means?"

Nora’s question had immobilized me with an unfortunately familiar fear. No matter how desperately I searched, I couldn’t seem to find an answer worthy of the query stockpiled in my head. Not only that, but any new, burgeoning thought started to lose speed and glaciate to the point where I had forgotten what the intended trajectory was for the thought in the first place. The last handful of months were littered with moments like these.

I know Nora wanted more from me - she wanted me to articulate something authentic and genuine, but I couldn’t find that part of myself anymore. It didn’t help that she had made me feel like I was being tested. Every visit to the gallery eventually mutated into a pop quiz, where subjective questions, at least according to Nora, had objectively correct and incorrect answers. Having failed each and every quiz in recent memory, I was now throughly intimidated about submitting any answer to her at all.

But I always wanted to make an attempt, hoping to be awarded some amount of credit for trying. To that end, I tried to focus on the picture in front of me.

I don’t know what she was so dazzled by - there wasn’t much to interpret and analyze from where I stood. In the top right-hand corner, there was a hazy moon with a pale complexion shining down into the remainder of the illustration, but that was the only identifiable object I could see in the mural. The remainder of the picture was chaos. A frenetic splattering of dark reds and browns, accented randomly by swirls of pine green. I thought maybe I could appreciate one small eye with what looked like a smile underneath it at the very bottom of the piece, but it was hard to say anything for certain. All in all, it was just a lawless mess of color, excluding the solitary moon.

That being said, it did stir something in me. I felt a discomfort, a pressure, or maybe a repulsion. Like the mural and I were two positive ends of a magnet being forced together, an invisible obstacle seemed to push back against me when I tried to connect with the image. It felt like we shouldn’t be here, which is why I had taken the time to advocate for us kindly fucking off before this artistic interrogation.

I was nervous to say anything to that extent, though. I wanted to be right. I wanted to give Nora what she was looking for. More than both of those goals, however, I didn’t want to say anything wrong. This put me into the position of answering the question in a vague and pithy way. The more nebulous my response, the more I would be able to further calibrate the response based on how she reacted to the initial statement.

Despite all the layers of context buried within, I had meant what I said.

”I…I think it’s a warning.”

---- ----------------------------------

May 2nd, 1972

Sam:

”Nora, just drop it. Please drop it” I fumed, letting my spoon fall and clatter around in my cereal bowl as the words left my mouth, sonically accenting my exasperation.

We hadn’t discussed the mural since we left The Giant’s Stairs. Instead, we had a speechless car ride home, which foreshadowed many additional speechless interactions in the coming few days. Neither of us had the bravery, or the force of will, to address the dysfunction. Instead, we just lived around it.

That was until Nora elected to demolish the floodgates.

”You didn’t see anything? No centipede, no moon - no ouroboros? It was a completely bewitching piece of art, masterful in its conception, and all you could feel was uncomfortable?” she bellowed, standing over me and our kitchen table, gesticulating wildly as she spoke.

I felt my heart vibrating with adrenaline in my throat. I was never very compatible with anger, it caused my body to shake and quaver uncomfortably, like I was filled to the brim with electricity that didn’t have a release mechanism, so instead the energy buzzed around my nervous system indefinitely.

”I saw a moon, and I saw some colors” I muttered through clenched teeth. ”That’s it.”

At an unreconcilable standstill in the argument, instead of talking, we decided instead to leer angrily into each other’s eyes, which amounted to a very daft and worthless game of chicken. We were waiting to see who would look away and break contact first.

In a flash, Nora’s expression transfigured from irritation to one of insight and recollection. She abandoned the staring contest, pacing away into the mudroom. When she got there, Nora started digging through our winter gear. Having retrieved the coat I was wearing on our hike, she returned to the table, unzipping the pockets to find the forgotten polaroid, which I had deliberately sequestered and not reviewed after leaving the woods.

She brought the picture close to her face, and I braced myself for the potential verbal whirlwind that I anticipated was forthcoming. Instead, Nora tilted her head in bewilderment, flummoxed to the point where she had lost all forward momentum in the confrontation. With the color draining from her face, she wordlessly handed me the polaroid.

The picture showed both us standing against the stone wall, adjacent to where I suppose the mural should have been. We were smiling, and I had my arm around Nora, positioned in the bottom corner of the frame. This gave the image a certain touristy quality - like we were on a trip aboard, and we had stopped to take a sentimental photo with a foreign monument to fondly remember the associated vacation decades from when the photo was actually taken.

But the wall was empty and barren. The polaroid was framed to include a significant portion of the cliff-face as if the mural were there, but it was as if it had been surgically excised from the photo. We briefly whispered about some unsatisfactory explanations for the absent mural, and then proceeded on numbly with our respective days.

Neither of us had the courage to even speculate out-loud regarding how we were both in the photo.

---- ----------------------------------

May 8th, 1972

Nora:

I loomed over the bed like the shadow of a tidal wave over a costal village, quietly scowling at my sleeping partner.

How could he sleep? How could he close his eyes for more than a few seconds?

I hadn’t slept since seeing the polaroid. Not a meaningful amount, anyway.

Grasping the photo tightly in my left hand, I tried to steady my breathing, which had a new habit of becoming alarmingly irregular whenever I thought too hard about the mural.

There had to be something I missed.

I turned around to exit the bedroom, gliding down the hall and into my office. Flicking on a desk light, I sat down and carefully placed the polaroid on the otherwise empty work surface.

In a methodical fashion, I studied every single centimeter of the photo, which had become progressively creased and misshapen since I had pilfered it from the trash can in the dead of night. Sam had thrown it out, he had made me watch him dispose of it. He said we needed to put it behind us. That it didn’t matter. That it didn’t need to be explained.

What it must be like to be cradled to sleep by such a vapid, unthinking bliss.

My pang of jealousy was interrupted when I noticed something peculiar in the top right-hand corner of the polaroid - I had creased the photo so throughly that a tiny frayed and upturned edge had appeared, like the small separation you have to create between the layers of a plastic trash bag before you can shake it out and open it completely.

I cautiously dug under that slit with the side of a nickel. As I pushed diagonally towards the other corner, the photo of Sam and I standing in front of an empty wall peeled off to reveal a second photo concealed beneath it.

Ecstasy spilled generously into my veins, relaxing the vice grip that the original polaroid had been holding me in.

It finally made sense.

---- ----------------------------------

May 8th, 1972

Sam:

”Sam wake up ! It all makes so much fucking sense now, I can’t believe I didn’t understand before” 

Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I slowly adjusted to the scene in front of me. Nora was physically walking around on our bed, jumping and hopping over me. She was a ball of pure, uncontainable excitement, like a toddler who had just seen snow for the first time.

But Nora’s face told an altogether different story. Her eyes were distressingly bloodshot from her sleep deprivation, reduced to a tangle of flaming capillaries zigzagging manically through her white conjunctiva. I couldn’t comprehend what exactly she was trying to tell me, between the run-on sentences and intermittent cackling laughter. Her mouth was contorted into a toothy, rapturous grin while she spoke, releasing minuscule raindrops of spittle onto her immediate surroundings every ten words or so.

At first, I was simply concerned and exhausted, and I languidly turned over to power on the lamp on my nightstand. That concern evolved into terror as the light reflected off the kitchen knife in her left hand and back at me.

”C’mon now! Up, up, up. I need you to show me to The Giant’s Stairs. Can’t get there myself, don’t know exactly how to get there I mean.” Nora loudly declared.

”I figured it out! Look at what I found under the polaroid! A second photo - the real meaning hiding under the fake one.”

She shoved the photo, the one I was sure I had disposed of, into my face so emphatically that she overshot the mark, effectively punching me in the nose due to her over-animation. I swallowed the pain and gently pulled her hand back by her wrist, as she was looking out the window towards the car and unaware that she was holding the picture too close for me to even view.

The polaroid was weathered nearly beyond recognition. I could barely appreciate the picture anymore. It was scratched to hell and back like a feral monkey had spent hours dragging a house key over the zinc paper. Sure as hell didn’t see any second image.

Nora looked at me intently for recognition of her findings, unblinking. As the hooks of her grin slowly started to melt downwards into the beginning of a frown, my gaze went from Nora, to the knife in her hand, and then back to her. I knew I had to give her the reaction she was looking for.

”…Yes! Of course. I see it now, I really do.”

Her fiendish smile reappeared instantly.

”Great! Let’s hop in the car and go see for ourselves, though.”

Nora shot up, left the bedroom and started walking down the hallway. Before she had reached the bannister of our stairs, her head smoothly swiveled back to see what I was doing. Wanting to determine what the exact nature of the hold-up was.

Seeing her grin begin to melt again, I shot out of bed as well, trying to mimic at least a small fraction her enthusiasm.

”Right behind you!” 

---- ----------------------------------

May 8th, 1972

Sam:

We arrived at The Giant’s Steps forty minutes later.

In that entire time, Nora had not let me out of her sight. I had tried to pick up the house phone while she looked semi-distracted. Somehow, though, she had the knife tip against my side and inches away from excavating my flank before I could even dial the second nine. Nora leisurely twisted the apex of the blade, causing hot blood to trickle down my side.

After a menacingly delayed pause, she simply said:

”Don’t”

My failed attempt at calling the police had transiently soured her mood. Nora remained vigilant and tightlipped, at least until our feet landed on the rock of the last stair. Then, her disconcerting giddiness resumed at its previous intensity.

We had left the car at about 4:30AM, so I estimated it was almost 5AM at this point. Nearly sun up, but no light had started splashing over the horizon yet. I did my absolute best not to panic, with waxing and waning success. My hands were slick with sweat, so in an effort to moderate my panic, I put my focus solely on maintaining my grip on the handle of the large camping flashlight.

Abruptly, Nora squeezed the hand she had been resting on my right shoulder. She had positioned herself directly behind me, knife to the small of my back, as I guided her back to The Giant’s Stairs. In an attempt to decipher her signal correctly, I halted my movement, which caused the knife to tortuously gouge the tissue above my tail bone as Nora continued to move forward.

She did not notice the injury, as she was too busy making her way in front of me with a familiar schizophrenic grin plastered to her face. The puncture to my back was much deeper than the small cut she had previously made on my flank, and I struggled not to buckle over completely from pain and nausea. I put one hand on each of my knees and wretched.

When I looked up, Nora was a few feet in front of me, and she had placed both her hands over her mouth, seemingly to try to contain her laughter and excitement. She nearly skewered herself in the process, still absentmindedly holding the newly blood-soaked knife in her left hand when she brought her hands up to her head.

”Ta-daaaa!” she yelled triumphantly, gesturing for me to point the flashlight towards the cliff-face.

As the light hit the wall, there was nothing for me to see. Blank, empty, worthless stone.

And I was just so tired of pretending.

”Nora, I don’t see a goddamnned thing!” I screamed, with a such a frustrated, reckless abandon that I strained my vocal cords, causing an additional searing pain to manifest in my throat.

She thought for a few seconds as the echos of my scream died out in the surrounding forrest, putting one finger to her lip and tilting her head as if she were earnestly trying to troubleshoot the situation.

”No moon? No centipede plunging through a ringless Saturn? No Ouroboros?”

I shook my head from my bent over position, letting a few tears finally fall silently from my eyes to the ground.

”Oh! I know, I know” she remarked, dropping the knife mindlessly as she did.

She turned around and cavorted her way to the edge of the stair, blissfully disconnected from the abject horror of it all. Nora pranced so carelessly that I thought she was going to skip right off the platform, not actually falling until she realized there was no longer ground underneath her, like a Looney Tunes character. But she stopped just shy of the brink and turned around to face me.

”Okay, push me.” She proclaimed, still sporting that same grin.

”Push you?! Nora, what the fuck are you saying?” I responded, my voice rough and craggy from strain.

In that pivotal moment, I almost ran. She had dropped the knife and had created distance between the two of us - the opportunity was there. But I loved her. I think I loved her - at least in that moment.

”Sam, for once in your life, have some courage and push me” Despite the harsh words, her smile hadn’t changed.

”Sam, for the love of God, push me, you fucking coward” She cooed while wagging an index finger at me, her smile somehow growing larger.

In an unforeseeable rupture, the now cataclysmic accumulation of electricity in my body finally found a channel to escape and release. I sprinted towards Nora, body tilted down and with my right shoulder angled to connect with her sternum.

I did not see her fall. I only heard the fleshy sound of Nora careening into the earth, and then I heard nothing.

As I turned away from the edge, finally having the space to let nausea become emesis and misery become weeping, the flashlight turned as well, causing me to notice something had revealed itself on the previously vacant stone wall.

I stifled briney tears and began to study the image. As I stared, eyes wide with a combination of shell-shock and curiosity, I pivoted my flashlight over the cliff to visualize Nora’s body, then back at the mural, and then back at Nora’s body.

On the newly materialized mural, I saw the planet, the piercing centipede, and the shining moonlight. And as I moved to illuminate Nora’s face-up corpse with the flashlight, I saw one of the jagged roots from the nearby upturned tree had perforated the back of her skull on the way down, causing a tawny, decaying branch to wriggle through and jut out the left side of her forehead, obliterating her left eye in the process. All of it floodlit by my flashlight, or I guess, the moon in the mural.

I think - I think I get it. Or I at least saw it how Nora had described countless times.

My flashlight was the moon, and the bronze diagonal line was the cliff's edge. Her head was the ashen planet, and the piercing centipede was the jagged root.

Huh.

I slumped to the ground as sunlight spilled over the horizon, my mind weightless jelly from a dizzying combination of new understanding and old confusion. I didn’t laugh, I didn’t cry, I didn’t scream. I sat motionless in a dementia-like enlightenment, waiting for something else to happen. But nothing ever did.

Twenty or so feet below, Nora laid still, that grin now painted onto her in death, and she rested.

More stories: https://linktr.ee/unalloyedsainttrina

Something's in the Woods, and it's Getting Closer

There was once a guy on a camping trip in the woods.

The campfire had died down and he was trying to sleep, but he kept hearing strange noises in the distance. They were long, strange groans, like a huge, deeply wounded animal. "It's just a bear, or wolves," he thought, trying to convince himself it was nothing to worry about, but the noises grew closer, louder, and, if he was willing to admit it, angrier. He held on to his pocket knife with all his might as the noises entered the clearing where he had made his camp.

It was almost too much to handle as the sounds circled his tent. Once, then twice, but suddenly they stopped, as if nothing was there. He waited in fear for an hour, but heard nothing but the nighttime noises of the forest. "Was I imagining things?" he thought, as he moved cautiously to open the tent flap. As no wild animal lept in to attack him, he built up the courage to step outside.

He checked all around, but couldn't see anything, and he had almost decided to go back to sleep when he took one last look. On the edge of the grove, bathed in nothing but moonlight and the dying embers of the fire, he saw it:

The Spooky Forest Skeleton Monster.

A group of sheep lay sleeping in their pen and a dog sat watching them. A whistle filled the air above her and she could smell something odd. Her canine eyes gave her more visibility in the dark and she spotted a large object approaching above. It slowly glided towards the pen and stopped suddenly, releasing a light made of orange. However, through the eyes of the dog, it was just a bright shade of gray. Sounds flooded the dogs ears and they twitched. She watched it surround a sheep then it began to rise. With no fear or hesitation she began to bark. This was not her usual spot that she prowled around. But after what she had been seeing and her love for a very special giant human, a decision was made to follow the man home to watch over him.

The dog's sounds of alarm did not deter the craft in its pursuit of the unconscious livestock. Her efforts went unnoticed so she scurried towards the log cabin to attempt to wake up the man inside. She stood by the porch and continued her barking. Eventually a light turned on and a lumbering giant walked outside. "What's going on girl?" He was surprised by her presence and even more that she was causing such a ruckus. Eventually he understood when he saw the craft lifting one of his sheep. "Motherfucker."

Late in the night, Leroy's sleep was disturbed by the familiar yet sad excuse for the ballad of Big Balls. He rolled over in his bed, not tipping over the cardboard box this time. With his eyes remaining closed he opened the phone and answered. "What's the matter now, dear?" His voice was a clear indication of his grogginess. Boomer's voice was hushed when he replied. "I need you to get over here now. They're here." Leroy finally opened his eyes, pulling the phone from his ear to see on the digital face that it was two thirty in the morning. "Boom, it's after two. Who's there?" His friend's voice snapped back. "The fucking aliens. Old man Smolpekir wasn't shittin' us." Leroy rolled his eyes and rubbed his face. "C'mon man, this shit ain't funny. I'll be over tomorrow." Boomer's voice turned very serious and it fully woke up Leroy. "I ain't fuckin around. I'm looking at a godamn flying saucer taking one of my fucking sheep. Get over here now!" Leroy knew not to dally so he hurried and got dressed while listening to Boomer's description of what he was seeing. "Alright buddy just stay put. I'll be there in about twenty minutes.

"Holy shit!" Leroy exclaimed as he sped down the dirt path leading to Boomers farm. A large metallic object was in the air, spitting out a bright stream light. A sheep was caught in the beam and slowly being taken up. "This is fucking crazy. That old coot weren't lyin. I need to call Ripleys believe it or not, asap." The sad excuse of a car skittered onward, leaving a trail of dust and a stench of burnt antifreeze behind it. Leroy slammed on the breaks when he got to the front of the log cabin. The car's abrupt arrival disrupted the abduction and the sheep was dropped. Unfortunately it was up a ways and landed hard on the ground. A bone snapped in its leg, causing the poor creature to scream. This stirred up a commotion which led to a panic amongst the herd. The orange light disappeared and a loud whistle could be heard as the object took off. Leroy got out of his car and ran toward the cabin where he saw Boomer hunkered down on the porch. He was accompanied by the stray dog. "I think I scared it off." Leroy spoke breathlessly. Boomer stood up, patting the dog on the back side. "No fucking shit. I was hoping you'd be a little sneaky and not scare em away, fuckstick."

Leroy apologized and in his defense, he didn't know he was supposed to show up discreetly. It was obvious that the aliens had an interest in Boomer's sheep and all the pieces were falling into place. They had snatched up Daisy and experimented on her. They had experimented on the dog, also known as Kalido in case some of you forgot. And lastly, they had snatched up old man Smolpekir.

The only question was who else had been victim to the extraterrestrial's games. The men had witnessed a human dick and balls on Daisy and clearly it wasn't from the old man. Who else had they taken? Boomer was beyond angry and started slamming his fist against the walls of his cabin. "Motherfuckers!!" The sound scared the sheep into silence and the dog took the hint and disappeared. The outburst was short lived when another cry from the injured sheep returned. Both men ran to it in a hurry and did all they could to comfort the animal and nurse its wound. After that Boomer had a discussion with Leroy on how to take care of the heartless bastards. "I don't care where they come from or what they can do. You don't hurt animals and you don't abduct people." Boomer's voice was filled with passion and ferocity. He pulled out his phone to call his cousin again and hoped he answered this time. Leroy had met him once but barely remembered him. This was back when Boomer and Leroy were kids. Nowadays Boomer's cousin was some kind of supernatural bounty hunter of sorts. He was married and his wife was also employed in the same off the wall profession.

Apparently they had experience in the field of weird, creepy and unbelievable shit. Both men were skeptical of that but with little knowledge and the current events opening their eyes, that was the last effort to try and make sense of the situation. Boomer got a hold of his cousin and gave him the details. "That's definitely contact Boom Boom, expect more to happen in the next few days. They'll only show up at night around the same time, little shits are OCD like that. Just be careful cause if that light hits you and it's green, you may not live through it." Boomer continued listening to the countless details about these little green fuckers. Their habits, motives and what to expect when it came to actually being taken up in the craft. Boomer had hoped his cousin would come help but he couldn't. It was the man's wedding anniversary and for the celebration they were hunting. Boomer asked what animal and all his cousin answered with was "the kind that sucks plasma." The call ended shortly after that. Boomer put the phone in his pocket and Leroy waited anxiously. "Well? What do we do?" Boomer waited a moment to answer his friend. He opened a pack of cigarettes and lit one before speaking. "I've got as much information as I could and we're gonna get these little bastards. It's just gonna be you and me though good buddy." Boomer laid out the idea to watch the craft and learn how often it showed up at his farm and what all it did. He hoped with the knowledge they would gain, a plan of attack would form in his mind.

It was four days before the thing showed up again. As before, it hovered over a sheep, released an orange light then took the animal. It would leave the area and the men timed it, three hours would pass and then it returned to drop off the mutilated animal. Boomer almost broke the gate trying to get in the pen to check on the poor creature after the craft left. It was missing its hind legs and the area around the spine had been picked clean. Exposed bones, singed hair with that black tar beading around the area. The smell of burnt metal and the discoloration of the ground was all present. Boomer drank himself into submission in order to calm himself from the horror of yet another dead friend. He cried, he screamed and eventually put a nice sized hole in the wall. "I can't fuckin take it! Those fuckers gotta die!" The cabin shook with the booming force of his voice. Leroy chimed in. "And what can we do, man? Pretend we're sheep and go up on the damn flying plate. I mean bowl. What the fuck is that word?" Boomer paused and a lightbulb flickered above his head. "That's it!" Leroy looked confused. "Whatcha mean that's it?" Things weren't clicking in his head like they were in Boomer's. "We're gonna get on that fuckin' ship." Leroy was still puzzled so Boomer had to break things down Barney style. Bit by bit in the easiest terms and scenarios possible.

"So you wanna dress up like a sheep and get beamed up into the spaceship? That's your master plan?" A deep brown glob of chew spit flew from Leroy's mouth. "Yep. Trick these fuckers to get us up there, then we kill em." Boomer was serious in his statement and was becoming quite convincing. By their calculations they had four days before the craft returned. In that time, they had turned Boomer's woodworking shed into a makeshift barn for the sheep. It wasn't very big so they had to spend two of those days building an addition to fit all of the critters inside. The next part of the plan was to remove enough fur from the sheep in order to create a cover that would fit over the two of them. "I gots a question there Indianapolis Jones and the temple of alien abduction."

Leroy's face was stern. "They only take one sheep at a time, so how'r we both gettin' up there?" Boomer hadn't thought about that thoroughly and scratched his head. "Well. I guess we'll have to pretend to be just one sheep." Leroy didn't like the sound of that and remarked. "Don't be tryin no funny shit. I don't swing that way." A laugh rumbled from the giant. "Oh come on boo boo. You don't think I'm pertty enough fir ya?" One found it funny while the other did not. "Fuck you. I aints no power bottom!" Once again another laugh filled the air. "Don't worry baby, I'll go easy on you since I'll be your first." Leroy started getting red in the face which soon transitioned into a shade of purple. He went to throw a punch. However he tripped over the laces of his boots and fell. And as his luck would have it, he landed face first on the floor and chipped his front tooth. "God damnit!" He got up and inspected his tooth with his tongue. "Motherfucker. Look what you made me do!" Boomer shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't make ya fall, snaggletooth." Soon there was shuffling, things breaking and shouting. Kalido the dog sat outside listening to the whole thing. She exhaled through her nose in disappointment and left the ignorant humans to their pointless squabble.

The day finally arrived for the anticipated return of the UFO. The men had everything prepped, Boomer housed the dog with the sheep. He didn't want her protective habits coming out and causing the craft to fly away prematurely. He also set up an area for his newest rescue, the baby racoon he named Delilah. Leroy convinced Boomer to do some shots to pass the time. He hesitated but the peer pressure was too strong. So needless to say by the time night fell, the two of them were hammered. Hope latched on to this plan like a tick, sucking up as much life as possible. Boomer kept his fingers crossed that the craft would show up and seeing only one sheep, it would take it. By sheep, that would be the decoy of two grown men sharing a sad attempt at an animal fur cloak.

The moon poked its head out and the men stumbled to the sheep pen. "How we doin' this? Sheep ain't that wide." Leroy was still skeptical. He was referring to the idea of him and Boomer next to each other on their hands and knees pretending to be an animal. And the answer he received didn't sit well with him. "I guess one of us is gonna have to be on the ground while the other is above. Then we cover ourselves in the fur." Leroy swallowed his wad of skoal when he heard this. Anyone who has done that knows how bad it tastes and what it does to your stomach. He started to cough which turned into gagging then soon he threw up all over his boots. "Ain't. cough No cough way." Leroy spoke while trying to catch his breath, spitting out the remnants of vomit and tobacco. "Ain't no fuckin way I'm doing that." Boomer laid his hand on Leroy's shoulder. "C'mon don't be a pussy. It won't be for long. Plus you may like it." Boomer chuckled. His humor didn't infect his friend who was still slightly dying. "Fuck you."

It took Boomer putting Leroy in a headlock and a pint of Tennessee whiskey to convince him to go forward with the plan. They assumed position in the field, Leroy on the ground and Boomer above him. They stared into each other's eyes and there was a twinkle in Boomer's oceanic blue peepers. Leroy killed the non-existent spark. "If I feel a boner, you're getting punched and I'm throwing my knee into your nuts." Boomer said nothing as he covered them with a blanket of sheep fur. He was about to give a smart ass comment but instead shushed Leroy when a whistle started to gradually get louder. A bright light surrounded them and both men silently mouthed the words "Oh shit." They felt weightless, their ears started to ring and their stomachs bubbled up with indigestion. The side effects of weightlessness got worse the higher they got. And soon Boomer could see the ground getting farther away from behind Leroy's body. The light got brighter and then there was a cracking sound, almost like violent thunder right before lightning strikes. Their ears popped and they simultaneously let out a loud fart. The gastric expulsion echoed in a pitch black room. It faded and was replaced by clicking sounds far off in the distance. The odd noises grew closer, followed by wet flops of something smacking hard ground. Boomer felt something stiff poking at his back. A faint yellow glow suddenly clicked on and more strange sounds encompassed them. As if a crowd of different birds or crickets surrounded them.

Something sharp pierced Boomers side and he shouted. "Shit!" Without thinking he ripped the camouflage off and he was looking in the black eyes of the creature's that had been tormenting his sheep. There were four of them. Around five feet tall with small oval shaped heads that were placed on necks that looked too slender to hold the cranium up. It was like a football sitting vertically on a pool cue. The heads shifted left to right and the sounds came from holes at the base of the neck. The creature's had long arms that left three fingers touching the floor. The claws tapped at the floor from wide frog-like feet. They had no clothes on and no genitalia, leaving their blueish gray bodies fully exposed. Centered at the tear ducts were insect like pincers and below that was a grotesque excuse for a beak. Cracked pink material that resembled plastic, coned at the end with razor sharp edges that dripped silver ichor. "Ugly sons a bitches." Boomer sneered as he drew his fist back and let it fly into a face closest to him. It burst all the way through and a splash of violet viscous flew, landing all over Leroy who was still laying down. "Ack! This stuff tastes like fucking motor oil and cough syrup!"

Leroy gagged then rose to his feet and kicked one of the other aliens in the stomach. A loud crack echoed in the dimly lit room. The thing folded in half, landing on the floor with a weak thud. A blind fury took over Boomer and he let out a roar. The torrent of speed and agility did not match with his size as he decimated the remaining creatures. Leroy could only stand and watch the scene of savagery. One of the aliens crawled towards a wall and waved its boney hand across a glowing red sensor. The room lit up with a blinking blue light and a whining tune started to reverberate through some kind of speaker system. "Shit. Little bastard sounded the alarm!" Leroy shouted as he ran towards the one who set the siren off. He stomped on its ugly head, a fountain of what could only be its brains flew up and hit Leroy in the face. When everything settled, there were demolished alien corpses and two hillbillies covered in filth. "C'mon let's find a door and end these fuckers."

They made their way through countless doors after finding a way out of the original room. Sensor panels sat at the edge of every opening and required a fingerprint, so Boomer had ripped off one of the aliens arms and was lugging it around like a key. The walls of this place were a cold gray with yellow dotted lights at the ceiling that would occasionally blink blue to coincide with the alarm that was still going off. "We gotta turn that shit off." Leroy panted as the two jogged down a corridor. The place seemed way bigger on the inside and the countless rooms had no sign to indicate what was inside. This prompted Boomer to change plans and use the severed arm to open every door until they found some kind of control center. The first three rooms seemed to be sleeping quarters equipped with weird pools of pink gel and walls of glass that had orange and green liquid bouncing inside. Like a giant lava lamp. The fourth room is where things got weird. It looked like an operating room. They're was a long gold table with a contraption that could put any torture device to shame. An octagon shaped barrel was at one end and filled with organs. Whether they were animal or human, neither man could tell.

After scavenging through a few other rooms and finding nothing, they turned a corner to see glass windows stretching on each side. Experiments were going on. On one end there was a man being held down with straps and one of the little monsters had a hold of his manhood. It was shoving some cylindrical object inside and the men realized why Mr. Smolpekir had an issue with his own private parts. Another room had two cats being grafted together, opposite of that was some hulking mass of purple tentacles that was spewing black slime covered eggs and a large man being force fed the disgusting things. His stomach pulsated and before long, miniature versions of that creature bursted out of the man's gullet. Spraying blood, puss and organs against the window. As the two men approached a door leading to one of these areas, they paused with recognition. Leroy spoke up. "Is that Meth Head Marty?" Boomer squinted his eyes and when he saw the man, they widened. "Holy shit, it is." The poor junkie was being fileted alive by a strange device that emitted a bright blue beam.

Smoke was rolling from the meat as his flesh was stripped away in thin layers. Another creature was using some suction device to remove his intestines, spilling them into a vacuumed sealed container. Boomer used the hand to open a door and made his way into that room. "You sick motherfuckers." The creatures stopped what they were doing to look up at the heavy breathing monster of a man. He huffed and dropped the severed limb then pushed both fists towards them. Each one caving in the skull of the aliens. Ichor flew and screams of agony escaped from Meth Head Marty while Leroy tried to free him. By the time he got the straps loose, the junkie was dead. "God damn. He was a worthless piece of shit but no one deserves to die like that." Boomer didn't even stop and continued through each room, slaying every blueish gray creature he could get his hands on. Leroy snatched up the severed arm from the floor just in case. This was one of those rare occasions where anger had taken over Boomer completely and nothing was gonna stand in his way. They continued on through the ship, Leroy trying to either save some helpless person or creature while Boomer slaughtered their captors. Some areas felt like a zoo with animals that could only have come from places not of earth. Strange mutated hybrids from the tinkering of gene splicing and countless humans who had been dissected gruesomely or made into strange eldritch forms. It was sick and with each passing moment, Boomers' rage intensified.

When there were no remaining survivors or rooms to barge into, the two men came upon a door that was different from all the others. It was larger and had dots with jagged lines staggered in an odd placement. "This here's gotta be the main room, right?" Leroy asked and all Boomer did was grunt and used his organic key to open the door. Inside there was a large display screen that showed rolling hills, littered with trees and the night sky above. In front were three more aliens who were clicking and chirping while rolling knobs and pulling rope lined levers that looked like they were made from jellyfish arms. They all turned and squawked when they saw Boomer, clicking their weird pincers together. He didn't hesitate to unleash his wrath while Leroy stood and watched. "Goddamn. I think I'll just stand guard and let you have at it buddy. Shit." It was like watching a real life alien invaders video game. All Leroy needed was a beer and some popcorn. And maybe a lawn chair. He stood there enjoying the spectle and then something grazed his shoulder. He looked behind him and a new alien stood in the doorway. This one was female judging from the slimmer features and the fact that when Leroy looked down, he was staring at cleavage. But it was a bit different than what he was used to. Yep. This creature had three boobs. He looked at the face which was not very appealing but looked better than Tammy the Tank. The eyes were black with white circles for pupils. The head was that same oval shape but there were no insectoid proboscis and on top of the head were what looked like tentacles for hair. The creature whistled at him then removed the silvery garment that had been covering the three bulges of its chest. Leroy's eyes looked down and his mouth opened. "Good god almighty. Theyre fucking triplets!"

The alien grabbed his hand and placed it on the middle breast and Leroy felt a tightness in his jeans. He started to drool and thought he would be breaking a record for the most exotic one night stand. But all of the sudden a loud hiss broke his trance and the tentacles shot towards him, wrapping around his neck. They tightened and a long pair of jagged fangs protruded out of the slit which was centered near the base of the things neck. They snapped at him and sliced the side of his face. He tried to scream but couldn't. As Boomer was in the middle of smashing one of the alien's skulls into the display screen, he heard gurgling from behind him. The limp gray body dropped from the large man's hand and he saw Leroy's situation. He hopped over the control panel and bum rushed his friend's attacker. It shrieked and released Leroy. As he coughed and gasped for air, Boomer released a flurry of punches and kicks. He gripped the writhing tentacles and pummeled the things face, leaving it disfigured. When it fell to the floor, he yelled and stomped it flat. Leroy finally got up and placed his hand on Boomer's shoulder. "I think the bitch is dead, Rambo." Boomer turned around, drawing his fist back but stopped when he saw the fear in Leroy's eyes. He slumped his shoulders and hugged Leroy in apology.

The two men tried to figure out what to do next. They pushed buttons, slammed things and Leroy tried pulling on the odd jelly strings. They didn't know what the hell they were doing. Looking at the display screen, it seemed like the craft was standing still. Judging from the landscape, they thought it seemed familiar. Sure enough, the craft was near the woods behind their favorite bar. Well no longer favorite thanks to Leroy and his antics with Tammy the Tank. If they could land the craft, it wouldn't be a far distance from home. After all, Tilting Tim's Toxic Tavern was only a thirty minute drive from Leroy's.

They failed to figure out how to land the thing and Boomer punched one of the panels. "Fucking piece of shit! We gotta get down." Leroy stood there and tapped the tip of his nose in consideration. "Welp. When in doubt, piss on it." Boomer looked at him in confusion. "Huh?" Without answering, Leroy walked to the console area, unzipped his fly and began to release his bladder all over the lights and doo hickey's. Soon the contraption was fizzing and popping as if yelling in disgust. Sparks flew and smoke started to roll. The alarm finally ceased and the small lights on the ceiling faded in and out. A new sound filled the air, a low humming and sizzling sound. A jolt of gravity pulling the ship down hit them and the thing started to fall. Not a gradual descent but a full on drop. With nothing to grab on to, the men accepted fate as they were forced up towards the ceiling.

Two minutes later and there was a large crash. The display screen was black, the control panel was off and all that there were to see was low dimly lit bulbs above. It took some time but eventually Boomer and Leroy made their way back to the room they first arrived in. They fiddled with gadgets and eventually a small hole opened up and they climbed out. They trudged through woods and mounds of dirt, eventually emerging at the parking lot of the bar. The metallic saucer had crashed a mere ten yards away. A large stack of smoke bellowed from one end and occasionally sparks of electricity illuminated the slightly crumpled object.

The men stood back and rested against the wall of the bar, catching their breath. Boomer looked over at Leroy. "Wanna get a beer?" Leroy put in a wad of skoal, spit and faced his friend. "You damn right. I ain't got my wallet so you're buying." Boomer chuckled and slapped Leroy's back. "You cheap little bastard.

An hour later the men clambered out of the bar with the keys to Tammy the Tanks Volkswagen Beetle. During the hour inside, the men decided they needed to blow up the ship. Leroy claimed he had explosives at home which surprised Boomer. Being that it was such a distance to get to Leroys, he had to take one for the team and have a second round filling the bartender's mouth. After that they drove to Leroy's. Upon arrival, Leroy told Boomer to wait in the car. He came out a few moments later with a white bottle and two plastic bags. "Alright let's get to stepping Buckaroo Ballsack." Boomer left the car in park and stared at the bags. "What the hell is that? I thought you said you had explosives?" The look of pride disappeared from Leroy's face. "This is explosive." He pulled out a bunch of empty two liter bottles, a roll of aluminum foil and the white bottle was a container of toilet bowl cleaner. "What the fuck are you gonna do with that?" This turned into a screaming match that lasted a while until finally they both said "fuck it" and would try Leroy's dumbass plan. They got halfway to the bar and completely forgot to bring another vehicle and turned around. Leroy cussing the whole time. After regrouping and having Boomer lead in Tammy the Tank's car, they set off in a two car caravan towards their destination. They pulled up and got out of the cars. Leroy proudly totting his "explosives". Boomer just stood there smoking his cigarette. "So how is that shit gonna blow up this aircraft?" Disbelief filled Leroy's eyes. "You mean you never made a toilet bomb before?"

A moment of silence stood in for a negative answer. "Shit man, my cousin and me used to make these all the time when we were knee high to a June bug." He explained to Boomer how to make them. We will refrain from those details here because there will be no lawsuits from any readers who decide to try this shit out. Go fuck yourselves. With the nine empty bottles of mountain dew now filled with the correct measurements, the two men walked towards the ship. Craft. Whatever the hell you wanna call it. It's a damn alien flying car. They trudged back through the rough path until they made it to the opening that was once their escape. They went inside and started shaking bottles and tossing them in specific areas. Allowing enough time to run out before the big finale.

When the last bottle was thrown, they made their escape for a second time with the same amount of haste. They both sat on the hood of Leroy's car, leaving dents on the poor thing. Two beers were cracked open simultaneously and as they pulled from their cans, multiple thuds started to ricochet within the metal container in front of them. They were delayed with about thirty seconds in between explosions until the last one gave its two cents. After that, more smoke rolled off of a few holes that had formed from the redneck bombs. The smell of noxious fumes filled the air and sparks followed with green flames shot out of different areas of the strange object. The men clinked their cans together. They sat and enjoyed the show and then Boomer spoke. "I gotta ask, who's better at gobblin your knob? Tammy the Tank or Mrs. Smolpekir?" An enormous smile cracked the sides of his face while a hateful scowl took over Leroy's. "Fuck you." Smoke rolled up towards the night sky as laughter filled the air below.

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09XNCVXZ7

A low humming rattled the single pane windows of a rickety old house. Shimmering lights of color bled through the curtains inside. Two sets of snoring echoed from the bedroom. A whirring sound cascaded from the field and slowly crept into the house. Nocturnal animals skittered away in fear and agony from the frequency that pierced their fragile ears. The commotions from outside grew louder and louder. The shuffling of corn stalks being crushed added to the orchestra. The continuous stir of noises disturbed the sleep of the old man inside of the house. Agitation flooded him as he opened his wrinkled eyes, crows feet stretched across a worn face. He spoke in a gravelly voice. "What in God's name?" Aches and pains struck every bone in his body during the act of rising from the bed. Ligaments burning, joints popping and sighs of anguish expelled from the man. He fumbled for his boots, grumbling under his breath. "Damn kids. They'll never learn will they?" Skittering footsteps peddled towards the living room and veered right to a wooden case that housed a collection of firearms. Boxes of different types of ammunition were stocked in the lower shelving. He gripped a double barrel shotgun and a box of buckshot shells. "Little bastards." With the gun loaded and ready to be fired, the old man hobbled his way to the front door. "Off my property you punks!"

He shouted to an audience that consisted of no living creature. All was quiet in the animal kingdom and there were no ruffians to be found. Instead there was a spiraling stream of purple mist falling towards his field. Drops of deep green followed with the mist. A pulsating beam of yellow light created a glimmer effect that made the colors of the two forms of liquid vibrant. The stalks of corn below were bowing and bending under the light. Shuffling sounds and pops surfaced from the field. These were not as profound as the humming and whirring that came from the object emitting the light that dispensed the colorful mist and rain. It slowly tilted to the left and right in a rocking motion. The act was allowing the shiny thing above to move gradually around the circumference of the field. Gradually covering every square foot of the half rotten crop.

The man's jaw dropped. The whole spectacle reflected itself off of his tired pupils. Urine slowly ran down his legs and soiled the loose undergarments and socks he wore, dripping down into his untied boots. His heart thumped and his arm started to tingle. "My god." These were the only words he could speak before fighting the pain and raising his gun towards the strange metal monstrosity infecting his crops. A loud bang overpowered every other sound, fire erupted from the twin barrels. The buckshot made its way towards the craft and hit without any repercussions. The contents that left the shells disintegrated with a hiss and red smoke rolled off of the smooth gleaming metal.

The whirring ceased but the humming continued, growing so loud that the old man dropped his gun to cover his ears. The stream of mist abruptly stopped and the yellow light transitioned into a bright shade of green. A whistle filled the air and within seconds the giant object was hovering near the house. The beam of light shown on the man. He screamed. The scorching vibrance of the light was beyond worse than the daily pains he felt in his body. His agonizing wailing lasted long enough for his body to be jetted upwards then it was cut off. He was gone and the light returned to its original color. The whistling returned, bringing the mist and rain back over the field of corn. Moments later an old woman removed herself from the bed to search for her husband. She looked everywhere in the house but failed to find him. She put on slippers and headed outside. She stood out, calling his name but no response was given. Evidence of his presence was apparent with his abandoned boots, underwear and shotgun.

She looked at the items then beyond the porch and paused when her eyes saw the same spectacle her husband did above the field. She did not scream, only stood in awe. By this time, the deed was done. The light and liquid dispersed, a chime of whistling pierced the air and the object was gone. The woman collapsed on the porch, falling unconscious. "Steven!" The crackling yet feminine voice rang in Boomer's ears. The hangover had already set in with consciousness. "Help!" Another shattering wail from afar. Even though the yelling was not close to him, Boomer felt as if it was directly inside of his brain. "Good god! Someone help me!" With the third wail, Boomer said fuck it and sat up. He had fallen asleep on Leroy's tattered futon. Being too drunk to flatten the thing out, he slept uncomfortably on it while in the couch position. Something hard scraped against his leg and he let out a small yelp. "Ow! The fuck?" He looked over and the stray dog was sleeping beside him, kicking her three dog legs and one sheep leg. A sure sign she was dreaming about running and the new additional leg had assaulted Boomer. Apparently he snuck the dog into Leroy's trailer.

Trying to avoid any drama with Leroy, Boomer picked the dog up and brought her outside. "Sorry girl. Don't wanna deal with any fussin 'from dickhead." The dog, natively called Kalido, looked at the man with understanding eyes. He scratched behind her ears and walked back inside, the dog lazily stepped towards the woods as usual. The snoring from the other end of the trailer echoed fiercely. "Jesus. Sounds like a damn freight train in here. No wonder Suzy Mae never stays over." With not a care in the world, Boomer kicked the bedroom door open, stomped towards the bed and smacked Leroy across the face. "Black Mamba bitch!" The sound of his open palm hitting Leroy's cheek bounced off of the thin walls.

"Shit! Damn it Boomer. Was that necessary? Fuckin' asshole!" Leroy's voice cracked. He sat up, rubbing the now redden cheek. His friend just stood there looking at him and pointing towards the window. "What?" Leroy's previous fit of snoring overpowered everything so the cries for help never registered in his audio organs. Boomer said nothing and just waited, leaving his hand frozen in place. As Leroy was about to berate him, another shout came through. "Steven! Where the hell are you?" The voice was recognizable. It was Mrs. Smolpekir. She continued shouting while Leroy began getting dressed and filling his lip with moist tobacco.

"I swear, that woman better be decent." Leroy said as he begrudgingly walked with Boomer towards his neighbors home. This was only after Boomer had conned Leroy into going over with him to check out what the commotion was. Having a heart five times the normal size means the care spills out towards humans too. Boomer never had a weird experience with the old woman so there was no scarring on his part. And nonetheless, when someone was in need he had to help.

They got to the house and the woman continued shouting until she realized them standing there. "Oh hello boys." A failed attempt at a smile stretched her lips. Leroy swallowed his disgust and spoke up. "What's the problem? We heard you hollerin all the way at my place. You ok?" Mrs. Smolpekir undid one of the buttons on her night gown to reveal extra skin. "Oh Leonard. It's Steven, I can't find his ass anywhere. The man left his shit stained skivvies and boots on the porch. His dick don't work so I know he ain't out whorin'. Found his shotgun too so now I'm worried the ball buster is in trouble." Boomer had forgotten how foul mouthed the old lady was and chuckled under his breath. Leroy nudged him with his elbow and went back to the conversation. "I'm sure he's fine ma'am. Do you need to call someone to help look for em? Maybe the cops?" The woman's face turned into a scowl and she screamed from the bottom of her soul. "Fuck the police!" Birds flew away from tree tops and squirrels fell from branches by the sound of the banshee.

Boomer let out a laugh he couldn't hold in. Leroy gave a glare and the noise was silenced. "You want us to try and look for em? No boots or drawers, he can't have gone far?" Mrs. Smolpekir nodded with a pleading look on her face and raised her hands towards Leroy. "Would you please? I would appreciate it so fucking much." She started to move her fingers in a gesture to come closer. Boomer nudged Leroy. "Go on, she needs ya up there." A shoving match broke out but eventually Leroy staggered up the steps towards the outstretched arms of the old woman.

He slumped towards her and she wrapped her arms around him. "Such a sweet boy. Thank you for helping this old bitch." Her hands slowly made their way past Leroy's hips and she cupped his cheeks. Not the ones on his face but the other ones. His ass, she grabbed his ass. "After you find that cocksucker, you come see me and I'll thank you properly. You can have Bummer join too if you like, I can handle two at a time." After mispronouncing Boomer's name, Mrs. Smolpekir's hands gave a squeeze and she licked Leroy's neck. It felt like sandpaper and all he smelled was fermented corn and moth balls. "Oh. Uh. Yea. Maybe some other time. We're gonna head on out and look for your husband." Leroy broke away and leaped off the porch. He gripped Boomer's arm. "Let's get the fuck outta here. Now."

After the very unnerving and sexually assaulting interaction with Mrs. Smolpekir, the two men left to have breakfast at Sour Sassafras Saloon. The only place where you can order a stack of pancakes with a thick bacon syrup accompanied by a boilermaker. Hey, hair of the dog right? Leroy got pancakes, squirrel sausage and the house special drink. Boomer got two stacks of pancakes, a turkey fried steak and the mystery soup. Trust me, you wanna leave that shit a mystery. On top of his giant heart and size, the man had an iron gut so he could handle it. Any other normal human being who ate the mystery soup, well let's just say it had close to the same effect as the world famous turkey chili dog at Chicken Cathedral. They ate and drank, Leroy pleading not to find the missing old man and avoiding any other interaction with the misses. Boomer teased him for a while but ultimately agreed. Leroy can be pretty convincing at times and on occasion his charming words would outweigh Boomer's need to do right by others.

They dropped their conversation to look at the tv mounted on the back wall to watch a breaking news bulletin. A reporter who resembled Mimi Bodeck from The Drew Carey show appeared with an overturned semi truck behind her. "This is Sally Silicone with BBW69 news. Reporting here in Nutbug Falls on the wreck involving a large truck hauling pharmaceutical....." The men's attention focused on a man walking past the collision and Boomer spoke. "Is that. Old man Smolpekir?" Leroy squinted his eyes. "You gotta be fuckin shittin' me. I reckon it is."

Before the grace of God, there was the old man. Walking around aimlessly. Sporting only a stained t-shirt. His lower half was exposed and at full salute. That's right, the man was Donald Ducking it with a hard on. The news crew didn't seem to notice him or just ignored him, either way the large woman covered in clown paint continued her report without pause. "It seems like some poisonous substance has begun to leak from the tank, causing....." Her words went unnoticed. "How you figure he got all the way out yonder?" Leroy asked but Boomer had no answer. You see, Nutbug Falls settled on the outskirts of Saggysack County which was almost two and a half hours from the men's current location. I don't think it's been stated before, Boomer and Leroy live in Deepguzzle. There, now you know where they live. No you can't have either of their home addresses to send fan mail.

We will skip some of the boring traveling parts, but after a long discussion consisting of Leroy whining and Boomer's soft side winning the discussion, they went out to pick up Mr. Smolkpekir. Call it fate or sheer dumbass luck, they found the geezer after looking around Nutbug Falls within thirty minutes. He was leaning against a stop sign across from a place called The Swivel Snatch. You can take a guess of what sort of establishment it was. Unfortunately for the old man, it was too early in the day to visit, so he just stared at the female figure created from neon lights that were currently nothing but dull and unlit bulbs. The men pulled up next to him and Leroy rolled the passenger window down. "Hey there Mr. Smolpekir. Your wife's been lookin fir ya." The old man stared blankly for a while. It took almost five minutes before he finally reacted. "Huh? Who the hell are you?" A deep look of confusion settled in his eyes. He stared at Leroy again and began to itch his leg, only then realizing he had no pants on. "Heh? Where's my pants? Where am I?" Leroy lowered his head in annoyance. "Yer'n Nutbug Falls. We was hopin' you'd tell us how ya got here." The old man looked down, meeting the gaze of a one eyed captain below. "Why's it staring at me?" He looked back at Leroy. "Who are you?"

The whole situation was annoying and both men were losing their patience. Leroy exhaled deeply. "It's me sir, Leroy. I live next door. I used to work on your farm when I was younger." No recognition on Mr. Smolpekir's face. "Leonard?" Another exhale from the truck. "No. LEROY." There was still that dumbstruck look on the wrinkled face. A long silence hung on for dear life in the humid air that smelled like vaseline and pork rinds. Then something clicked. "Oh. Lemmy my boy! How are you?" A third and final exhale. It was followed by a low mumbling of words that were barely audible. "Jesus horny toad christ fuckin a bull during lent."

This was accompanied by words the old man could actually hear. "Yes sir, it's me. I'm OK. How 'bout we get you in the truck and take you home?" The man nodded and fumbled to grab the door handle. Leroy looked over at his friend. "Boomer. We're gonna need something to cover Stiffy's lower half." During the drive back to Deepguzzle, both men prodded at the old man to get information on how he managed to get so far from home. No luck came their way, only confusing looks and more questions than answers. Occasionally Mr. Smolpekir would grope his still erect extremity and Leroy would have to plead with him to put the thing away. Boomer found the whole thing amusing. But I'm sure if the old man was sitting next to him instead of Leroy, he wouldn't find it so funny. They made it back to Smolpekir farm and Leroy convinced Boomer to escort the old man home. "C'mon man. Please? I don't want that old bitch, I mean sweet woman trying to reward me." Leroy had to watch his words considering the woman's husband was in the truck. Boomer obliged and walked the old man home. Fifteen minutes passed before Boomer returned to the truck. He got in and his face was pale. "What the hell took so long?" Boomer refused to speak for a while. They drove in silence and it was getting on Leroy's nerves. "God damnit. Will you say something already?" Boomer stopped abruptly and put the truck in park. "There's something wrong with that woman." Leroy chuckled at his friend's words, knowing he probably got a taste of Mrs. Smolpekir's carnal urges. "Yea no shit Sherlock. What'd she do to ya?" Boomer rubbed his eyes before answering. "She thanked me and grabbed my.....my...." Leroy let out a cheer of laughter. "She touched your dingle dangle huh, big boy? Yea that sounds like her. She's a god damn pervert, man." Boomer didn't blink and started to add more of his experience. "She tried kissing me with that horrible breath and unbuttoned her nightgown. All in front of the old man." The shocking details were new to Boomer but Leroy was not phased at all. "See, now you understand what the fuck I mean when I saw she ain't no sweet lady. That's why she holds the record for the most restraining orders. I don't know why the old man stays married to her."

Boomer continued talking about what happened and basically he could've reported sexual assault in the workplace if he was in an office setting. Mrs. Smolpekir described what she'd do to him and stripped, revealing her bare body right there. Gripped the saluting member of her husband and told Boomer to follow them to the bedroom. Not the situation he wanted to be put in so he ran out of the house without saying a word. Leroy felt better about himself now that his friend got a taste of what he once went through. The men made it back to Boomer's and Leroy had to go meet Suzy Mae for dinner but would be back later to drink beers in hopes that it would flush away the horrific sight that had burned Boomer's pretty blue eyes. Leroy arrived at Boomer's around nine o'clock. In the hours that passed, Boomer had cut the lawn, tended the animals, ate lunch and rescued a baby racoon that was almost attacked by a rabid coyote. Boomer growled at the coyote which in turn, shit itself and ran with its tail between its legs.

The two men met at the steps of the porch where Boomer had made a nice little bed for the infant procyonidae. That's the Latin term for the common racoon, folks. Leroy didn't even bother asking about the animal and instead removed two cans from the plastic rings of a six pack. He tossed one to his friend and cracked the other open for himself. "So I saw Mr. Smolpekir fuckin around in his field on my way here. He had pants on, thank god. But anyway, some kids ruined his corn." Leroy chugged his beer after this statement. Boomer tucked the slumbering animal in for a nap then opened his beer. "How'd they ruin it?" Leroy looked at the fur bandit then answered. "I don't know. Kinda looked like they flattened a bunch of spots in the field. The old man was cussin' and tryin to lift the stalks up. I didn't bother talkin to em though. His wife was outside topless, sunbathing. Oof." A sense of disgust and wonder came over Boomer. The wonder was for the crops, not Mrs. Smolpekir outside without a top you sick fucks. "I'd rightly like to see that actually." Considering nothing exciting really happens around these parts, something like this spelled adventure. "I thought you already saw the old lady's tatas?" Boomer grimaced. "No you dipshit, the corn field." Both men equipped themselves with a fresh beer and drained them to forget about the sight of Mrs. Smolpekir nude.

Once again Leroy's poor car was left behind, a tear shedding from a foggy headlight as the men departed. They parked near the giant dent on Leroy's trailer and got out. "You're still an asshole for that." Leroy said as he pointed at the crumpled corner of his home. Sorry, mobile home. They saw old man Smolpekir out in his now flattened cornfield. The canine priestess formerly known as Kalido came running at the sight of Boomer. "Hey pretty girl!" She bolted towards the large man, leaving the depressed excuse for a field. He picked her up, indulging in the kisses and whines of sheer excitement. Her one sheep leg tapped his arm and accidentally scratched him. He sucked in air and pushed through the sharp pain. He put her back down and noticed purple dust at the bottom of her legs. "Whatcha got on you girl?" He examined the powdery substance, brushing it off and inspected the residue on his hand. It sent a sensation of needles on his skin. Like the feeling you get when a section of your body is asleep, that uncomfortable stinging that makes you move that body part as slow as possible.

Boomer also noticed a faint smell coming from the dog. Not the normal odor associated with canines but something entirely different. It was a smell he had encountered before but at the moment he wasn't sure from where. He saw the dog had come from the disheveled corn field beyond. "Let's go and see what's up with the old man's corn, Leroy." They got up there to see a field full of fallen stalks. They were bent over, intricately woven against one another. It formed a crochet type pattern almost. As Leroy struck up a conversation with Mr. Smolpekir, Boomer started scanning the oddly placed crops. "What's goin' on sir?" Leroy's voice startled the old man and he damn near hopped out of his boots. "Jesus! You scared the shit out of me Lemmy!" Once again the old man mispronounced the scrawny rednecks name. Not bothering to correct him, Leroy responded. "Sorry 'bout that. What happened to your field?" The old man scratched at his chin then hocked a loogie. "God damn aliens is what." Boomers' ears perked up with that. He rubbed his hand against a disfigured stalk, noticing the same purple powder he found on the dog. He smeared it between his finger and thumb, it instantly gave the same tingling as before. And he noticed that the whole area had the same familiar scent. "Uh. D'you say, aliens?" Leroy took his hat off to scratch at some dandruff. Mr. Smolpekir spat again. "Yep. Little fuckers ruined my field and took me up in their spaceship. Can't member much cuz shit's fuzzy but what I do know is they dropped me off at the wrong damn place. And gave me a hard on that won't go away." He pointed towards his lower extremity that poked through the denim, still at attention. "Damn thing hasn't gone down since I woke up in Nutbug, can't even piss right." Leroy accidentally looked at the old man's crotch and instantly regretted it. "Yea it's hard to piss when yer at attention down there." He gave a chuckle but the old man didn't laugh. He scratched at his sweaty armpit and got stern with Leroy. "No dummy. I don't piss right. When I gotta go it either comes out my mouth or my ass. It's the damnedest thing." Boomer walked up during this part of the conversation.

According to Mr. Smolpekir, he was taken up aboard a spacecraft that was fiddling with his corn field. He doesn't remember much while on the ship aside from bright lights and ugly little creatures. However he did say at one point he saw a pretty good looking female alien that resembled a young version of his wife. Leroy laughed at that part but was shunned by the other two and bit his tongue. The last thing the old man remembered was wandering around Nutbug Falls with only a shirt on and that's when Leroy and Boomer picked him up.

Clearly his memory had returned after the men brought him back home. The boner he was sporting had not left him and whenever he had to urinate, it would shoot out of his mouth like vomit or out of his anus like liquid diarrhea. It was involuntary and he admitted to wearing a pair of depends adult diapers. And being cautious when it felt like something was gonna shoot out of his mouth. The younger men couldn't believe the story but Boomer started to wonder about the strange things happening around the area. That's when a connection hit him like a ton of bricks. "Daisy!" He blurted out with no warning and the words startled his companions. "Huh?" Leroy questioned the outburst. "The smell around Daisy, it's the same thing I'm smellin here." He was referring to that metallic scent previously discussed. Leroy sniffed the air. "Well I'll be dipped in sheep shit. You're right. I can smell it." Kalido the dog barked in agreement, all three humans not realizing she was there listening to the conversation. Speculations started to form around the idea that Daisy's death, the dog's new leg, the corn field and Mr. Smolpekir's abduction was related. They all looked at the fallen stalks around them, noticing it was only certain sections that had been victim to the malformation while other spots were untouched. "I wanna check something real quick." Boomer walked towards the house and scaled one of the wooden pillars and climbed up on the roof. Leroy watched him with confusion. "Yep! It's a fuckin crop circle!" Boomer's voice echoed through the air. Leroy looked at Mr. Smolpekir and they asked each other in unison. "A what?" Boomer hopped down, creating a 4.1 magnitude earthquake. He walked back to explain to the men what a crop circle was.

For those of you who are unaware, crop circles are strange patterns created in fields that happen over night. Some are hoaxes with simple shapes while others are more intricate, leaving many to believe they are done by extraterrestrial spacecraft. You know, UFOs. Well nowadays they're called UAPs, Unidentified Aerial Phenomenon. But let's face it, UFOs sound way cooler. Anyway, the big man explained it with the other listening intently. "And how do you know about this shit? Leroy asked. "My cousin is into weird shit like this. Him and his wife deal in this type of stuff. It's a bit out there but somehow they make a living from it. We may need to call and get his opinion." His cousin didn't answer so there was nothing more to do. But with a hypothesis of what was happening, Leroy and Boomer kept one eye to the sky.

Growing up, I used to hate seeing them everywhere. In my town, you couldn’t walk five steps without running into them. They were on every wall, like some kind of creepy wallpaper. The worst part was the classroom. I used to just think it was annoying, which it was. I hated how crowded the walls were—not just with normal stuff like vocabulary words or pictures of presidents. Sure, those were there too, but they were shoved in between the real stuff. The stuff that made my skin crawl.

You know, the Town Rules.

There’s the usual stuff you'd find in any school—the Golden Rule poster about "Treating others the way you want to be treated," and that one with "THINK" in bold letters, where each letter stands for something like "Thoughtful" and "Helpful." But all of that just fades into the background next to the rules. The ones that actually matter. The ones everyone knows. The ones you don’t question.

They're everywhere, you can't miss them, no matter where you sit. And they can't miss you. Above the chalkboard, behind the teacher’s desk, even taped to the bathroom doors. But they're not just there. Above the water fountains, they hang on the walls next to the weekly newsletter, and they're printed on the side of the gymnasium where we have assemblies.

I’m not sure how long they’ve been around, the rules. I think it’s forever. I don’t really remember learning them. It’s like…they’ve always been there, like the sun rising or the lunch bell ringing. Nobody remembers a time before them. I mean, my great-great-great-granddad knew them, and I guess his great-great-great-granddad did too, so who knows.

It’s hard to imagine a world where kids don’t know the rules before they can even write their own names. Miss Talia said kids used to start with the alphabet or numbers, but here, we learn the rules first. She told us that way back on the first day of kindergarten, when we could barely tie our shoes, but somehow, we all knew Rule Seven: Don’t go out during the fog. We all said it together, perfectly. That’s because even before we could read, we were taught to recognize the shapes of the words.

I know the rules so well, I could say them backwards. Most of us could. We’ve been drilled on them since we were little—so little that “mama,” “dada,” and “don’t look” were some of our first words. I’m sure I could even rattle them off in my sleep, and probably do. Sometimes I even catch myself whispering them under my breath when I'm nervous like they're a lullaby or a prayer. But they’re not. Not really.

Every day when we walk into the classroom, they're the first thing we see. And every day we recite them right alongside the pledge. Our pledge isn't like the one I hear in movies. Ours is shorter, that's why I like it more. We all stand, push our chairs back with a screech that echos off the walls, and place our right hand over our hearts. And instead of talking about liberty or justice or any of that, we say, Stray from the path, and you'll be lost. Stay with the pack no matter the cost. Follow the rules, and you'll be fed. Stray from the pack, and you'll be dead.

That's it, real simple. And then, Rule One: Don’t look outside the windows when they call at night. No matter who knocks or how much they beg.

I don’t know who “they” are exactly, but my sister says they’re really good at pretending to be people. People you miss. People you shouldn’t miss.

Miss Haverford, our current teacher, watches us while we recite. Her eyes sweep the room like she’s looking for someone who’s not taking it seriously enough. Sometimes, if she catches you zoning out or mumbling, she makes you stay after school and write out all the rules ten times by hand. My sister had to do it once. She said her hand was cramped for days.

I always say to the kids who are even younger than me that the rules are like cheat codes in a game. You have to remember them, or else you lose. And in this game, when you lose, you don’t get a respawn.

We don’t talk about the rules much outside of those daily recitations. It’s like some kind of unspoken agreement—learn them, follow them, but don’t dwell on them. No one wants to be the kid who asks too many questions. That’s how you end up noticed.

But every once in a while, someone breaks a rule, and then it’s all anyone can talk about.

Like with Nathan Inco. He’s the boy who let his dead brother in—or almost did.

Nathan’s in my sister’s grade, a quiet kid who didn’t stand out much until the night he broke Rule One. I wasn’t there when it happened, but I’ve heard the story enough times that it feels like I was. People said he thought he heard his brother knocking at the window, begging to be let in. His brother had been dead for a month at that point, killed in a car accident that everyone agreed was impossible. The road he crashed on was dead straight. No curves. No reason for the car to flip the way it did, but it had. Crushed like a tin can. Nathan never said why he opened the window. Maybe he thought his brother had come back, just for him. Maybe he just wanted to believe. I like my sister, whenever she isn’t being such a gross girl. I think I’d probably be pretty sad if that happened to her. So…I guess I kinda get it. Maybe Nathan did too.

His dad got to him in time to pull him away, but Nathan’s arm...well, they couldn’t save that. It’s all anyone could talk about for weeks. That and how Natalie and Jacob B. were going to kiss during recess, but mostly Nathan. Everyone called him stupid. I guess I can see why, but I don’t think it’s as simple as that. Knowing the rules is different from living them.

After that, he didn’t come to school for a while. When he finally did, he was missing half of his left arm. The rumors flew around the cafeteria like flies on old milk cartons. Some kids said they saw his bandages bleeding through during recess. Others swear his arm still twitched sometimes, like it was trying to grow back, but all wrong.

I’ve seen him in the hall sometimes, usually in the morning when my class is walking in a single-file line. He’s by himself a lot of the time, but I don’t know if that’s much different than before. Maybe that’s part of the reason he opened the window. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe his brother was his only friend. I used to see it twitch sometimes, Nathan’s arm. All jerky and erratic, like a robot running out of batteries. I’m always waiting for it to just stop, for good. But it hasn’t. Maybe it doesn’t know it’s gone.

The big kids, like my sister and her friends, just whispered about how dumb Nathan was for listening in the first place.

“Everyone knows Rule Five,” they’d say. “The dead don’t stay dead.”

So, yeah. Everyone called him stupid for falling for it, but honestly? I don’t think any of us really know what we'd do. It’s easy to talk big when it’s not your brother's voice outside, right?

I say as much to my friends one day at lunch, picking at my soggy PB&J.

“Yeah, but I still wouldn’t fall for it,” Jacob L., my best friend, says. He’s sitting across from me, mashing peas into his mashed potatoes and I just know he’s gonna try and get one of us to eat it. “I’m too smart for that.”

“Okay, but what if it was someone you really cared about?” I ask. “Like your mom? Or Layla?”

Jacob pulls a face like he smells something bad. His nose wrinkles.

“Layla?” he says it like I just told him to eat a worm. Layla’s his older sister, the one who’s always picking on him. She’s friends with my sister, but the sort of friends who say mean stuff about each other when the other isn’t around. “No way. I wouldn’t look for her, especially not her. Her donkey teeth would probably be sticking out so far, they’d hit the glass.” He mimics her bucktoothed smile. I laugh, and I don’t point out that those ‘donkey teeth’ of hers seem to run in the family. “I’d probably pass out from looking at her, like those fainting goats.”

“That’s so gross, Jake,” says Alice from beside me, wrinkling her nose as he pours his strawberry milk into his chunky mush, stirring until it looks like a light pink sludge.

“Yeah, Jake,” I agree around a mouthful of cold peanut butter, chunky grape jelly, and grainy wheat bread. “Strawberry milk is so gross.” We call him Jake because it’s way better than saying Jacob L. all the time.

Alice scoffs. “I’m not talking about the milk, I’m talking about him playing with his food like that. And stop talking with your mouth open, Robbie.” She scolds, moving her lunchbox away from us. Her mom packs her lunch so she has the good stuff. A ham and cheese sandwich on regular bread, chips, apple slices, a fruit roll-up, and a Capri-Sun. Alice is all about manners. She always reminds us to stop playing with our food and she thinks it’s stupid when I burp the entire alphabet instead of being super impressed like she should be and all that’s kinda annoying, but she’s like the fastest runner in our grade so she never gets tagged during recess. Plus, she’s always willing to trade her chips for the chocolate pudding I bring for snack time, which makes her cool enough to sit with.

Jake stops stirring his weird mash-milk mix.

“Stop doing that, Jake. Stop making fart noises with your armpit, Jake.” He makes his voice high-pitched like a girl. I’m glad he’s not a girl because he’d probably be a pretty ugly one. I don’t laugh out loud because I don’t want her to think I’m on his side, we haven’t traded any of our food yet, but I nudge his knee with my shoe so he knows I thought it was funny. “You never want us to do anything fun.”

She crosses her arms, rolling her eyes. She’s been doing that all the time now that she’s learned how. “You’ll get it when you’re a big kid. Right now you’re just dumb boys and you think all the dumb boy stuff is funny. That’s why you need to listen to me. I know what I’m talking about.” She says, even though she’s only a few months older than us. If being a big kid means I won’t find armpit farts funny, then I don’t think I wanna be one.

“Oh yeah?” Jake rolls his eyes too, but he doesn’t do it nearly as well as her. While Alice just moves her eyes, he moves his whole head, like his eyes are dragging his neck with them. “Then what about Nathan Inco? He’s a "big kid", doesn’t that mean he should’ve been smart enough to not open his window?” Jake points out with that same snooty look his sister has when she picks on us.

“…Well.” She hesitates. “Maybe he didn’t have a friend like me to set him straight. He probably thought all that dumb boy stuff was funny too. And now he’s a dumb boy with one arm.” Maybe that’s true. The idea makes me a little sad. I wonder if Nathan can still do armpit farts with just one arm or if he even wants to. I don’t think I’d want to do a lot of things anymore if that happened to me.

The cafeteria is loud today, like always. Trays clattering, kids chattering, trying to see who can make their tray of food look the most disgusting.

We ignore the lunch monitor, Mr. Smythe, who’s standing near the lunch line with his hands folded in front of him. There’s always something a little off about Mr. Smythe. He’s got that same blank look on his face he always does, like his eyes are made of glass. He never talks, not even when he catches someone throwing food or making a mess. He’s always there, watching, even though no one really knows what he’s looking at. And his eyes never blink, not once. I caught him watching me once, and I looked away, pretending I didn’t see him. Everyone knows not to stare at him for too long.

It’s just one of those things. We don’t talk about it, but we all know, just like the rules.

There are a lot of things in this town that you don’t question. You just keep your head down, follow the rules, and ignore the stuff that doesn’t feel right. Like Mr. Smythe. Or the figures you sometimes see through the trees at the edge of the schoolyard. Or the way the wind sounds like voices when it blows through the cracks in the window. Maybe all the stuff in town is just because we live next to a secret lab or something. And the scientists are doing experiments. That’d make sense. Way more sense than the trees do when they talk.

It’s just another one of the rules, I guess. Don’t look too hard at anything. Don’t ask too many questions. Don’t let anyone in.

My eyes keep drifting to the far corner of the room, where The Janitor stands. He’s standing near the back wall, half-hidden in the shadows, his mop leaning against the wall next to him. He’s in a different spot every day, but always facing away and never cleaning anything. He doesn’t sweep or mop or wipe tables. He just stands there, facing the wall, head tilted slightly like he's listening for something. Something only he can hear.

I used to ask my teacher about him, but she just said to ignore him. So now, I try to. I guess it’s one of those things you just stop noticing after a while. I ignore him, mostly because everyone else does. He’s just…there. A part of the school.

Like the rules.

Like the posters.

Like everything else we don’t talk about.

There are other wordless rules in the school, things worse than Mr. Smythe and The Janitor who seem mostly harmless. Things like Charlie.

It starts with Miss Haverford glancing at the clock.

The classroom hums with the low murmur of students chatting, pencils tapping against desks—the usual pre-lesson noise. I’m scribbling some doodles in the corner of my notebook, mostly zoning out when I notice Miss Haverford glance at the clock. And then glance at the clock again. I can tell by the way her lips tighten into a thin line and her fingers twitch at the edge of her desk. That little twitch is the warning. She's not usually the nervous type—she’s all straight posture and thin-lipped smiles—but right now, she’s gripping her pen so hard her knuckles are white. My stomach drops as soon as I see it. I’m already reaching into my desk when she stands and clears her throat.

I feel a small, instinctive twist of fear in my stomach as her eyes scan the room and pause on the door.

“Alright, everyone,” she says, clapping her hands together softly, “get out your multiplication tables.”

The room goes dead silent. No one asks questions. We know what that means. I was hoping I was wrong, but I guessed right.

There’s no way to know which classroom Charlie will visit today, but the way she keeps glancing at the clock means it’s close. It could be us. It could be now.

There’s a soft shuffle of papers and the scratch of chairs moving as we pull out the worksheets. Jake does the same beside me, though I catch him stealing a quick glance at me and waggling his eyebrows like he’s not scared, but even he’s not stupid enough to mouth anything.

"Don’t look up. Don’t make a sound," Miss Haverford says, so quiet you can barely hear her.

Miss Haverford reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out a small stopwatch. She checks the time and sits it on her desk with a soft click. The second hand starts ticking. She folds her hands, staring straight ahead at the wall, eyes unfocused, not really seeing us. Her lips press into a thin line, and she doesn’t blink. I swallow, feeling the knot in my throat tighten.

"Stay silent. He’ll leave when the time is up," she whispers, so low that I almost didn’t catch it. "Today might be the day Charlie visits."

It could be any day. But today, it’s now.

It’s a Charlie Day.

Some kids say he comes twice a week, others say it’s random, but we all know the drill. Don’t talk. Don’t look. Ignore him. Whatever you do, don’t give him any reason to stay longer.

The room is so quiet, you can hear every breath, every pencil scratch. The only sound is the faint ticking of Miss Haverford’s stopwatch on her desk.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

When it stops, he’ll leave, and we’ll be safe again.

We’ll be safe. We’ll be safe.

What are the chances that he comes to this classroom out of all the classrooms? I’m not too good at percentages, but I bet it’s pretty low.

We sit in silence. I don’t know how long. Five minutes? Maybe more? It doesn’t really matter, but we know what’s coming. I glance sideways at Jake again, who’s gripping his pencil a little too tight, pretending to be cool about it. Alice is in this class, seated at the back of the room because her last name is late in the alphabet. I would look back at her to check how she’s doing, but I’m too scared to even lift my head. She’d probably just roll her eyes at me for being such a wimp.

I hate the waiting, it makes me sweat so bad that the hair at the back of my neck feels wet. Have you ever been to the dentist and heard the drill in the next room? You know it's coming, right, and you can’t do anything but sit and pretend you’re not scared. Except this drill talks and laughs. This drill is mean.

That’s when I hear it. From the corner of the room.

A soft patter of feet, lighter than anyone’s in the room. Small, careful footsteps move across the tile. And then, a giggle, like someone trying and failing to hold in a laugh. My heart starts pounding.

I freeze, my pencil almost slipping from my hand. I hear it again—closer this time.

Giggle. Shuffle. Giggle.

“Shhh…” a voice whispers from the doorway. I know that voice. Everyone knows it. "Shh. We’re gonna play now."

My stomach flips. I don’t want to play. Not the way Charlie does it.

I grip my pencil tighter, my eyes locked on the multiplication tables in front of me, but the numbers blur. My mind’s racing, trying not to think about Charlie, trying not to picture him, that small boyish form with eyes that are too tall and a too wide smile that doesn’t hold on to its teeth right. I feel the urge to glance up, just for a second. Just to see if he’s close.

Don’t.

“Who should I visit today?” he sing-songs, his voice teasing and light, like we’re all playing a game of hide-and-seek. He’s not really a kid, but he looks like one—kind of. We all know he’s something else. Something that wears the skin of a child like a costume, just to mess with us. His brown hair is messy like he’s been running, and he’s got all those band-aids on his fingers, wrapped around each knuckle all the way up to the nail. I’ve never seen anyone with more bandaids other than Alice when she had chickenpox. Except Charlie doesn’t scratch them. Maybe that’s why he’s always smiling—he can’t feel anything. There’s a scrape on his knee, fresh and dirty, and his firetruck shirt is a little too clean for someone who’s been playing outside.

I hear him stop near Tyler’s desk. Tyler Bennet, who sits at the front and never talks. Charlie giggles softly like he’s about to tell a joke.

“Hey, Tyler,” Charlie whispers, his voice sweet, too happy. “You didn’t say hi to me today.”

Tyler doesn’t respond. I can see his hand trembling a little, gripping the edge of his desk.

“Tyler…” Charlie’s voice draws out the name, trying to coax him into playing. “You’re being rude. Why won’t you look at me?”

Tyler doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. Good. He knows better. Charlie moves on.

“Hey, Ella. I see you,” Charlie giggles, moving between the rows of desks, closer, closer. “You’ve got such pretty hair today, Ella. Did you do it just for me?”

Ella doesn’t move, sitting so still that it looks like she’s barely breathing. I clench my fists under my desk, willing myself to stay still, to stay quiet. It’s just a few more minutes. Just don’t look. Don’t say anything. Don’t get noticed.

2 x 2 = 4

2 x 3 = 6

2 x 4 = 10?

My hands shake as I try to erase my answer. I don’t dare look up, even when he stops right next to Sarah, two rows in front of me. Her shoulders are shaking—just barely—but I can see it.

He leans close to her desk, his voice a sharp whisper. “Hey, Sarah,” he says. “I heard your dog died last week. Is that true?”

No response. She’s smart. She keeps staring at her worksheet. We all do.

Charlie giggles, louder this time, like he’s just heard the funniest thing in the world. “Did you know your dog got hit by four—” He holds up four fingers, little Band-Aids covering each one. “Four different cars before he died? Yeah, he did! I bet you didn’t know that, did you?”

He pauses, waiting for her to react, but Sarah stays frozen.

“And guess what? He felt alllll of it. Yup, every single car.” His fingers drum on her desk, light and playful. “The first one hit his legs, smashed them up real good. The second one? Ooh, that one got his ribs. Bet he cried, didn’t he? And the third car, well…” He stops, leaning in close. “It didn’t kill him either. Nope! But then—” He suddenly slams his hands down on the desk and we all flinch. “A big ol’ truck came and splat—brains everywhere! SPLAT, BAM. No more doggy.”

I feel like I’m going to be sick, but I’m not surprised. Charlie knows what makes you sad, even if you don’t say it out loud and he gets even meaner the longer he stays, working harder to get someone to crack before he has to go. He reminds me of those boys in PE. The ones who always aim for the face even though coach said not to. Charlie’s like that, but worse—because Charlie never misses. Not ever. I keep my eyes glued to my paper. Multiplication tables. Easy. Repetitive. Just focus.

Charlie giggles again, as if this whole thing is a joke. “Bet you cried reeeal hard, huh, Sarah? Yeah, you did. You’re a big crybaby, aren’t you? I bet your face was all scrunched up, and you were sobbing, weren’t you? Yeah, you were. Big ol’ crybaby. Why don’t you smile, huh? Come on. Turn that frown,” he frowns dramatically before tilting his head so sharply that it’s almost completely upside down and it looks like he’s smiling. If anyone else did that, they’d be dead. No, nobody else could do that. Necks aren’t supposed to bend that way. But I don’t think Charlie knows that. “Upside down!”

He waits for her to break, just for a second, then sighs loudly when she doesn’t. “You’re no fun,” he mutters, as if he’s bored now. He moves through the room slowly, his feet light on the floor. I can hear him stopping at each desk, hear the faintest shuffle of papers as he leans over to see who’s playing along. My palms are sweaty. The clock is ticking. Miss Haverford isn’t moving at all.

Charlie starts humming. Some off-key, tuneless little melody that grates at my nerves. My skin prickles as I hear him stop at someone’s desk near the front of the room.

"Hey, Timmy," Charlie whispers, his voice too loud in the silence. "I heard your goldfish died last week. Did you know that? Did it float upside down, all bloated and gross? Did you watch it sink to the bottom?"

There’s no response. No one breathes.

Charlie giggles. "Bet you cried like a little baby, didn’t you? You love to cry, huh, Timmy? Bet you were sitting there staring at it, hoping it’d swim again. But it didn’t, did it?" His voice softens, almost like he’s comforting Timmy. But it’s wrong. Mocking.

"Don’t worry, though. Fish don’t feel much pain. It’s not like your mom when she was in that hospital bed. I heard you prayed for her, but she didn’t get better. That must’ve sucked, huh?" He lets out a long, fake sigh. "Maybe next time, pray harder."

Timmy begins to cry. Body shaking sobs that he covers up with his hands.

Then, as quick as flipping a switch, his mood changes, and he starts bouncing around the room again. “I’m an airplane!” he shouts, arms outstretched. “Rrrrrrr! Rrrrrrrrrr!”

He weaves between the desks, running in circles, making airplane noises. But they’re wrong—I grit my teeth. He’s doing it wrong on purpose. Everyone knows planes don’t sound like that. Too loud, too deep, too…off. Like he doesn’t actually know what an airplane sounds like, but he’s pretending anyway.

I keep my eyes down, but out of the corner of my vision, I can see him zooming past. He swoops around Timmy’s desk, his fingers brushing the tops of everyone’s heads. “Wheee! Look at me! I’m an airplane!” His voice is so bright and cheery, it’s almost like recess—if recess was the most terrifying thing in the world.

I almost got away with it. I really did. I was doing so good, keeping my eyes down. But the firetruck shirt—he’s got that firetruck shirt on today, I love firetrucks. Just a quick peek. Just a tiny one. And if I can remember it enough to describe it to my mom, she might get one like it for me.

I glance up.

Charlie freezes.

He’s in the middle of the room, arms out, like he’s still pretending to be an airplane. But now, he’s perfectly still. Charlie moves so fast that I barely register it. One second, he’s feet away; the next, he’s standing right in front of me. For the briefest second, I see him up close. He’s right there, his face inches from mine, his eyes wide and gleaming—taking up so much surface area on the off chance you look at them by mistake—his smile too big, too sharp. My heart jumps into my throat, my chest tightening with panic. I squeeze my eyes shut without thinking. I think that’s the only thing that saves me, because I can feel him. He’s hovering so close that it feels like I can see him in the darkness behind my eyelids.

“You almost looked at my eyes,” he whispers, a dangerous edge in his voice now. Not in, but at. Like his eyes are just posters he pinned to the wall of his face, just something stuck on. Like Mr. Smythe’s eyes, always glassy, always wrong. I wonder if they came from the same place. The same horrible, horrible place. “You almost slipped.”

He’s breathing softly against my cheek, but it feels like he’s all around me. He’s so close, I can smell him—like damp grass, mulch, and something else, something sour underneath.

"You know, I wore this shirt just for you, Robbie. You like firetrucks don’t you? I do too. It’s so funny seeing them speed off to put out a fire.” Charlie says, his voice all sugary and sweet, like we’re best friends. I try to distract myself by multiplying by six in my head. “Even funnier when they don’t get there in time. Do you think that’s funny, Robbie? I won’t tell if you do. It’ll be our little secret.”

I keep my eyes closed, eyelids twitching with how hard I’m squeezing them. But I can still feel the pull. I want to look, just to see how close he is, just to know for sure. My hands are trembling, my breath coming in shallow little gasps.

“Hey,” he whispers, and it’s not playful anymore. It’s cold, his breath ice on the back of my neck. I can’t tell where he is now. I think he’s tricking my senses. Or I’m just so scared that I’m tricking myself. “I heard your mom cries every night. Yeah. Yeah, You’re used to her crying, though. I remember. I heard you’re the reason she cries so much. Is that true? I bet it is. She probably cries because of you, doesn’t she? Because you’re a scared little baby.”

I feel my throat tighten like I might start crying. My breathing gets even shallower, but I can’t move. He’s just messing with me. That’s all this is. It’s not real. None of this is real. It’s just a dumb game.

“I bet you cry too. Like when you’re all alone in your room and the shadows start moving, huh? You cry just like your mommy.” His voice drops even lower, soft and mocking. “Come on. Just say something. Just one word. I bet you sound so funny when you’re scared.”

I’m about to crack. I can feel the tears burning in my eyes. I suck in a breath, and for a second, I think I’m going to scream. I’m so sure that I’m about to give in, it feels completely out of my control.

Then, a sneeze. Loud and sharp from the back of the room.

I freeze. Everyone does.

Charlie’s attention snaps away from me. The tension breaks, and for a moment, I can breathe again. When I can tell that he’s no longer focused on me, I crack my eyes open, glancing over my shoulder at where the sound came from. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Charlie’s smile turn feral. Like when a wolf snarls so it looks like it's smiling but it's really just showing off what it'll use to tear you to bits.

Charlie straightens up, and his voice fills with glee. “Oh! Bless you!”

My blood runs cold when I realize the sneeze came from Alice. I know this because I watch as her lips form the words: "Th-thank you,” She stammers, like a reflex, like she can’t help it, clearly without thinking. She’s too well-mannered for her own good.

Then Charlie laughs. A bright, childish thing, full of pure joy.

“Aha! I got you!” He squeals, jumping up and down, clapping his hands. “I got you, I got you! Alice lost! Alice lost! I knew you’d break. You’re always so polite. So well-mannered. Bet you thought you were sooo smart, huh? But you’re not. You’re just a dumb little rule-breaker.” He says, giddily skipping over to her desk. “And you’re always so fast. Always slipping away before the other kids catch you. But I caught you."

Everyone goes still, inwardly cringing as we watch, but no one dares to move or speak. Not while Charlie’s got someone. Miss Haverford’s eyes dart to Alice, but she stays frozen behind her desk.

Alice’s lips tremble. She’s so still, like a statue, like she thinks if she doesn’t move, maybe he’ll forget.

He leans in close, even closer than he was with me, his face almost touching hers, and I have to look away, but I hear it—her sharp inhale, as if she’s about to scream, but no sound comes out.

“I’ll be gentle,” Charlie whispers. “Until I get bored.”

Then something happens. I don’t know what. None of us ever do. But Alice’s face goes white, her lips trembling as she tries to stay still. There’s no sound—just a cold ripple through the air. We all sit there, helpless—and then, it’s over. Not because Charlie wanted to stop, but because the stopwatch goes off. It’s followed by the school-wide alarm blaring over the intercom. The intercom crackles to life.

“Playtime is over,” the voice announces. “Time to go home, Charlie.”

"Aww, man! I wanted to play more." He pouts, stamping his foot. He sulks, dragging his feet towards a darkened corner. “Well, I guess I have to go. Bye, everyone! I’ll see you soon!

“Bye, Charlie,” we all say in unison, keeping our voices calm and steady, just like we were taught. “It was fun playing with you. See you soon.”

Charlie grins again, giving us all a little wave. And between one blink and another, he’s gone. Just like that, the air feels lighter. The classroom is still deadly quiet for a few seconds before we all exhale. I sigh, muscles aching from how tense I was.

Jacob elbows me. “Dude, you were gonna cry. Look at you, you almost peed your pants.”

“Nuh-uh,” I say, rubbing my eyes quickly so no one sees. But I kinda did.

Sometimes I wonder if the adults are more scared than we are. Like, we follow the rules because it’s just what you do. But maybe the grown-ups do it because they learned what happens when you don’t. After Charlie leaves, the rest of us are so hyped over how cool it was that he came to our class, while Miss Haverford rushes over to Alice, who’s shaking in her seat. Alice has dark skin, made even darker by how much she plays outside. But now, it’s like she’s been drained of all her color. Miss Haverford’s face is pale, her lips tight like she’s trying not to let us see how scared she really is. But I see it. She looks at Alice like something awful just happened. She whispers something into her walkie-talkie. “Code blue. Room 3-B.”

The kids around me are already bouncing with excitement, whispering to each other.

“I can’t believe we got Charlie today!”

Around me, everyone’s buzzing—like we just survived the coolest thing ever. Kids whispering, "Did you see his face?" or, "I wasn’t even scared." I want to feel the same, but I can’t stop looking at Alice. I don’t think it was fun for her.

Alice is sitting still, her eyes blank, like she’s somewhere else entirely. I wonder if she’ll ever talk again. She’s always telling us to mind our manners. Always being the polite one, the one who never gets in trouble. But now…maybe she should’ve just kept quiet. It’s her own fault—she broke the rule. But I don’t feel good about it. Not at all. Part of me feels bad for her. But another part…well, she should’ve known better. She’s supposed to be smart, smarter than me and Jake at least. She said so herself, bragged about it. She knew the rules, she even made fun of Nathan for breaking them. Mom says not to touch the stove and what do you do? You touch the stove. And whose fault is it when it hurts? That’s on you.

It’s weird, she’s just sitting there. I always expected that anyone who loses Charlie’s game would just, I don’t know, explode or something. I pictured that he’d put something inside of them that would eat them from the inside out and make a bunch of tiny Charlies. But maybe I’m just thinking about that one scary movie with the big-headed aliens Dad let me sneak-watch with him, where the monsters burst out of people. I guess since Charlie got interrupted by the bell, whatever he was doing got paused. Alice’s monster is still inside her, unhatched. For now. I couldn’t sleep after watching the movie. I wonder if I’ll be able to sleep tonight.

I look back over to Jacob and see his face twisting up all weird as he looks at Alice. Before I can say anything, he just shrugs his shoulders and asks, “Can I have your pudding instead?”

I sigh, digging into my bag for it since it’s not like Alice will wanna trade now. I hand it to him, knowing I’ll get nothing in exchange—Jacob’s mom always forgets to pack him a snack—as the sound of pounding footsteps comes from the hall and a bunch of adults burst into the classroom.

“I don’t have a spoon,” I say as he tears the lid off, digging in, “Alice always brought her own.” And then I start thinking that Alice may never trade with me again as the adults gather around her.

I look at the other kids that Charlie targeted today.

Tyler's up and about, hands in his pockets and staring at the ground as his friends talk at him. A bunch of girls surround Ella talking about whatever girls talk about, probably asking her what she did to her hair that caught Charlie's attention so they can avoid it. Some kids are trying to cheer Timmy up, I wouldn't know how though. Even I get a couple of pats on the back and a few fist bumps. Not Alice though.

None of the kids want to get near her in case they catch whatever Charlie gave her, at least that’s what me and Jake are thinking. Even as her friends, there’s little that survives a Charlie Day. Because of this, I get a clear view of the commotion. She looks like how my stuffed bear did after it went through the wash—kind of flattened and wrong, like all the stuffing got sucked out and she was just skin left over. So much so that I expect her to go limp once they move her. But she’s not. Alice is stiff, knees curled toward her chest like a spider when you spray it.

I recognize the one that holds her by his stiff, brown doll hair and his almost sightless eyes that seem to see a lot as he cradles Alice to his chest like a baby bird. Mr. Smythe. The other teachers give him a wide berth as they rush to open the door for him. It’s weird. It’s almost like, for a second, his face might crack open. But then I realize it’s a smile. He’s smiling down at Alice. It’s not the usual dull look of nothingness he always has, but a smile. A real one, like he'd gotten something new. The pure joy and excitement of unwrapping an action figure or a doll on Christmas. Except this time, his new doll is broken. But maybe that’s what he likes. I elbow Jacob in the side and point toward the crowd of adults as he yelps in pain, almost dropping what was supposed to be Alice’s chocolate pudding.

We watch them walk out in silence. I wonder who will comfort Alice, but I cut that train of thought off when the only name I can think of is Mr. Smythe. Then Jacob shrugs again and keeps eating.

I feel wobbly, almost sick. The same way I felt the first time I got on a boat. And it’s not just because of how Jake pigs out, chocolate smudged on his flushed and chubby cheeks as he uses his fingers to shovel the pudding into his mouth. But that certainly isn’t helping.

To: redacted@redacted.com

From: m.willem@redacted.com

Subject: I’m sorry

Sent: 11NOV2023, 11:59PM

Hey, mom,

By the time you see this in the morning, I’ll be gone, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry I’ve been lying. But you just seemed so happy after everything that I couldn’t bring myself to tell you how bad it got. At least you and dad could stay happy. 

So before I go, I want to at least tell you the truth. Maybe it will bring you some comfort if you understand that this is truly what I wanted. 

I never told you how it first found me. In the lucid moments with Father Blackwood, I told you I didn’t know, and that was true. It didn’t occur to me until months later, to be honest, and by then, we hadn’t been talking in a while. 

I was visiting his grave. I never told you this, but I used to visit on the day I killed him. You know I never stopped feeling guilty about it? Even after all he put me through? Even though it was me or him? I used to go there and cry and scream and tell him all about the things I couldn’t tell you. 

I’m sorry I didn’t try harder, mom. I know I should have told you, but you were so upset every time I brought it up! How could I keep putting you through it? I love you, mom… I didn’t want to make you hurt too… I didn’t want to give him that power!

That last night, it was so different. I was angry. I was cursing and wishing I could see him burn in hell for what he did. Father Blackwood always did say anger doesn’t help, but… Mom, I think he was wrong. It felt so good to be angry. It felt so good to let it consume me, if only for a moment. It burned, bright and hot against the evening chill. As it faded, guilt and self-loathing filtered in like ice-cold droplets down my spine. All the sermons about forgiveness, about moving on, about being the better person started creeping in. I was thinking about how I would have to go to confession the next day, and hear Father Blackwood’s judgement…

Don’t hold it against him, mom! You know he only ever wanted to help, but he is human after all. He’s not immune to this kind of thing and after everything, well… For how long was he expected to listen to me wallow anyways? Maybe I needed that tough love. I never went to confession the next day.

I started walking back towards the gate. It was so dark… I could see the city lights on the street, but for some reason, the lights in the cemetery hadn’t kicked in and it was so peaceful. 

The voice seemed to come out of nowhere. Now that I think about it, it was all wrong. I couldn’t see him… it. Even as pitch black as it was, I should have been able to! And it’s voice, it was scratchy, wrong, more like two stones rubbing against each other than a human, but, mom, do you know the first thing it said? It said “He sounds like a real asshole”.

Shame flooded my body, every muscle, every joint locked into a state of shock. 

Someone knew! Someone heard it all, all the rage, the anger, all he did to me. 

And worst of all, do you know what all I could think about was? 

No one had called him an asshole before. 

The paramedics that day called him ‘suspect’ and ‘deceased’. The doctors and the police called him ‘offender’ and ‘perpetrator’. The people at church called him ‘disturbed’ and ‘troubled’. Even you, mom. The worst thing you called him was ‘terrible’.  

I faltered, mom. I’m sorry. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be forgiving. I couldn’t turn the other cheek. Father Blackwood would be so disappointed.

“He really was”, I whispered back. 

The ember of anger still smothering inside me burst back into flame, and I collapsed, angry tears flowing, sobs wrecking my body… Mom, it felt so good to hurt like that! 

“Let me make it all better”, it grated.

I didn’t answer mom, but don’t be proud of me. It’s just because I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything but cry. But I wanted it to! In that moment, I wanted to let it do whatever it wanted, take my body, break it, use it to the ground if it would just make.it.stop. 

It was enough. 

I don’t really remember what happened next. But when I stopped crying, I felt different. I felt stronger, sharper, more present than I had since I killed him, mom! How was I supposed to know it was a bad thing? I would have told you if I knew, I promise!

You first suspected it in December, because of the Christmas mass. But by the end of September, I had already lost all control. And… there is something else. I knew what was happening the entire time. It talked to me. It explained what it was doing to me. Worst of all? I liked it!

It started with the dreams. I would dream of dark corridors, echoing with screams. Sometimes, there were lakes of fire under eternal twilight, with creatures so incomprehensible it makes my head hurt just thinking about them. Sometimes, I would see figures. Shadows, in humanoid form, with wings and horns that shifted and changed under my gaze. But I was never afraid, mom. I thought it was because holy light protected me, that because of my prayers, these things could never reach me. 

I got bold one time. In a dream with a corridor, I opened a door. It was waiting for me there. I think the dreams were bait. For me to descend deeper into its grasp. I was stupid, mom. I was arrogant, I really should have known better. Maybe it would have gotten bored if I kept on ignoring the dreams. 

But I didn’t think, and when I opened the door, I could feel it in the darkness. I couldn’t see it, but the presence… It was so strong it filled the room, it could have easily crushed me! But… It didn’t. It told me what it was. It told me it was there for me. It fed on people like me, it said, on my pain and fear and anger, and it would help me shed them all. All I had to do was let it in. 

I said no at first, of course I did! And it wasn’t even angry about it. It was kind. It told me it was ok, and that it doesn’t hold it against me. It said it would keep showing me the wonders of its world and when I changed my mind, all I had to do was ask. 

The mugging was two days after. Do you remember it, mom? I was lost in thought, thinking about castles of twinkling stars and horizons burning with the souls of the dead, so I didn’t see him following me home from the book club. He grabbed me by my hair and put a knife to my throat, told me it was my purse or my life. 

I froze. You know he did that to me once? He played games like this a lot. I couldn’t answer even if I wanted to. And I wanted to. I wanted to tell him he could have it, throw it to the ground and just walk away, but my body refused to move. All I could think about was the time he left scars and I started crying and clutching my purse because my hand had already been on it. I thought I was gonna die. And I was so angry at myself for being so weak and at him for making me weak and… even a little at you, mom, for not being there with me at book club that night. 

That’s when I heard its voice in my head for the first time. It was so calm and gentle. Heat spread through my limbs, bright and scorching, urging me to move, to act, to let it out! 

“How about I help you?” it asked, in that grating, grumbly, familiar tone.

The burglar was getting aggressive. He pushed the blade into my skin. The cool blade felt like it was letting ice into my veins. I could hear my blood sizzle and steam. 

Mom… I said yes. I let it help me. I didn’t know what else to do! I didn’t want to die!

The heat that was beginning to turn painful in my veins eased as my body began to move. I watched from behind my own eyes. It talked to me during it. Explained what it was doing, how it was taking care of my body and making sure its power didn’t damage it. How it channelled just enough of itself to be able to take care of me. 

It grabbed the man by his arm. Forcefully removed his knife hand away from my throat, then twisted me around so that I was facing my attacker. That’s how my hair got cut short.

Anyways, that’s when the man started screaming. I watched as flames began to burn in his veins. He was gone in a matter of seconds. He didn’t suffer because his nerves burnt out first. It said it didn’t want me to see him suffer, that there was no need for me to take that on. 

Did I ever tell you about the first time he hit me, mom? It was during that first camping trip we took as a couple. I had only packed one blanket, and I was snuggling with it by the campfire. He had gone to fill up the water bottles in the meantime, and when he came back, he was all smiles. And then he realised there wasn’t another blanket and he lost it. He hit me so hard I hit my head against the ground falling over. My ears were ringing, and I couldn’t feel my body quite right. He was screaming something that I couldn’t quite register. I think it was a bad hit, mom. The fire was burning in front of me, and all I could think about was how beautiful the flames were. The red and orange blooming like flowers, the scent of smoke and the leftover sweetness from the smores… The man burning was just like that! I could even smell the scent of burning chocolate. 

It let go after that. The heat went away, and I was left shivering as the autumn wind blew away the ashes of the man. I was missing it, mom. I know it’s bad, but you’ve never had fire in your veins like that. How could I explain what it feels like when they lap at your blood and consume you, fill you up like you’ve never been before and then they just disappear?? Barren is a word I had never understood well, but… I think I did that night.

I got home in a daze. I remember you fussed over my hair, but not much about the cut. You set me down, and gave me tea and tucked me in and when I told you I didn’t want to talk about it yet, you seemed so relieved. I didn’t want to burden you anymore after that. You told everyone I just wanted a new style after we went to the salon the next day, and everyone just nodded along and agreed that I looked nice, but I should be careful with short haircuts and wasn’t I going to start dating again soon? You didn’t think I heard that last part, but I did. I felt anger again. And this time, the anger was familiar, the same poison in my veins like when the man burned. 

I should have been ashamed, but the warmth washed it away like a gentle summer shower. I know better now. It was selfish, I know, but, mom… it felt like peace. It had been so long since I had peace like that. I even thought maybe my prayers were finally being answered. It was a thin hope, even then. It didn’t take long after that. 

At night, it would show me the most wonderful sights. It showed me castles of bone and fire and blood, forests filled with wild creatures hunting wretched souls, skies filled with foreign stars to confuse travellers through these realms. Mom, did you know that the most unholy creatures have built the most beautiful planes? In their greed and pride, they made places that even their evil eyes could rest easy on. It promised to let me travel through its home myself, rather than just through its memories. You know that alone almost made me give in? I was so weak, mom. I’m sorry I disappointed you and let myself be taken in like that.

During the day, it would talk to me. Whenever someone would sin, it would comment. You know it even asked me if I was alright with that? It promised to stop if its voice was too distracting and the worst part? It did. It even told me what I missed in conversation if I was paying attention to it instead of the outside. It was so funny, mom! It made me laugh! It would have these impressions of the people that were being mean to me, it even advised me on what to say and how to act! I LET it take over when my manager tried to frame me for skimming from the registers, and when it spoke up through me, he stopped bothering me! When my arms hurt at the end of the day from lifting heavy boxes all day, it would spread its heat through my veins and soothe the ache away better than any hot shower or massage  ever could. 

And mom, do you know it listened? It asked me questions. And listened to my answers. And then responded in kind. It was kinder than Father Blackwood. It soothed me, told me I was strong, told me I did everything right, that it wasn’t my fault! It praised me, mom. It looked at my worst parts and praised them. How was I supposed to resist it? How was I supposed to tell it to leave me alone? 

I never stood a chance, did I?

I wish I could tell you there was one thing that happened, some dire life and death situation like the first time, some amazing threat, but to be honest, mom, I woke up one morning from a dream of a beach of pure black sand and a water of brilliant blue and I couldn’t go on anymore. Its scorching heat was pulsing in my veins again and I just didn’t have it in me to resist it anymore. I was calm and warm and I felt so safe. I let it take over. 

I tried to take control back a few times, but I never made it for more than a few minutes. It felt like ice blocks in my veins and needles in every muscle and I felt so alone and deserted, I just invited it right back! I stopped trying after that. 

I became the presence in its head now, watching like a spectator from behind my own eyes as my life began to unravel at seams. It started to fight with you and dad first. Told you how it wanted more space and freedom. It even threatened to move out by itself. I protested at that, but it reminded me that it could take care of itself. You and dad caved at the threat anyways, so I never really did ask if it would have. It began to distance me from the people at church too. I wasn’t very sad about that either. Marry and Leanne never really liked me, but we had been in the same youth group, so we had to at least be civil. It also showed me how Janice kept making fun of me. Did you ever notice that, mom? Janice? I never really realised how backhanded she always was to me, and how much she criticised everything that I did. 

I slept a lot during that time. In its blaze, I rested better than I ever did. That’s why I’m missing chunks of time. It didn’t threaten me. It didn’t threaten those around me. It didn’t even force me to give it control. I just did. Everything is because of me, mom. That’s the truth. 

It must have prepared for the Christmas mass while I was sleeping. I truly don’t know where it found the blood, or how it got the keys to the church. Everyone must have been so scared, but mom, the portal only showed you all its home! The black sand was shimmering with diamonds made from the souls of the wretched, to be beaten by the waves of innocent blood they spilled for eternity until they were ground down to nothing but more black, dead sand. Isn’t that what divine justice is supposed to be? 

Father Blackwood stopped it before the portal could reach anyone and things became even blurrier after that. It protected me from the exorcism. It took care of my body and wouldn’t let me watch what Father Blackwood was doing. It was hurting so much, mom… It could have let me feel it, make me beg you to stop, but it never did. It endured this suffering for months, until Father Blackwood managed to properly exorcise it. 

It let me talk to you every now and again, though, when it needed to rest. You were so kind, mom… You gave me water and food and sang to me and promised me I’d be ok. I wanted to tell you that I was already ok. But you wouldn’t believe me if I did. I kept so many secrets from you, mom… I hope you’ll forgive me one day. 

“I’ll never be far away” it whispered, right before you and Father Blackwood ripped it out. 

The months that followed were even worse than the first few months after him*. I’m sorry I couldn’t be happy, but mom, I felt so empty and alone again! My dreams were dim and lonely without its voice grating about its home, and my body was so cold and empty. Did you know I hadn’t felt hunger since it took over? I forgot what it felt like and how to sate it. It took such good care of my body… Before Christmas, I had gained weight and it would let me feel how much stronger I was every once in a while.* He never let me eat what I wanted. 

When it left, though, it left me with a piece of itself, a little of its power that I must’ve clung to. The seed was planted and my fate sealed. I would never be able to swell within sacred light like that. I had damned myself, regardless, mom. We were never gonna be together in the afterlife after that. 

I tried to pray it away at first, douse the ember of evil away, but it hurt so much! Every time I uttered the name of the creator or invoked his presence, it felt like bolts of lightning flashed down my nerves and I would collapse in a heap of sobs and agony. 

I could hear them too, the sinful thoughts. I heard doctors sick and tired of their patients, husbands angry with their wives, mothers hating their children… I even heard you a few times. I realised these were the mere moments of pain, those intrusive, mean things that we learn to tuck away and never act on. But there were so many, mom, and they never stopped! I tried everything, I tried to drown them out with music, focus on something else, pinch myself, scratch myself, but it never stopped! 

And I was cold and lonely and afraid. The things I heard from you sometimes, mom… 

That’s why I chose to go to the clinic when they were ready to let me out of the hospital. If I had known how much worse it would get…

I couldn’t feel them in the hospital. I’m not sure why, they must have been there too. Maybe it had just taken me more wrong choices leading me down the path for more power to awaken. Or maybe I just ignored it. 

Things like it are everywhere, mom! They hide in the darkest shadows, waiting to prey on those whose path had led them to misery so they can begin to whisper in their ear, lead them even further down, guide them away from the light and into eternal darkness. Same way it did with me. 

A rehabilitation clinic is a perfect place. People are frustrated and defeated. There are few that begin with a positive attitude. Recovery is long and painful, and people are weak. If I hadn’t been touched already, I would've been the perfect target. I was stuck in bed a large chunk of time, and when I wasn’t, I was in so much pain. The painkillers made the voices worse, so I avoided them at all costs. The doctors thought I was crazy. I know. I heard their thoughts when I was being particularly difficult.

I started feeling them at first. When they were near, my blood turned to ice. Looming shadows enveloped the room, but I was the only one that seemed to notice. They felt a lot like it, but since they were not there for me… I was scared. I couldn’t wear crosses or pray anymore, I thought they were gonna drag me down so I could burn under the ominous skies. They weren’t interested in me though. I think they didn’t even notice me at first. 

When they didn’t come for me, I got arrogant. Pride, as always, was my downfall. I wanted to know why they were there. If I focused, if I tried very hard, I could pin-point them in a room. I don’t know why I wanted to do that, mom. I don’t know why I wanted to do any of this. When I finally managed to look at it… Mom… It looked back. It felt like a knife piercing through my skull. I couldn’t truly see it, but I got the impression of something sickly and thin, like a sapling that never got enough light, but was clinging to life through almost withered and browning leaves but refusing to give up. It touched me. I felt it in my soul, like a line of fire down my arm, igniting my nerves. The feeling was so familiar I could have cried and the tears would not have been sad ones. 

After that, it became easier and easier. What took hours at first became minutes, became seconds, became part of my reality. There were two more at the clinic. One felt like the moment before the stormwall of a hurricane hits, tense and filled with dread. The other one felt like the ashes choking the life out of anything a wildfire spared. Some others passed through, but those did not seem to notice me. But I noticed them. I saw them latch onto people whose days or weeks or months or entire recoveries would be destroyed. I watched them latch onto people and then disappear from my perception, only for those people to give me a knowing look as they left the clinic, miraculously well again. Mom, there are so many out there! So many that have been lost to light, the same way that I was! 

Once the Sapling noticed me, so did the others. They would touch me, infrequently at first, to test my reaction I think. I don’t think they expected me to long for it like I did. The fire feels so good when it doesn’t burn you. It hurts in the most beautiful ways when the nerves cannot be destroyed. I hope you never have to feel it, or else… even you might fall prey to it, mom. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. 

By the time I left the facility, I would feel their touch on my soul every night. Their flame would blaze through me, in me, melt me from the inside out over and over again and leave me begging for them not to go in the morning. Whatever delusion of salvation I might have harboured before was shattered into pieces. The notion of coming back to you and living under the gaze of the holly made me tremble in fear. I couldn’t bear it. I’m sorry, mom. I was so ungrateful for all you’ve done…

When I was discharged and disappeared, you must have been so worried. I’m sorry I wasn’t thinking about you. I thought I was sparing you. I thought not knowing would be better than thinking there was anything you could do for my soul. I made up my mind that I was going to find it again. I can’t explain it, not really. The toxic seed it left inside my soul was ready to bloom. And I knew that only it could help me.

Father Blackwood said that the only way to something like it was its name. In the long months of conversation, it never once did give me that. I had to piece together, from the images of its home, and the things I knew about it, and the things it did. It was a lot of work, mom, I think you would be proud of my research, mom, if evil wasn’t the subject matter. It took even longer to find how to summon it. It likes very peculiar things, things that I had to further add to my list of sins to obtain. 

I did it, mom. I got everything, and tonight, I’ll call it back to me, give myself over, tainted and squandered by its hand and I will bloom! I will be removed from the eyes of the maker, reformed into the image of the adversary and it will take me down to its realm like it promised me. I will visit the castles of starlight and the pits of despair and watch the multi-coloured skies and serve until the war of judgement day. 

I’m sorry I lied to you like this, mom. I had every chance to turn around, and at every step, I made the wrong choice. I was weak, greedy, prideful, and everything the scripture tells us not to be. No one is at fault for putting me on this path but me. So please, don’t be sad. Don’t mourn me, don’t wait for me. Look at me like Father Blackwood would tell you to, like I’ve fallen from grace, like I’ve let down everything I’ve ever believed in, because I have.

If you need anything more to nudge you over that line, know that I am at peace with my fate. Know I will be embracing it joyfully and serving it with my head held high. 

I have no right to say this anymore, but I love you, mom. I hope your soul finds rest at the side of the creator. And against all hope, I hope one day, we’ll meet again. 

With all my love,

Millie