THE NIGHT BLOGGER - The Owls And The Lizards And The Big Broke Moon

November 17th: As I have said before I live in an apartment two floors above a pawnshop owned by Claretha Vincenzo, an old family friend who is both my landlady and employer. She is a great lady and, in many ways, my savior. She is also very patient, often helping me when I am being detained by representatives of local police departments, hospitals, and, on one occasion, the security department of the local branch of the Church of Scientology.

But to tell you the story of Claretha Vincenzo I need to tell you about her husband. Joseph Vincenzo told anyone at would listen that he saw his pawn shop as a way to help the less fortunate in his community, that he felt what he did was no different than a bank or a credit union. What he didn’t tell anyone was that his little pawn shop also laundered money for the Polish Mafia.

A lot of people have blamed his untimely death on his ties to Werdegast crime family but who am I to make such wild accusations? Maybe there is a perfectly rational explanation for why he drowned in raw sewage.

All Joseph’s left behind for his wife was a mountain of bills and some very shady mobbed up pawn shop. Other people might have sold everything, tried to start over someplace far away from all those bad memories. Not Mrs. Vincenzo though, she stood up to the creditors and somehow got the business untangled from the people that thought the Godfather was a training film.

I guess she has a soft spot for lost causes. Which explains why she puts up with me…

####
On this particular Monday, I was manning the pawn shop by myself while Mrs. Vincenzo was off organizing a food drive for her church. It had been a good morning; I had successfully avoided mistaking fake jewelry for the real thing. I had a bad habit of buying cubic zirconia as if it were real diamonds, but not today.

Unfortunately, I did pay two thousand dollars for a 'Rollex' watch.

Sadly, that last sentence was not a typo.

Under the register, a homemade meatloaf sandwich was waiting for me. Mrs. Vincenzo fed me relentlessly, but I was too busy researching.

That's right. Many of you are wondering when I would do something about the witchier version of Sara Bishop, Gorgo, Mormo, and Luna. Despite my distractions with slashers, ghost buses, and zombies, rest assured I've been actively researching the issue. I've enlisted the help of some of the most prolific members of the FEAR AND TRUTH forum—50Fingers, ShortRoundNinety-Two, SacredGhost, and TrueSeeker. Additionally, I've been tapping into my other resources.

There’s Tegan Blue, an inept dime store psychic who somehow came into possession of The Spirit Board of Shizhen-Fuld. Then there's Atwater, a former NSA agent whose career was sidelined by cannibalism charges. And let's not forget Isaac Zamorano, a coked-up Bigfoot hunter.

Here’s what I have so far:

Isaac Zamorano is sure it has something to do with Bigfoot. Naturally.

Atwater informed me that there are approximately four hundred seven women in the United States named 'Sara Bishop.' Two of these four hundred seven are currently incarcerated, which is a higher rate than statistically probable. He has no idea what this means, and that makes two of us.

Tegan Blue warned me that I'd soon encounter a tall man with a handlebar mustache, which sounded like I might either join a barbershop quartet or end up in a brawl at a Steampunk convention. However, this didn't address my current predicament, so I asked her to use her ancient and eldritch spirit board. She replied that she and it weren't on speaking terms at the moment.

TrueSeeker took a half-hour drive to the New Castle Library and used her contacts to get into the Historical Texts and Documents section. There, she found a letter from accused witch Hannah Smith to Peter Stuyvesant, Director-General of New Netherland. Why would a woman acquitted of consorting with the Devil in sixteen fifty-eight be writing to the Director-General of the future colony of New York? Thankfully, she took pictures of the letter and sent them to me.

Honored Sir,

I write to you with great peril, having narrowly escaped the charge of witchcraft. It is my duty to inform you of a woman with whom I shared my confinement. Her name was Sara Bishop. Though you may judge me mad, I must attest—of all the accused I encountered, she alone wielded powers dark and unholy. Each night, she whispered promises of vengeance upon my accusers, invoking what she called the true trinity—Gorgo, Mormo, and Luna. She spoke of her imminent transformation and enticed me with the safety of her subterranean tunnels beneath the hills near Fort Orange.

In prayer, I resisted her temptations, yet she conjured visions within my mind's eye—owls and serpents speaking as men, a moon shattered like glass. She moved between the cells like smoke, tempting others unseen by the guards. Then, on the eve of Walpurgis Night, she and her three acolytes vanished, leaving behind whispers among the guards who claimed only three had escaped. Shockingly, they denied Sara Bishop's existence entirely.

I implore you to seek out this malign woman and consign her to the flames before her prophesied metamorphosis comes to fruition.

Yours Obediently
Hannah Smith

I sat for a long time looking at the letter. The implications were deeply disturbing, and deciphering old-timey cursive on 400-year-old parchment on an iPhone screen was no easy task. I wondered if I should send it to Sara but decided against it; this was the kind of thing you discussed after a quiet dinner.

And yes, Sara and I had been having a lot of quiet dinners lately.

But I had to set those thoughts aside when my Cousin Roy walked into Vincenzo’s Pawn Shop. Roy Foster Jr. was the kind of guy who could turn a simple sowing of oats into an accidental burning of bridges. Disheveled, dark-haired, and shifty-eyed, he was one of my last two living relatives and the only one I was in contact with. I don't believe in a benevolent higher power, but if there is a God who looks out for idiots and small children, Roy must keep Him very, very busy.

“Hey, Cuz!” he shouted. “When are you gonna pay me back for that ID?”

“I said next week,” I reminded him. “Don’t you remember?”

“Yeah, but I need it sooner. I got a date tonight.”

“A date, huh?” I said, not quite believing him. I knew Roy had gotten into the habit of getting advances on his paycheck so he could buy cocaine. The thing is, his dealer and his employer were the same person. It was only a matter of time before Roy found himself working in a kind of indentured servitude. The only good thing was that his boss, Peter ‘Bootsie’ Werdigast, always made sure Roy had enough money to cover his rent.

That’s right, mobsters treat their customers better than Wells Fargo. Make of that what you will.

Roy walked up to the counter and leaned across it, resting his elbows on the DO NOT LEAN ON THE COUNTER sign. “No, really. This lady is amazing. She’s got a top-tier satellite TV package. I could watch a different ball game every night.”

“What’s her name?” I asked.

“Mary Jean.”

“What’s she like?”

“Like 30-40,” he answered.

“No, I mean what does she look like? What is her personality?”

“Ehhh…” He shrugged. “Short hair, kinda roly-poly. A real scrapper.”

“Oh.” I had no idea what he meant by a scrapper. Did she like to get into fights or collect old metal and furniture? I thought it best not to ask.

The door alarm buzzed, and a stooped man wearing a baseball cap entered. “Welcome to Vincenzo Pawn,” I called out. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He didn’t say a word, just headed over to the landscaping equipment.

“So…” Roy forced his grinning face into my field of vision, “about that cash.”

“It has to wait until next week,” I said. “I have a big investigation going on, and random expenses keep coming up.”

Actually, the expenses were the dinners with Sara I was talking about earlier, but Roy didn’t need to know that.

“Man,” he said. “When are you gonna give up looking for ghosts and goblins?”

“There is no such thing as goblins.”

“Ever since your Grandma died, you have been on this Boogeyman kick, wasting your time looking for weird stuff. You have been getting arrested more than me these days.”

“Actually, I mostly get detained.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the fingerbanging version of getting arrested.”

I groaned. “And there’s a sentence I could have gone my life without hearing.”

“So what kind of case are you working on now? You looking for Slenderman’s home address?” he said mockingly.

Out of annoyance more than anything else, I recounted the story of the Graveyard Game to him. With every twist and turn in the tale, his disbelief grew. When I finished, he had just one question.

“You getting it on with that Sara girl?”

“What?” I asked, caught off guard.

“Not the dead one,” he clarified with a smirk, “I mean the crazy rich girl.”

“No!” I half-shouted. “What kind of guy do you think I am?”

“A pretty monastic one,” Roy’s smirk deepened.

“And who taught you that word?”

My phone rang. From the ringtone, I knew who it was. I grabbed it immediately, and Roy chuckled, “Guess I know who that is.”

Sara was supposed to be on a mandatory excursion with her family. I put my hand on Roy's shoulder and said, “This could be important. Please watch the front.”

“Sure, sure,” he replied, stepping behind the counter.

I took the call alone in the back room with unsorted sports equipment, guitars, and TVs. The conversation with Sara was frantic; I barely got a chance to say a greeting. She had been on her uncle’s yacht on Lake George, watching her family celebrate her aunt’s birthday but not enjoying it. Her relatives were either ignoring or condescending to her. Sara had excused herself to use the bathroom because she felt sick.

“It’s always an open bar,” she explained. “They don’t care how old the kids are. We all drink. I had too much.”

“Wait,” I said, “You’re not twenty-one?”

“I splashed water on my face,” she continued. “There was this sound like electricity. I straightened up, and when I looked in the mirror, my face wasn’t there!”

“It’s gonna be okay,” I said. “Just take a deep breath.”

Sara continued, “It was a kaleidoscope, but with no colors, just cracks and light.”

I asked, “Where are you? When can you get here?”

“It wasn’t my face, but I felt like maybe it should be my face.”

I could hear Cousin Roy raising his voice out in the store, but it might as well have been a million miles away. “Sara,” I said, “You don’t have to be afraid. I’ve almost got this all figured out.”

A total lie, I know, but what else could I do?

She said, “Sometimes I think that it was my grave all along. That’s why the statue was there. It was saving my place.”

“No,” I said. “No. No. No. This is nothing like that. It is going to be all right. I am going to make it be all right.”

The raised voice in the front of the store had become a full-on commotion—the kind that usually escalates into an incident. Rather than intervene, I stuck a finger in my ear.

“Yeah, maybe,” Sara’s voice trembled. “I need to go.”

“I understand,” my voice was trembling too. “I can fix this.”

“I’ll talk to you later.”

“I’ll talk to you later. I love you.” And I hung up the phone.

###

Feeling dizzy, I stepped into the store. The front counter was deserted, and Cousin Roy's voice echoed from the collectibles section, blending indignation with a hint of panic. I hurried over to see what was happening.

The collectibles aisle wasn't anything special—just shelf after shelf of novelty mugs, souvenirs from long-forgotten vacations, miniature statues, glass animals, paperweights, and off-brand tie-in merchandise. It was, truth be told, a tchotchke graveyard. And there was Cousin Roy in the middle of it, shouting at our only customer while waving his half-eaten meatloaf sandwich threateningly.

Then I saw the man Roy was yelling at a figure in a ratty overcoat and a ballcap jammed over a mass of curly hair. His face was painted bone white with wet black rings around his mouth and eyes. He reeked of motor oil and was smashing Precious Moments figurines on the floor, one by one. He looked up at me and grinned.

"What the Hell kind of customers do you have in this store?" Roy asked.

"He's not a customer," I said, stepping between Roy and the clown that wasn't a clown—this Bozo from Hell.

"Sara Bishop's not for you, doo-dah, doo-dah," the Bozo began to sing, his voice an approximation of Larry from the Three Stooges, his lyrics matching the cadence of "Camptown Races." He threw an angelic figure to the floor, shattering it and sending slivers of porcelain everywhere. "There's not a thing that you can do, oh, doo-dah day."

How do you stare down a nightmare? I don't know, but I tried.

"You can run all night, you can run all day," Crash! Another figurine shattered at our feet. "But you can't hide from those monsters inside when the witch queen comes out to play."

"What are you?" I whispered.

"Oh, the owls and the lizards and the big broke moon, doo-dah, doo-dah," Crash! Another figurine shattered. "The sacred moment's coming soon, oh, doo-dah day."

With exasperation in his voice, Roy said, "Fuck this guy," shoved me aside, and punched the Bozo right in the nose.

The Bozo tumbled backward into the opposite aisle, sending dozens of videotapes clattering to the floor. He went down on one knee and then stood, his greasepaint smeared but with no blood. God, how I wished there had been just a little blood. Smirking, he turned to go. When the pawn shop door closed, another Precious Moments figure toppled from the shelf and shattered into pieces.

"Worst fuckin' mime ever," Roy said before finishing the meatloaf sandwich in his hand with three gulping bites.

It was at that moment that I realized Roy had stolen my lunch, but before I could say anything, I realized a moment later that I had told Sara I loved her.

When I first met Timothy, he seemed like an ordinary guy. We worked together at a small marketing firm, and he was known for his quiet demeanor and impeccable work ethic. Timothy was mute, so he always communicated in sign language, something I was familiar with since both my parents were deaf. Over time, I developed a crush on him, drawn to his kindness and the gentle way he communicated.

Our interactions were brief and professional, but the more I got to know him, the more intrigued I became. Despite his silence, Timothy had a way of making me feel understood. There was something in his eyes, though, that always seemed guarded, like he was hiding a deep secret.

One late night, we were working in the office together. Everyone else had gone home, leaving the building eerily silent. I was struggling with a presentation when Timothy tapped me on the shoulder and offered to help. Grateful for the assistance, I agreed.

As we worked side by side, I made a joke about our boss. It wasn’t particularly funny, but I expected at least a smile. Timothy looked at me, and for the first time since I'd known him, he smiled.

I wish he hadn’t.

His teeth were extraordinarily long. Not just a bit out of the ordinary, but unnaturally long, sharp, and perfectly white. They didn’t look like teeth at all, more like fangs. The sight of them made my skin crawl.

He quickly covered his mouth, his eyes wide with fear and embarrassment. He signed, “I'm sorry. It's a condition. I don’t like to show them.”

I tried to laugh it off, but the image of those teeth was burned into my mind. I could barely concentrate on the work in front of me. When he left that night, I felt a strange sense of relief, like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

Over the next few weeks, I avoided Timothy as much as possible. It wasn’t easy since we were still working on the same project, but I managed to limit our interactions to emails and brief sign-language conversations. He seemed to sense my discomfort and became even more withdrawn.

Then, one evening, I stayed late again, trying to finish the presentation. The office was dark, the only light coming from my computer screen. I heard a noise behind me and turned to see Timothy standing in the doorway, his eyes wide and frantic.

“I need your help,” he signed, his hands trembling.

Against my better judgment, I followed him. He led me to the basement of the building, a place I had never been before. The air was damp and cold, and the flickering lights cast eerie shadows on the walls.

“What’s going on?” I asked nervously.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he led me to a small, dimly lit room at the far end of the basement. Inside, there was a single chair and a mirror on the wall, revealing our shared reflection. Timothy closed the door behind us and turned to face me.

“I need to show you something,” he signed, his expression filled with desperation. “But you have to promise not to scream or run away.”

I nodded, fear gripping my chest. He slowly opened his mouth, wider than any human should be able to. His teeth were even longer than I remembered, extending far past his lips. They looked like they could tear through flesh with ease.

I backed away, my heart pounding. “What… what are you?” I squealed, my movements jerky and frightened.

He closed his mouth and sighed, tears welling in his eyes. “I don’t know. I’ve always been like this. My parents abandoned me when I was a baby. I’ve tried to live a normal life, but it’s getting harder to control… the urges.”

“What urges?” I asked, my legs wobbly like jelly.

“To feed,” he signed back, his expression filled with sorrow. “On human flesh. But there's more. I have feelings for you, and I didn't want you to find out this way. I brought you here because if you screamed or tried to run, I would have to... stop you.”

My mind was spinning. The fear was overwhelming, but so was a twisted sense of pity and an undeniable lingering affection for him. “I... I think I have feelings for you too,” I stuttered, slowly reaching out to feel his shirt, feel his heart pound like mine from pure adrenaline. “But this is a lot to process.”

“I need your help,” he signed desperately, taking a step back. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, but the hunger is getting worse. Please, you have to help me.”

“I… I’ll try,” I nodded, not knowing what else to do.

In the weeks that followed, Timothy and I grew closer. Our relationship evolved into something deeper and more intimate. We spent countless nights together, researching his condition, searching for any information that might explain what he was and how to control his urges. During those late nights, we shared our fears and vulnerabilities, holding each other close as we sought answers. Despite the horror of his situation, I found myself falling for him even more. We began sleeping together, though we had to get creative with our intimacy.

As we lay tangled in the sheets, I joked, laughing to ease our grim situation, “You know, I’ve wondered—are you a better kisser or a better biter?” Timothy looked at me, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and relief. “Oral is off the menu. Or let’s just say,” I continued, “if I’m ever asked to rate your oral skills, I’ll have to give you a ‘sharp’ review.”

One night, I received a frantic text from Timothy. He was crying, begging me to come to his apartment. When I arrived, the door was ajar. I entered cautiously, calling his name.

I found him in the bathroom, hunched over the sink. His face was covered in blood, and he was sobbing uncontrollably. On the floor lay a mutilated body, a stranger I didn’t recognize. The sight of it made me gag, and I stumbled back, fear overwhelming my senses.

Timothy looked at me with pleading eyes. “I couldn't stop myself,” he signed, his fingers twitching in discomfort. “I'm so sorry.”

Panicking, I turned and ran out of his apartment. I couldn't process what I had seen, and my mind was in chaos. Was that his true nature? How many times had this happened before, and how could I have ignored it to get close to him? This was crazy, I had to do something.

Later that night, I received a call from the police. Timothy had slit his wrists. When they found his body, all of his teeth were missing, torn out. The police were baffled, and the stranger's body was nowhere to be found.

The days that followed Timothy's death were a blur of grief and guilt. I was haunted by the images of that night—Timothy’s final moments, the bloody scene, and the cold, lifeless gaze of the stranger. I was tormented by the thought that perhaps I could have done something to save him. My nights were filled with nightmares of fangs and blood, my days clouded with the crushing weight of loss and unanswered questions.

I threw myself into investigating Timothy’s past, hoping to find some semblance of closure or understanding. But the more I delved, the more I felt a growing sense of dread. The deeper I got, the more I realized how much of Timothy’s life had been shrouded in mystery.

My search led me to a small town where I found Timothy’s ex-girlfriend, Shontoll.

Shontoll was hesitant to talk to me at first, but eventually, she opened up, revealing nothing significant about Timothy but her discomfort was palpable. She seemed nervous, avoiding eye contact and fidgeting constantly.

“Timothy was... complicated,” she said, her voice tight. “He had his issues, but he never talked about them much.”

“Did he have any family? Anyone close?” I asked, sensing she was hiding something.

“No, not that I know of,” Shontoll replied quickly, almost too quickly. “I think it's best if you leave now.”

Her abruptness and the way she avoided my questions made my skin prickle with unease. I thanked her and turned to leave, but just as I reached the door, I heard a small giggle from another room.

I paused, my hand on the doorknob. “Is there someone else here?”

Shontoll's face paled. “No, it's just... Please, you need to go.”

But I couldn't ignore the sound. I took a step towards the noise, and before Shontoll could stop me, the door to the other room swung open. A small child toddled out, looking up at me with curious eyes. He smiled at me, and my blood ran cold. His teeth were long and sharp, just like his father’s.

Shontoll quickly scooped him up, her expression a mix of fear and desperation. “You need to leave,” she said, her voice shaking. “Now.”

Realization hit me like a freight train. Shontoll knew about Timothy's condition all along. She had to have been the one to mutilate Timothy and remove his teeth, perhaps to hide the evidence of their child's true nature.

As I backed away, Shontoll's expression hardened. “You know too much now,” she whispered. “I can't let you leave here alive.”

Panic surged through me as I turned and ran, my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear her footsteps behind me, gaining on me. I dashed out of the house and into the night, desperately trying to find my way back to safety.

I reached my car, hands shaking as I fumbled with the keys. Just as I got in, I saw Shontoll reaching the door, her face twisted with determination. I locked the doors and sped away, my mind racing.

As I drove, the weight of what I had uncovered bore down on me. Should I expose the truth about Timothy and his child, potentially ruining their lives and legacy, or should I keep their secret, living with the horror I had uncovered? Should I hope that Shontoll would find a way to stop her child from developing into a new Timothy?

What would it mean for the child if the world knew about his condition? Would he be ostracized, experimented on, or worse? And what about Timothy's memory? Did he deserve to be remembered for his kindness and struggle, or should the monstrous truth be revealed?

As the night swallowed me, I realized that some questions might never have clear answers. Life is a series of moral dilemmas, a tightrope walk between right and wrong. Sometimes, the line blurs, and all that remains is the choice we can live with.

With the darkness closing in, I drove on, unsure of what to do, and haunted by the thought that some secrets are better left buried.

Previous

The teen boy glared at me from across the table in the interrogation room, his face hardening as he tried to shield his true emotion: fear. I reassured him that he wasn't under arrest; I just needed answers.

Earlier that same day, the dispatcher radioed in about two suspects who were on the run. They were believed to be involved in the sudden disappearance of a girl who was about their age. It didn't take long for them to be tracked down. They were found in an abandoned house in the valley, which was located not far from the lake.

They were apprehended and taken to the station for questioning. The boy, Adam, sat in front of me while the other suspect—his younger brother—waited in the adjacent room. Adam's face was smudged with a little dirt, a result of hiding out in the dusty house where he had been pulled from beneath a bed on the second floor.

It took me a good fifteen minutes to weasel out any basic information from him—name, age, address, and so on. He was fifteen and he and his brother lived with their dad in an RV in the valley, and the girl in question, Mary, was their neighbor. When he said her name, Adam fell silent for a moment, his lips trembling. He asked if he was being recorded. I told him that interviews were always recorded.

XXXXX

Adam: … she fell into the hole.

Officer M: What hole?

Adam: We call it: Pit Nowhere. You can throw anything into it, and you wouldn’t know where it went because it doesn’t make a sound. My little brother—Jason—and I would throw things in there just for kicks— car tires, rocks, and we even pissed in it once.

People have been throwing trash in there for years, so you’d think you could smell it or see piles of crap in there. But nothing... It's a bottomless pit.

Officer M: How did you come to discover this pit?

Adam: Mary was the one who showed us. My family and I moved to the valley just a few months ago. Mary was the first one to say hello to us and show me and my brother around. Things have been pretty hard for us, so it was kind of nice to have someone show us some kindness.

Anyway, one day, my dad told me and Jason to go grab the shovels and start digging a hole. We were going to clean out the waste from our RV’s black tank and dump it into the hole. But Mary told us where we could dump our shit bin. That was when she showed us Pit Nowhere. She told us that you can put whatever in there; it’s where everyone else dumps their crap.

So, we just started throwing our trash in the pit. But you know what’s so weird about that area? It’s completely dead around the pit. No insects and no animals, not even a desert rat, would go near it. Jason was the first one to notice it. He tried to drag a stray dog near it, ‘cuz he wanted to know how it’d react.

Officer M: How did it react?

Adam: The dog went nuts. It started shaking and barking. It bit my brother’s arm to break away from his hold, and then it ran off as far away as possible from the pit.

Officer M: How big is this pit?

Adam: Big enough to fit a grown ass elephant in it.

Officer M: Ah, I see, so, it’s big enough to push a young lady in it as well.

Adam: I didn’t push her, and neither did Jason.

Officer M: Alright, then explain what happened to her. You said she fell into the pit, and if she wasn’t pushed, then how? You and your brother were seen with her around that area. You do know how this looks, right?

Adam: Something pulled her in.

Officer M: Something pulled her in? She either fell into it or was pushed in. How could she possibly be pulled in?

Adam: I don’t know! There was some kind of invisible force that pulled her in. We tried to save her, but her hand just slipped out of mine. Whatever it was that was pulling her, it was too strong. I was helpless. I couldn’t do anything. I watched her fall in. Her eyes went wide. I can still hear her screams.

Officer M: Why did you and Jason run from the scene? Why didn’t you go and call for help immediately?

Adam: Because something started chasing us. You couldn’t see it, but it was there. It came from the pit.

XXXXX

Shortly after the questioning, I got a call that Mary had been found alive. She had managed to claw her way back out of the pit and was discovered wandering aimlessly in an open field by her aunt. With the case now resolved, I drove Adam and his brother back to their RV home in the valley. Their father was, however, far from pleased and welcoming. He scowled at them, scolded them for causing trouble, and then threw me a stink eye before going back into the RV without a word.

I shook my head and walked back to my car. Case solved. It was something I could just throw in the back burner of my mind and move on. But that didn’t happen. Later that night, Adam called 911 from his dad’s flip phone.

XXXXX

911 Operator: 911, what’s your emergency?

Adam: My dad’s dead. My friend [ineligible]

911 Operator: What did your friend do? I’m sorry but I can’t hear you. You’ll need to speak a little louder.

Adam: I can’t talk very loud because she might still be around.

911 Operator: Who?

Adam: My friend. Mary. She killed my dad. She ate him.

911 Operator: Are you alone right now?

Adam: No, I’m with my brother. We’re hiding out in the bedroom.

911 Operator: What’s your address?

Adam: We don’t have one.

911 Operator: You don’t have an address?

Adam: No, we don’t. We live in an RV with my dad.

911 Operator: Can you tell me your location?

Adam: We’re in the valley in San Ysidro district. Please help me.

911 Operator: Okay, there’s an officer that patrols the area. He’s on his way. Stay on the line.

Adam: The battery’s running low. Hurry! Hurry!

911 Operator: The officer will be there soon. He’s on his way. Stay on the line. Do you know where your friend is? Can you tell me what happened?

Adam: My dad was outside making a campfire. My brother and I were inside the RV and then suddenly we heard screaming. I looked out the window and I saw her… She killed him. She...she...ripped his throat, and she drank his blood.

911 Operator: Do you know if she is still around your area?

Adam: I don’t know. I don’t want to look outside.

911 Operator: Okay, stay where you are.

Adam: I hear a siren. I think that’s him. The cop. He’s getting closer.

XXXXX

I was nearing the end of my shift when I received a call from the dispatcher about a potential murder and two frightened boys in hiding. As soon as I was provided with the location, I immediately knew who those boys were. When I arrived at the scene, I found a woman, who identified herself as Mary's aunt, standing next to a lifeless body near a campfire. She trembled uncontrollably, clearly in a state of shock. I grasped her shoulders and shook her, snapping her out of her frozen state. She looked up at me with wide, fearful eyes.

“My little Mary couldn’t have done this,” she said. “But she...I mean, she wasn’t herself today when she came back home.” “What do you mean by that?”

“She was a little feverish, and there was this angry look in her eyes. But I just brushed it off. Mary’s been angry ever since her mom passed away last year.”

My eyes slowly fixated themselves on the corpse facing up. His eyes were still open, gazing blankly into the crackling campfire. Blood seeped from a gaping wound in his throat. The way the skin and muscles were ripped, I thought a large rabid animal might have done it.

“My little Mary,” the aunt muttered, repeatedly, her voice cracking.

“Do you know where she is?”

She shook her head. “I was looking for her. She had run off again, and I was going to give her a good earful if I did find her. And then...I heard someone screaming, and I ran over here thinking she might’ve been in trouble. When I got here, she was eating right through his throat and then she saw me and ran off.”

My hand went straight for the gun in my holster and pulled it out of its sheath. She could still be near, I thought. She could still be lurking somewhere in the darkness.

The boys! I barged into the RV, my eyes darting left and right, preparing myself to find another gruesome scene yet hoping I wasn’t too late. A wave of relief washed over me when I found them huddled together in a corner of their small bedroom with a blanket over their heads and kitchen knives in their grips. As soon as they saw me through an opening in their blanket, they cried in relief and released their grip on the knives. Although they were shaken up, they appeared to be physically unharmed.

I instructed them to stay put and remain silent, while I went out to look for Mary. As I scoured the area, a sudden and piercing scream jolted my attention. There were shouts of horror and cries for help. I headed towards the chaos and came across a small camp of people living in tents and vans. Some were in tears, shaking and others stood in shock as they surrounded a corpse lying a mere few feet from a torn tent. Like Adam’s father, the throat had been clawed apart, and the jaw, too, was ripped clean from its hinges. Whatever it was that killed their friend had retreated into the darkness.

One of them informed me that something had wandered into their camp. They were all having a quiet evening, with most of them heading to bed early when they heard something rustling in a tent. It sounded like an animal sniffing around and tearing through their belongings. Armed with a small handgun, one of them had been brave enough to investigate the intrusion. But that bravery had cost them their life. Everyone caught only a glimpse of what the creature looked like.

“It was a young girl,” said a woman, whose color had drained from her face from fright, “but she moved on all fours like an animal.”

“Oh, man, she was fast,” another interjected. “She had blood all over her face, but oh, man, oh, man…her eyes… oh, my god, they were black. All black. You could sense the evil behind those eyes. I can’t explain it… it’s like she’s been possessed.”

“She’s that girl who fell into Pit Nowhere, am I right?” asked an old and bearded man. “All this time I thought it was just a hole that went straight to the core of the earth. But now I believe it goes somewhere else. A different dimension. Something came back with that girl.”

“Does anybody know where she went?” I asked them, breathlessly. Every fiber of my being was tensed, and a surge of adrenaline was coursing through my veins.

Before anyone could point me to a direction, there was a wailing that cut through the night. All our heads turned to where it came from. In the distance, a town began to materialize from the depths of the velvety black night, casting a foreboding spell over the land, as though it were an ancient secret reluctantly revealing itself to the world. Its jagged silhouette etched against the moonless sky, while murky yellow lights flickered within its desolate streets.

Part 1

I awakened from a deep sleep and nearly tumbled out of bed. With a loud thud, I fell on my face. "Ouch!" I exclaimed.

"Are you okay?" Clara asked as she shifted in the bed next to me, her hair in a tight bun to keep it from getting messy. 

I muster all my strength to get up. "I must've been dreaming hard because I hit my face on the floor," I groaned.

Clara shifted to my side of the bed and said, "You were moving around a lot, too much, actually. I had to punch you a couple of times because you kept moving and taking the covers with you," she laughed. She attempted to throw a pillow towards my backside but missed

"Well, you do love to keep it as cold as possible. It's like a kitchen freezer in here," I chuckled. I threw the pillow back, almost hitting her face, but I fell short.

I lean in and kiss Clara on the lips; she smiles back at me. Then she goes back into the warm bed.

Clara has always been the love of my life. We first met each other in our homeroom class in high school. At first, we didn't make anything of it. But after a while, we started to talk to each other. Then, we began to hang out with each other, and time passed. We went our respective ways to college, but we made it work. And she is now the love of my life. No matter how many times. We could not stop looking into each other's eyes, and she had the most beautiful blonde hair I had ever seen. And those luscious blue eyes, too.

I glanced at my alarm clock, and it displayed "9 a.m. October 10th, 2019."

"Shit! I'm late," I said as I ran to take a brisk morning shower.

Still, Clara is in the warm bed, not wanting to get up. "For what?" said Clara.

"It's for my doctor's appointment. For all the strange dreams I've been having," I said as I started undressing to take a chilly and bracing shower.

"Oh right, I completely forgot about that appointment," explained Clara. 

As I was about to start the shower, I opened the door and asked Clara, "How was your day yesterday?"

Clara started to get ready to go downstairs. She wore little clothing because it's often warm in our room. "It was busy; many people were coming in and out of the Emergency Room. All our beds were full, and we had to place people in the hospital's hallway," explained Clara.

"Wow, that's crazy! I'm curious why there were more people last night. There was a major accident on one of the main highways?" I inquired. I started my usual routine by rinsing off.

She finished getting dressed and then went downstairs to start making breakfast. "I don't know; there was just this massive rush of people all of a sudden, and there was no warning at all," said Clara.

It had been as cold as metal outside. While I was going about my routine, flashes of red again appeared in my memory. I couldn't explain why I was seeing this girl. I was still trying to figure out who she could be and who she was, but I knew her. 

Clara shouted from the kitchen as she made breakfast, and I was still in the shower. "Hey, Sam! Do you want any breakfast before you leave?" she cried.

"No! I will be fine, thank you, though," I said. I continued washing myself with soap and water to remove all the sweat from the previous night. 

She continued to make breakfast even though it was just for herself. "Okay! I was making sure you weren't going hungry!" Clara replied. 

Walking downstairs, I saw Clara making scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes. The aroma instantly reminded me of my childhood when my mom made breakfast for my sister and me before school. "Those look delicious, but I have to go. Love you," I said as I kissed her on the cheek.

"I love you too," said Clara as she kissed back.

Clara continued to eat and watch TV from the living room couch. I could tell she was watching the Food Network show "Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives" with Guy Fieri because of his distinct voice throughout the house. The episode featured a local vegan restaurant near Riverview and highlighted many different recipes for vegan meals. Guy Fieri loved all of them in his unique way. 

Our standard two-bedroom apartment has an open living room and kitchen layout. Like most apartments, the walls and floors are thin, allowing us to hear conversations from neighboring units. The person living above us is Frank Thomas, an older widowed man and a Vietnam War veteran with dark gray hair. He keeps to himself, but we sometimes hear him watching Dateline Investigation Discovery or Spaghetti Westerns. Our downstairs neighbors, Chris and Taffney Jacobs, have two children, Ethan and Emily. When they were younger, they used to be quite loud, running around and playing, but they've become quieter now that they're teenagers. Taffney and Clara are great friends, working in the same hospital but different wards. They often catch up and talk about work.     

It was easy to find a parking space at the doctor's office. The traffic was terrible, with cars cutting each other off and slow drivers everywhere. There was also an accident causing a significant delay. Before going inside, I checked my appearance in the mirror. I kept my chestnut brown curly hair on the left side of my face. I wore a black sweatshirt, a gray shirt underneath, blue jeans, black tennis shoes, and socks. I noticed some specks of dust on my pants and sweatshirt from my closet, so I brushed my hands over my clothes to remove them.

"Okay, looks good," I said as I exited my red Volkswagen Golf.

"Hello, I have an appointment for Samuel Harris," I said as I walked into the building and approached the receptionist. 

The blonde receptionist looked up from her computer and greeted me, "Hello, Samuel. You have a 10 a.m. appointment with Dr. Bennett."

"Yes, it's for my sleep and my dreams; they have been acting up recently," I said. I moved closer to the receptionist's cubicle, trying to keep our conversation quiet to avoid disturbing anyone else.

"Okay, let me see if I can set you up here. You must give me a few seconds; our computer system is slow," the receptionist explained as she began typing about my appointment.

"No problem at all, take all the time you need. There's no rush," I said, glancing around the waiting room. 

As the receptionist worked at the computer, I started organizing my appointment with Dr. Bennett. I glanced around the reception area to see if I recognized anyone. Then, the news came on one of the TVs in the waiting area.

"This is Channel 6 News with Jessica Hayes and Ryan Mathews. We have breaking news of a murder in the Riverview area. Alice Parker, a nurse at Riverview General Hospital, was out on a late-night run when Alice got stabbed multiple times in the back. Her husband, Mark Parker, became worried when she didn't return from her morning run and called the police. Recently, his missing wife was discovered on the side of the road near Arrow-Fist Rd. Stay tuned in for more tonight at 6 p.m. with Channel 6 News. This is Jessica Hayes and Ryan Mathews signing off."

As I listened to the news, the receptionist interrupted. "Okay, Samuel, I have everything ready for you. Please sit in the reception area and wait for your name when they call you," she explained.

"Perfect, thank you," I said. As I went and sat on the not-so-comfortable chairs, I continued to watch the television, and in the back of my mind, I knew that girl.

Clara and I invited them to a barbecue because they all worked together at the same hospital. Mark and I have also been friends; we bonded over supporting the same sports team and enjoying the same type of beer. As I delved deeper into my thoughts, I recalled a dream fragment. Everything was all red around me, and then I abruptly woke up. I might have gone outside, but I'm not sure. Then everything went blank.

"Samuel?"

When I heard my name, I got up quickly and smiled at the nurse. "Sorry, I was lost in thought," I said.

"Oh, it's fine. It happens to me, too," the nurse chuckled.

As we walked and talked through the halls of the doctor's office, we finally reached the examination room. I took a seat at the examination table. The room had white walls and gray drawers. There were posters with instructions on how to help someone choking when to check for cancer, and diagrams of the male and female anatomy.

The door knocked and then opened widely. "Hello, Samuel; how are you today?" said Dr. Bennett.

"I'm doing well today. I wanted to discuss my sleep, dreams, and sleepwalking," I stated. 

"Okay, are you currently taking any medications to address these?" he inquired as he pulled up a stool next to the computer and started typing.       

I shifted in my seat. The paper on the exam table felt very rough against my pants. I felt its dryness as I placed my hand on the table to steady myself, careful not to tear the paper. "Not at the moment," I said.

"All right, tell me about your dreams. Can you recall them easily?" The doctor asked while picking up an otoscope to examine my ear.

The doctor examined the other ear. "I can remember parts of my dreams, but not all of them," I said.

"I see, okay. Is there anything specific you can recall about your dreams or sleepwalking?" The doctor said as he typed some things on the computer.

Dr. Bennett picks up a tongue depressor and instructs me to say, "Ah," while examining the back of my throat. "Not really. Sometimes it's me getting up suddenly, putting on my clothes, or doing any other mundane task as if someone else is controlling me," I explained.

"Okay, and you are still living with Clara Harris?" the doctor asks. He sits on his stool and continues to document our appointment. 

I continued to sit at the exam table. "Yep, I'm still living with her," I said.

"And you are still working at the Riverview Police Department as a detective, right?" the doctor asked.

The doctor grabbed his stethoscope and began to examine my lungs. "Yes, I have been working there for a few years, if I'm not mistaken," I said.

The doctor continued walking around the room, grabbing different things and assessing me for things like being a hyperactive kid at school. "Good, and you aren't taking anything for the dreams or the sleepwalking? Correct?" the doctor asked. 

"Not currently, no," I said.

After completing his tests, the doctor returns to the stool next to the computer. "Okay, well, I will prescribe you a prescription called Gabapentin. It's a well-known prescription for dealing with sleepwalking and negating it, so hopefully, those will go down, and it will help with the dreams, too. The side effect of these is that they make you tired in higher doses," the doctor explained.

"Okay, doesn't sound too bad." I conveyed.

"Also, since I don't have expertise in sleep or sleepwalking, I'll recommend you see a sleep psychologist. I will reach out to my colleague from college," Dr. Bennette said.

The doctor prints and scribbles on a piece of paper about sleeping and dreaming and writes down a number and a name for me to call.

I took the note from the doctor's hand and looked at it with relief. "Thank you, doctor. I deeply appreciate your help and will call this number to schedule an appointment with the sleep psychologist," I said, emphasizing my gratitude.

As I get up from the exam table and head for the door leading to the waiting room, the doctor chimes in. "You're welcome; if anything, else comes up, feel free to call," Dr. Bennette says.

"Of course I will; thank you, Dr. Bennett," I said as I got into my car. I get a frantic vibration from my phone in my pocket:

Clara: Hey, did you see the news? I was in a patient's room tending to them, and I saw the TV turn to the news, and I had to go somewhere quiet to text you.

Samuel: Yeah, I did. I'm sorry about your friend. I know she was crucial to you, and I'm sorry for her and her husband.

Clara: It's okay. We worked in the same ward together and sometimes carpooled to lunch together. She was a very amiable and good person to work with. She also told me yesterday that she was pregnant. She was hoping to surprise her husband today since it's their anniversary. 

Samuel: Really? Was she pregnant?

Clara: Yep, she told me yesterday that she was throwing up from morning sickness when she woke up. She had some pregnancy tests from when they first were going to have a baby, but they had a miscarriage instead. And those pregnancy tests were also out of date, so she had to buy some new ones yesterday, and they said that she was pregnant.

Samuel: I'm sorry, Clara; I know how much she meant to you. She was a great friend.

Clara: Thank you, Sam. Crap, I need to get going, okay, see you at home, love you.

 Samuel: You're welcome; I love you too.

After conversing with Clara, my phone continued to get another text from my boss asking to see if I was at the crime scene:

 Boss: Have you made it to the crime scene yet?

 Samuel: No, not yet. I was at a doctor's appointment. I am heading over now. What is the address of the crime scene?

 Boss: The crime scene is along Arrow-Fist Rd. You'll see many people along the side of the road; park near there, and your partner Jonathan will be there to give you more information.

 Samuel: Will do. Thank you. I'm on my way.

As I shifted my car into drive and made my exit out of the parking lot of the doctor's office, I began to think more about the girl. Alice Parker. I recall a picture in our house on a set of dresser drawers of her and my wife, her dark black brunette hair and her smiling face next to Clara's light blonde hair and smiling face next to each other. Was it Alice, my wife's friend and co-worker? Why did you die? What happened to you? What made someone want to end your life?

I should call Clara to tell her that I am at the crime scene for her friend. I searched for her number on my phone and began to call her. The phone rang and rang to no end. Finally, I left a voicemail; hopefully, she will listen.

**"**Hey Clara, I'm at Alice's crime scene. I just wanted to let you know before I go check her out. Love you, bye." I said as I put my phone away in my pocket. 

Finally, I arrived at the crime scene. Cop cars, with their lights on, were on either side of the road. Along the route, there were also trees and a sidewalk. The road is also near a vast park but is small for anyone who can still walk around. There is almost nowhere to park; every spot has been taken up. I found a place a mile away from the scene. I saw my partner, Jonathan Mayberry, walking up to the crime scene.

He is tall with dark black curly hair, brown skin, and sharp facial features. And he is wearing a dark suit that looks like an old detective would wear. We have been partners at work for a brief time. We have yet to do many cases together but will function well. From what I can tell, he is a diligent worker with good judgment and knows right from wrong. I see Jonathan look at me, and he and I exchange waves. He also looks like he is holding a clipboard in his right hand; it already has about three to four pages. 

I greeted Jonathan with a firm handshake. "Hey, Jonathan.

"Sam," he nodded, a somber expression on his face. 

"So, what can you tell me about the case?" I asked. We both walked together and decided what to do next.

"Well, we found a wallet with the victim's information, so the victim's name is Alice Parker; she works at Riverview General as a registered nurse in the Emergency Department; she has a husband who is a concrete laborer, she doesn't have any criminal background, she also lives just North of here in a suburban house with her husband, and she doesn't have anyone that is wanting to hurt her, so there's that." he conveyed as we both walk toward the rainy, gloomy, muddy crime scene.

"Okay, well, let's go see the body then and look around the crime scene; there should be something that the suspect has overlooked," I said. We walked over to the muddy, sludge-ridden, squelchy trench under the yellow police tape. Nothing would have prepared me more for what both of us have gotten into.

As Jonathan and I look down below, we see a swarm of CSI investigators, like a beehive. They all work in black, wearing pants, jackets, and shirts with big yellow letters of CSI on the back. 

Then I see the deprecated mutilated bloody body…

They walked into the Wal-mart. They made an odd pair to the people running the cash registers and the bullpen of the do it yourself scanners. A buggy preceded them as they walked to an aisle next to the scanners.

The boy was short, white-haired, and in a suit of purple. He wore a timepiece tucked into his vest. He pushed the buggy. He seemed a little nervous to be around so many people trying to leave at the same time.

The woman with him looked like she had raided a homeless shelter. She had pulled her red hair back into a pony tail. It streaked like fire as she moved. Her gaze burned across the open aisles as she searched the space.

“I think the playing cards are in the back, Allison,” said Bucky Lepus. He pointed toward the toy section sign hung from the ceiling.

“What are these?,” asked Allison Liddy. She gestured at a set of shelves full of boxes marked with Magic and Monsters Go.

“They are different card games,” said Bucky. “They are speciality cards.”

“Get another buggy,” said Allison. “We should take these too.”

“Okay,” said Bucky. He looked dubious at the claim. He went back to the front of the store and pulled a buggy from the lines of buggies and brought it back. Allison was packing the first cart with all the cards she could pull off the shelves.

They pushed their carts to the back of the store. They needed decks of playing cards to replace Hart’s army. The speciality cards they grabbed might be useful, might not.

Regular cards fitted what they needed.

They roamed the toy shelves until they found the card games. They loaded all the player cards they could into the second buggy. Allison stood back to make sure they hadn’t missed a single deck.

“Are you sure we want to take all of these?,” asked Bucky.

“We need to make sure that Hart has something to use on top of the novelty cards,” said Allison. “He will have to conduct his counterattack with what we have taken. We might have to go to some other stores since we don’t how many he really needs.”

“Good point,” said Bucky. “I guess we should pay for these so we can avoid trouble.”

“I’m glad that you have Baseline money to do that,” said Allison.

“I don’t have any money,” said Bucky.

“I don’t have any either,” said Allison. “You don’t have anything you can use to pay for this?”

“Nope,” said Bucky. “I never needed it before now.”

“I never needed it before now either,” said Allison. “Any ideas?”

“Nope,” said Bucky. “Do you?”

“Yes,” said Allison. “I have an idea. I am going to need you to get the door.”

“Are you sure?,” said Bucky.

“Yes,” said Allison. “I need you to be ready so I can push these carts into the Glass.”

“I got it,” said Bucky. He jogged ahead of Allison pushing the two carts in front of her.

He opened the first doors so she could push the carts into the foyer leading to the parking lot. Once that was done, he moved stand in front of the windows next to the main doors.

His reflection looked around as if to say what are you doing?

He partially stepped into the glass of the window. He held out his hands to take the cart. The bottom ledge had to be skipped over by the cart. He saw the workers looking at them from the self checkout.

“Hurry up,” said Bucky. He waggled his fingers to take the front of the first cart.

Allison banged the carts together to shove the first one to her helper a little faster. He grabbed the front of it and lifted it over the sill. The cart followed him into the window.

Allison stood on the foot bar of her cart. She jerked back on the handle. The top wheels cleared the sill. She kept pushing on the rear wheels until the second cart nearly vanished through the reflection. She yanked on the handle. The rear wheels jumped the sill. Two seconds later, she stepped into the window and off the Baseline.

She found Bucky trying to catch his breath. He leaned on the first cart, and huffed until he settled down.

“What was that?,” he asked. He waved at the pool of water descending to the Baseline. It had been luck none of the packages had been soaked through by their thievery.

“We needed cards,” said Allison. “And now we have them. Now we need to get them to Hart.”

“And how are we supposed to do that?,” said Bucky. Brown eyes looked at the carts thrown on the bank of the pond they had used to enter the Glass.

“I thought you would come up with the ideas,” said Allison. “You’re Hart’s advisor.”

“And look where that got him,” said Bucky. He threw his hands out. “Hart is buried. the only way we can get these cards to him is to fight out way through the Red Flag and bury the decks while trying to stay alive.”

“We can do it,” said Allison. “I think we should deter through Tom’s demesne. That will help us get close to plant the cards.”

“There might not be any way to plant the cards,” said Bucky.

“There will be,” said Allison. “Even if I have to force a hole, there will be a way. The main consideration is the roving forces of the Queen, and the Twins. If we can avoid both of those until we get to Hart’s mound, the rest should be as easy as falling off a log.”

“So we ask Tom for passage?,” asked Bucky.

“He’s still fighting, so he might be agreeable to something that will protect his woods,” said Allison. “He has always been independent, and focused on his woods. This might be a chance to get him to ally with us at least temporarily.”

"Then we take the chance to cut to where Hart is buried from wherever the closest section of the woods is,” said Bucky. “There’s a lot of danger that we are glossing over.”

“We need to do something about these carts,” said Allison. “Rolling them down a road is just going to attract attention faster.”

“Hold on,” said Bucky. “I will be right back.”

He jogged down to the water and took a moment to talk to his reflection. He jumped in and vanished back to the Baseline. Allison frowned as she kept watch. How long would this take?

Bucky emerged from the water, kicking at something. He pulled himself out on the bank and took deep breaths to get his breathing back under control. He tossed two backpacks on the ground at Allison’s feet.

“Put the cards in those,” he said. “Then we can head for the Forest.”

“What happened?,” asked Allison. She cut open the large set boxes and began stacking the cards inside in the first bag.

“The blue boys showed up to take a complaint against us,” said Bucky. “When I went back to get the bags, they chased me through the store. I made my escape just as they tried to grab me at the gate.”

“So I guess we’re criminals in the Baseline,” said Allison. She finished filling the first bag. “At least it wasn’t anything from the Flag.”

“We have to get moving soon, or it will be,” said Bucky. He opened the second bag and began filling it with card decks. “The Queen probably has another dungeon waiting on our capture.”

“They haven’t caught Tom,” said Allison. “They won’t catch us.”

“Tom is an invisible killer that pulls people apart before they can see him coming,” said Bucky. “We’re not.”

“I can defend us well enough except for the Twins,” said Allison. “They’re the only ones who can match me. Once we get rid of them, the rest will die easily.”

I hope you’re right,” said Bucky. He zipped up his bag and pulled it on. Allison grabbed the first bag. They started walking for the distant trees.

Like the kickback of a horse, I was awake. The covers of my bed had ripped to one side as if someone insane had run out of the bed and run around the room several times. I only had a white T-shirt and some gray sweatpants on. Also, my wife had turned on all the lights. My wife is very particular about keeping the lights off inside when it's dark. Yet, it may be only 6 a.m. It feels like noon. The dark, luminous clouds in the sky loomed over the quaint small town over the villa. The lights from traffic and the building lights were bright even at this hour of the night.

My wife is still asleep, even with the covers halfway across the bed frame. She is a heavy sleeper. She has a frequent afternoon shift as an RN at Riverview General Hospital inside the Emergency Department. My wife has always loved to help people. She told me that when she was younger, she used to play pretend doctor with her friends and helped them patch their imaginary wounds. She once was in a deep. At the same time, our downstairs neighbors had fire alarms and kids running around. 

While gliding through our apartment, I reach our kitchen. Our kitchen, although outdated, is furnished with light brown cabinets and, light brown knobs for the handles. A silver island sink is in the middle, and two mahogany brown stools are along the island. As I stand in the kitchen, I walk towards the left side of our cabinets and find a slim stainless steel chef's knife with a deep brown handle. I felt the weight of the blade as I put it into my right hand. And into my right pocket.

As I swiftly made my way into the hallway of our house towards the front room, I felt an urge that I had not felt before. Although I am fully awake, I can tell that my mind is not. It's like my mind is on autopilot, and my own body is along for the ride. It almost feels like someone or something is calling me towards the outside. As if to say, "Come outside; there is something for you to see." It's like an urge that does not seem to run away, like a little kid asking for ice cream from their parents at an ice cream shop on a humid summer day. Why am I moving so fast? Where am I going?

I can't stop this feeling; I must go outside. I put on my socks and shoes and approached the front door. As I opened the loud and creaky door, I saw the road lights on either side of the road; their brightness was almost overbearing to my eyes. I have to find what this thing is leading me to, whether it was someone or something. Whatever it may be, it's essential. I see dark red all around me. Sweat is dripping from my eyes like a river gushing with running water. I'm sprinting, but I don't know why. I'm in the city but can't remember how I got here. I don't know where I am, but there's a reason I'm here. I can't explain it. Something is calling me to be out here, and it wants more. I'm alone. I feel like I'm wearing my pajamas because everything around me is soft, and my shoes are muddy. Where is everybody? Why am I alone? It's pitch black. I can hardly see my hand, even though it's in front of my face. 

Then, the girl appears…

Previous

It was a Saturday evening, and my wife and I went out with some friends for dinner. There were five of us, including an old friend of mine from college named Terry, who had a deep passion for adventure. He was constantly seeking that adrenaline rush and uncovering the mysteries of the world.

Terry was quite sociable and enjoyed having an audience whenever he shared his stories. After consuming five beers, he got into storytelling mode, captivating us with tales of his various travels and what he did to kick up his adrenaline.

The story that stuck with me the most was his diving escapade into the Black Hole. When I asked him if I could record his story for my personal collection of strange tales, he responded with a broad smile and a dismissive wave, as if granting permission.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my wife sighing and crossing her arms, while the rest of the group grew uneasy, their eyes darting around to check if anyone else was listening in, worried what others would think of them.

XXXXX

Officer M: After all the stories you’ve heard about the lake, why did you risk your life for a dive? I understand that the thrill excites you, gives you an intense high. But diving into the Black Hole? I’m curious why.

Terry: You want to know why? Because there’s a mystery that I’d like to delve into. I wanted to know what’s out there. And what I found in that lake changed me… I can’t look at the world…look at life… the same way again.

Officer M: What did you find?

Terry: I found that we’re not the only intelligent beings that exist on this great big, beautiful planet of ours.

Officer M: Of course not. I read somewhere that scientists have discovered that some species of monkeys have the ability to make tools to gather food.

Terry: No, no, not something like primates. I mean, intelligent beings that possess advanced technologies, perhaps even further advanced than us.

Officer M: And these intelligent beings are in the Black Hole?

[The others at the table laughed, except for Terry]

Terry: Laugh all you want. But I’m telling you the truth.

Friend 1: Okay, then tell us what you saw.

Terry: We’ve all heard of the stories about the lake since grade school, right?

[Everyone nodded and murmured in agreement]

Terry: Some say they’d seen lights and objects fly out of the water, and this is supposedly a lake that’s like the Black Hole, no light or sound wave could penetrate its depth.

Officer M: Yeah, I know, I know. It’s all hearsay and not a lot of proof. If there’s proof, the pictures are usually grainy.

Terry: It wasn’t until about five years ago that I got around to visiting the lake for the first time. The sun was setting, and there I was, all by myself, camping near the water. And then, out of nowhere, something washed ashore. It looked just like a man, completely still. I bolted over to him, thinking he was in serious need of help.

But it wasn’t a man. I mean, at first glance, it kind of had a human-like shape, but it was definitely not human. Its skin was dark blue and greenish with a rubbery texture, and it had webbed hands and feet. Its eyes...Those eyes were large, like saucer plates, and dark as night. I could even see my own reflection staring back at me. Before I could take a picture of it, another one of those creatures came out of the water and snatched the body away.

I was completely blown away. I mean, after witnessing that scene, I couldn't resist the urge to explore the depths of the Black Hole. So, a few months later, I decided to head back to that spot. But this time, I packed my scuba gear, 'cause, you know, free diving seemed too risky. My buddy Randall joined me on this adventure. He took charge of the boat while I geared up for the underwater expedition. It was going to be one hell of a dive.

I was about a couple of hundred feet deep in the water when I caught sight of a glimmer of light far below me. Naturally, my curiosity got the better of me, so I decided to venture even deeper. Looking back, I realize it was a stupid move since it was dangerous. The pressure of the water was beginning to squeeze me, but those lights simply drew me in, and I found myself unable to resist.

As I descended, the outline of structures resembling buildings started to take shape before my eyes. With each passing moment, it became clearer that these structures were crafted from crystals and expertly carved from solid rocks. To my surprise, there was a shield covering the entire city. I had my own little theory going on, thinking maybe the shield was there to protect the city from the water’s force or to conceal it from being detected.

I must have been diving for close to an hour when Randall started telling me through the intercom to come back up. But then something unbelievable happened! Three humanoid figures, looking eerily similar to the creature I spotted on the shore, swam up to me. They held these sleek metallic spears, which they pointed at me. These beings were wearing tight-fitting, dark suits, and wore helmets reminiscent of jellyfish. And then they spoke to me! They were communicating with me through telepathy.

Friend 2: Can you lower your voice a bit? There are other people around here and they’re giving us a look.

Terry: Pfft! Don’t mind them.

Friend 2: You’ve had a lot to drink and you’re being loud. I’m just asking you to lower your voice.

Terry: I’m telling you something amazing that’s changed my life, and you’re more worried about how others will perceive us.

Officer M: Hey, guys, let’s not argue right now. Terry, just finish your story. So, did these creatures talk to you in English or what?

Terry: No, not in words per say or a specific language. It’s difficult to describe exactly how I understood them, but I just knew what they wanted to know from me.

Officer M: And what was it?

Terry: They were curious about why I had ventured there. What was my purpose? They made it clear that the lake was off-limits. I couldn’t push further into its depths, and if necessary, they wouldn’t hesitate to end my life. Their hostility was palpable, their demeanor grave. I had no choice but to rise to the surface, and I had to take it slow, or I’d risk getting the bends.

By that point, I had been underwater for quite a while, and I was starting to feel pretty sick. Honestly, I had serious doubts about whether I’d make it out alive. It seemed like the Black Hole was ready to snatch me up as its next victim. As I ascended, those beings were trailing me, but when I finally reached the boat, they had mysteriously vanished.

Well, I thought they were gone. The whole area became quiet. Dead quiet. There was no wind. No movement of water. A sense of dread weighed down on us, and even Randall felt something strange was going on and I hadn’t told him yet what I saw. Well, I couldn't believe it. The entire area fell into silence. I mean dead silent. Not even a whisper of wind, not a ripple in the water. It was like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something. Something bad.

I could feel it in my bones, this overwhelming sense of dread that pressed down on us. It was suffocating. Even Randall, who had no idea what I had witnessed, could sense that something was off. But how could I put into words the terror that gripped me? As the silence stretched on, I couldn't help but wonder if it was already too late. And all we could do was wait.

Officer M: So, what happened?

Terry: Our boat... it was torn apart. Split right down the middle as if it were made of paper. Those beings' spears could slice through metal like it was butter. At the tip of those spears was an electric charge. It crackled and sparked as they swung those deadly weapons around. The air itself seemed to tremble with their power. And when they struck our boat, it was chaos! Destruction! In an instant, we were left stranded, helpless in the middle of nowhere.

We had to swim back to land. But halfway through, the exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks, and everything started to blur. I was on the verge of passing out, my body giving up on me.

Randall knew I couldn't make it on my own, so he took on the burden. He carried me, struggling through the water, his own strength wearing out. Every stroke, every gasp for air, was a battle for survival. I clung to consciousness, praying that I wouldn't be swallowed by the darkness. It was a terrifying feeling, knowing that I might never wake up again.

Server: How’re we all doing here, folks? Are the food and drinks to your liking?

Terry: Yes, everything is lovely. Oh, I’d like another glass of wine, please.

Within a small dilapidating hut I lie. Insistent rain slams down on the clay shingle roof, while thunder and wind fight against each other. Thick fog prevents me from seeing outside through the large fractures in the walls around me. Rain floods through the openings and indentations inside. Most of the time I lay curled up, cold, and barely able to move in the corner of this shack. On some rare occasions though I am struck with a manic energy which makes me write.

Ever since the event in the year of 1556 ADM things have been strange in some way. I’ve been wandering for a long time now, my feet are numb, my toes are mostly gone, and I am rotting. At least this journal will keep me some company as my body finally begins to rot away. Maybe my words will help some unfortunate soul who happens upon them. I should start at the beginning. I was born in the year 1536 ADM after the discovery and control of dark matter. My life was rather uninteresting, I was always an outsider, and I  never felt like I was really contributing to the development of humanity or anything really… Maybe that's why I am still here. I was not a part of the pursuit of God, or any higher intelligence, I was not after some grand technology that would “elevate'' humanity to its next level, nor did I care about conquering the cosmos. Which is not necessarily a bad thing but when coupled with the fact that I embettered not one life of any person, not even my own makes me feel like I am somewhat of a wastoid; all I did was float down the lazy river of life like a powerless leaf. Am I wrong for this though - no, most people are this way. Right? Humanity was no leaf though, it was a boat with the power and will to go against the current. Through the help of a self evolving super intelligence that mankind had created we gained the ability to mend dark matter as if it were little more than a malleable putty men became like gods. In reality though, this just created an even larger barrier between the complaisant normal class of people who helped the elites gain this power, and the elites of the world who harnessed this power which was beyond their understanding. Portals, galaxies, universes, they could create it all with the help of the super intelligence and its vast system of dark matter powered quantum computers or DMQC for short. The specificity does not matter but what does matter are the end results. We were playing with a power that we could not truly comprehend in our limited human capacity. Naively, and arrogantly we were merely reading prompts and doing the bidding of something more intelligent than us. 

The year of 1556ADM was the year that the elites were going to bring all of mankind together in a nirvanic-system. This would be done by utilizing the power of the super intelligence, and its DMQC. Essentially, mankind would be placed in an A.I. constructed “nirvana.” However, you cannot force the unready souls of serial killers, rapists, murderers etc… into a unified system that contains the consciousness of every single human being. The day of the supposed union was filled with an atmosphere that was tense but joyful. After all, most people, myself included, had been taught from an early age that this was going to be the ultimate achievement of humanity. They said we should feel very lucky to be a part of it. However, some groups of people around the world during the countdown were distraught, to say the least. Not everyone wanted to go along with this, but no one had a choice; the power of the super intelligence was too great and too gravitational. From what I recall, when the time of the countdown hit zero a great eruption was heard all throughout the world, almost like a crack from a whip that was at a similar deep, resonant frequency of a giant iceberg breaking underwater. It was the strangest noise I had ever heard. Everything then began to atomize and shake together. After a few seconds there was darkness, then a jerking feeling, then nothing, I was left in what I assume to be the most primeval reality. I merely observed, but this observation and feeling is outside of human language capabilities. However, I will try my best to describe the experience. All physical sensations were lost, but it was like a wholeness, similar to what I imagine being in my mothers womb was like. Suddenly small white lights like stars began to appear and swirl around. This is when I heard what sounded like every conflict groups of people have had, every argument two people could have, every conversation all happening at once. The sound was all around me, it was me, it was more than me, it was more than a sound. I think the union of humanity was being rejected - the lights began to form the bud of a flower but the swirling and movement of the flickering lights increased while more and more lights appeared. The budding flower of light was more beautiful than any flower I had ever seen. Despite the torturous noise that surrounded me I felt whole, more so than I ever had. The lights, or maybe it was me that began to grow further, and further away. Either way I felt like I was drifting away for thousands of years. The entire time the glimmer of the flower never left my sight, this kept me satisfied, like I had a direction I was going in, a goal that I could achieve. Until suddenly the glimmer disappeared within the void. The wholeness, or maybe it was just me, was hit with an overwhelming melancholy. Then suddenly the noises, and the voices that kept me company for all of this time disappeared. Just then the physical feeling of my body came back. I felt the cold underneath my feet, I felt the hardness of the surface beneath me and I felt naked. It was as if this were the first time my skin had felt the air, the sensation was immense. I began to see, I saw brightness, and then my eyes adjusted. There was no moon or sun, the skyline was starless and the lighting was washed out, gray, and mixed with hues of purple. I stood in a fractured and broken parking garage, about fifty feet above ground level, looking down at the deep and wide gashes in the earth. New mountains, new terrain, destroyed buildings, some of which covered by sand and or dirt littered the horizon.

While scanning the horizon and standing on a platform made of rubble and rebar, a small glimmer miles away shone through the otherwise bleak color palette. There was nowhere else to go besides in the direction of the shimmering light, after all why walk towards the darkness? Descending the parking garage made me avoid the giant cracks between the ramps that were high in the air; this mostly involved me jumping to boulders of rubble, climbing on wire, rebar, and other such debris. The ground was a mixture of dry sand and a wet mud that carried enough buoyancy to support me, like a type of putty. The glimmer of light was not visible at ground level, but I knew the general direction to head in. Rubble towered above me, there were fragments of roads halfway submerged in the substrate that I walked in, the roads were never fully formed, there were just pieces laid about in randomness. Road signs that followed the same random pattern as the road stood out of the ground at different heights and eligibility. There were light posts scattered about, most were broken, bent over and shattered but some still stood straight, some even had a faint glow, as if they were still connected to the electrical grid, which of course was non-existent. Wires were scattered everywhere, it was like the entire electrical infrastructure of the old world was layered out like spaghetti, sometimes creating mounds and trenches of wires and electrical parts. This is around when the thought that perhaps this was not Earth occurred to me, I do not have much else to write about on that subject for now; just keep reading.

At some point, after a few hours of walking I came upon a canyon of electrical wires. It was at least a mile wide, it stretched a few miles to my left and right. So, not wanting to spend too much time going around I decided to climb down. The climb was pretty easy, it gave me plenty of footholds, electrical scrap, and large wires to grasp and step on. It was when I reached the bottom that for the first time since being here I heard another noise besides my own. A large snapping that lasted for a few seconds, it sounded like a giant tree was breaking off in the distance, then a large crash, like what snapped had hit the ground, then a moment later it began to sound like a bunch of metal scraping together with a gelatinous, meaty, swishing sound mixed in. At first I was intrigued and unafraid but as the noise got closer, and louder, there was still nothing in sight, perhaps its lack of visibility was because of this trench but coupled with the already bizarre situation I became terrified. How giant was this thing, how could it make so much noise and not even be in my sight, it must have been huge. As I stood there naked the thoughts racing through my mind filled me with primal fear. I scurried to bury myself in the wires and electrical parts, which caused me to scrape myself and end up with a large gash in my right hand, all while the strange noises grew louder. Eventually I found myself within a cocoon of wires that gave off a warmth and pulsating sensation in the abject darkness. After a few minutes of anxiety filled waiting, the thought occurred to me that maybe I wouldn’t be able to find my way out. How could I tell up from down in this environment?  Just after that thought a great compression came down on me, along with the noise of metal clanging and scraping together, coupled with the stabbing and slicing of meat, along with the gelatinous sloshing of whatever was up there became almost ear splitting. I held my breath, wiggled to put my hands over my ears and a minute or two later the heavy compression sensation and noise moved from on top of me. I could hear that the sound was growing distant. Wrapped up in the cocoon of wires the sensation of sinking arose. The wires became heavy and thick. I was unable to pull through any of them. I tried and tried but everytime I lashed out in desperation and panic I became cut from some piece of scrap metal. There was a particularly nasty gash along my left arm from the struggle. Thus I began to become entangled in the wires, no… it was as if the wires were reaching out and wrapping around me. I had no choice but to give up and let the way of the world do what it will. Surprisingly, this took longer than expected. 

I must make a note here that my perception of time is quite messed up from the time my consciousness spent in that void. I assume the events that took place in the wire maelstrom happened over the course of a few days, maybe even a few weeks. It may sound strange but the warm pulsating sensation from the wires, along with their gentle caresses actually became nice, I even fell asleep a few times. All I had to do was close my eyes and breathe the anxiety out; after all what is the worst that could happen? If only I knew. In sleep I dreamt of giant Cyclopes battling to eat each other, a line of giant snakes all committing self cannibalism which moved upwards, packs of wolves running in the snow, and attacking other packs. In one particular dream I walked through a sandy wasteland where there was nothing but carcasses laid about, along with the shadow of a once great society. After walking for days on end, I finally fell to my sunburned knees in starvation and hunger. A feminine and caring voice emanated from within me, “Charles, look up.” I did just so with my remaining strength and saw a giant oval shaped dark break in the otherwise cloudless bright blue sky, the break must have spanned at least a mile in length, and a half mile in width. The white silhouette of a feminine, sexy, and curvy body of a woman shown through in the middle of the break. “It’s okay, you need not worry, son.” 

“Why would I worry?”

“The emanation, it is failing, son.”

“I see, then what of the shapeless form?”

“The immensible question we all must ask. Son, it is failing…” 

The white light of the silhouette faded away and the break in the sky closed like an eye. Suddenly the desert that I stood on broke away into a triangle, the sky disappeared along with it. I stood in an abyss wherein the only light emanated from the triangle which was about six feet on each side. A minute or so passed and I fell through the middle of the triangle and into the abyss. I awoke on the ground, dumbstruck. I stared up at the sky which was  a mass of writhing wires. Minutes later I regained the few faculties still present in my mind and stood up. Remarkably the deep cuts and scrapes from the thrashing within the wire cocoon had disappeared. I scanned the landscape, there was nothing, just an endless, flat, orange, and rocky plane that spanned around in all directions. I remember thinking, well, I guess I’ll just keep walking, and then I thought, wow, what a shitty quip. Part of me wanted to just lay down and give up though, but I figured that picking a random direction to walk in was just as good. As I walked I discovered the skill of turning my brain off and just focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, and since there was no visible time change around me, I'm not sure when I realized that I wasn't getting anywhere, and I can't remember how long after that I realized that I was probably just walking in a loop. So, I began to place pebbles in an arrow facing a certain direction. I proceeded to walk in the direction that the pebbles pointed to. After walking for twelve perhaps twenty hours I approached the pebbles again. I was thrown off guard because they were pointing in the opposite direction of where I had departed from, and of course this did not make sense, so to make sure that I hadn’t accidently turned around, I doubled back. I was met with the same arrow of pebbles on my return. I think any sane person would probably be losing their shit by now but I guess my time in the void really changed my mentality. I sat down, cross legged, and thought about what I could do. Maybe if I did nothing for a very long time that would work, I joked with myself. Then I thought maybe I was just dreaming, maybe I was in hell, and then I thought that maybe I should kill myself and that's ultimately what I ended up doing. After walking in circles for a few more times I went completely mad and decided to find the sharpest nearby rock and bash my head into it. I bashed and I bashed but nothing happened, I felt the pain, I felt the wound, the blood, the brain seeping, and then even pouring out of my skull but I would not die. This is hell. How can I get out? Why am I here? I thought. After sobbing and having flashes of anger where I would sometimes bash my head into the rock again I decided to refocus my energy back into finding a way out. I couldn’t just sit here forever and keep doing this.

What goes forth and ends up back? I thought to myself. A theory entered my mind. I walked in the direction that the arrow was pointing and I counted my steps, I then had to cut the number of steps into my hand using a rock so I would be able to remember. I then walked past the arrow again, this time I counted my steps and only walked a quarter of the amount of steps as last time, I made a sharp right turn and then walked another quarter of the way, another sharp right and a quarter of the way, and finally another sharp right turn and the rest of the way. I ended up back at the pebbles but this time they were pointing in the opposite direction. From this the landscape began to slowly change, at first it was one gray stone, and then every hundred miles or so that number would multiply into two rocks and so on. After thousands of miles I gazed upon the silhouette of a giant rock face that reached up to and through the wires of the sky, it continued to my right and left endlessly, in turn it had the appearance of a giant wall guarding the edge of the world. After walking for a week or so I arrived at the huge smooth concrete wall. A small, smoothly bored hole lay ominously on the rock face. So, of course, like any sane person, I squeezed through the hole without any hesitation. The space that I crawled in was so tight that I could not turn around, and I had to take very small breaths so as not lodge myself within the concrete tunnel. It was very dark, but at least the tunnel was smooth. Unfortunately, almost immediately after the entrance I was forced to go down a sharp drop off which made it impossible to crawl back up. In this position I became lodged and stuck. Panic set in quickly as I thought about how I may be stuck there forever. I remember that I began to laugh about the situation and my last one on the previous earth where the DMQC was made. In short I was hysterical.  

After a few days of being stuck in this position I began to meditate and through intense mediation, isolation, complete darkness, quietness, and many, many, more years I  created another universe within my mind in which my consciousness inverted to. Simply put, I forgot all about the tunnel. Think about what your mind is capable of with hundreds, or thousands, or maybe even millions of years, combined with mediation, and imagination.. I wonder if the universe I created was not actually created by me, maybe it was just a delusion that blanketed my brain to protect me from the darkness, and isolation of the tunnel, or perhaps my soul just migrated to a new less tortuous place. Nonetheless, the universe I had entered was a nice place, the planet I stayed on was lovely, lush, and filled with nice people, but we were not without strife. I am beginning to wonder if maybe this is all a test to see if I am worthy of returning to the unification which I so loved, or maybe this is a punishment for the creation of that man-made Nirvana, which was not without its merit. If only I could see that flower again… why was it so beautiful, why was it so warm even though I grew further and further away from it? The artificial wholeness I felt, if there is a natural or true one above that which is artificial then I know it would be indescribable euphoria, and contentment, above all words. Sorry for the tangent, I will return to the time I spent in the tunnel. My subconscious began to ramble and then with that my consciousness began to respond. My body returned to me, and I was awoken from something outside of myself although at first I couldn’t tell, I had forgotten all about myself within the tunnel so I thought maybe the external sensation was actually coming from within myself, it was very confusing, and hard to explain. I can’t really tell what happened in the time that I had spent in  the other universe but when I awoke small drops of water pattered against my face. Eventually I was able to move forward into an underground cave. Small bugs emitted a white glow and a small amount of heat. There was a large pool in front of me, the glow of the bugs reflected off of the water and slick, wet rocks. Water poured from the ceilings and stalactites hung threateningly over me in the unveiled cave. I felt like I was in the mouth of a salivating beast. A stench hung in the air, piercing my nostrils with a putrid smell of rot and earth. I was still half asleep, and wondering what just happened as the memories of the previous time I occupied this world poured into my mind, I remembered. I think what happened is that over time the cave slowly eroded, and then eventually, for some reason, once water had made it through the cracks of the ceiling of the tunnel and hit my face that awoke me. That or I was being called upon, maybe the universe was just a temporary break from my true purpose of being here, in the current place, in the cave, or maybe it was just time for me to wake up. Once the fear and confusion subsided, I was able to appreciate the beauty of the cave, despite the stench. The cave looked like it was filled with tiny little stars, which were really just bugs. The pool of water, as it swirled together and refracted the light of the bugs, looked as if it had tiny universes forming within it. While watching my step and walking through the open and wide cave, I eventually noticed a light pouring in through a large opening, it was clearly the exit. Outside, I was presented with a lush, beautiful forest, birds chirped, deer galloped together, and everything looked perfectly harmonious. I could see just barely through the cracks in between the trees what looked to be a village, with people! I was awe-struck, what a beautiful sight I thought, life, this could be it – what beauty. So many emotions boiled together at that moment. Simultaneously, I could not shake the echo of a deep depression but I began to collect myself. As I made my way towards the village, and through the forest the animals cleared from around me. Once at the edge of the forest, I entered the large glade where the village was erected in the center. The architecture and style of the buildings was off. Some look lopsided, and as if they were born out of a strange illustration, a single piece of something. This is a very different look than a building which was made through the labors of man. Strange materials were used for some of them. It was odd to see so many different styles of architecture in such a rural village, some of the houses were grand, and almost too perfect. Vague religious symbols were seen scattered about. The most disturbing part was the villagers, they walked amongst themselves, shuffling and stumbling about, some stood and stared at each other. Their faces were smooth, and devoid of any orifice, their hands were twisted, and mangled, they walked with limps of varying degrees, some wore tattered rags which exposed their deformed genitalia, while others had on strange designer clothing where eligible words were seen in strange patterns. Though all of the villagers did share one aspect. It looked as if their clothing had become a part of their skin. In the areas where a piece of clothing hung instead of the flapping of fabric it was like a thick slab of leather was flapping or dragging behind them. In my presence they all stopped and turned to me for an excruciating minute, then they returned to what they were doing. 

THE NIGHT BLOGGER - Direct Market Thing

October 27th: Sue Charney was on the good side of thirty and the bad side of an impending financial apocalypse. Many would say that at her age, she should have known better than to sink her remaining savings into a direct selling organization in the hopes of making a quick fortune, but they might have done the same after sitting through one of Emblazon Unlimited's free recruitment seminars. Pyramid scheme or not, they make one hell of a recruitment video.

From the day her $300 sales kit arrived, Sue zealously pitched Emblazon Unlimited's dollar 'store quality' product line to her coworkers and friends, at parties and family gatherings, and even door-to-door through her apartment complex.

Her hard work generated few sales but plenty of reactions. Her neighbors complained, getting her in trouble for violating her lease's 'No Soliciting' clause. The break room at work emptied whenever she walked in. Her friends stopped returning calls, and her calendar became barren of family gatherings and parties. By April, Sue faced a decision: pay her rent or shell out more money for Emblazon Unlimited's seminars and stock management fees.

That was what sent her out to that secluded house on the outskirts of Ghent for what she had been told would be intense one-on-one sales coaching. Even now, I'm not sure why she and several others agreed to visit the residence of a man they had never heard of or met. Was it foolishness? Desperation? Or the lingering effects of that star-studded recruitment video?

A light shone in every window; the front door was unlocked. An earlier text message had told her to just go in and make herself at home.

So that's just what Sue Charney did.

And it was the last thing she ever did.

---

… I'll spare you the specifics of how I pieced together Sue Charney's final night. Let's just say it involved hard work, patience, and some serious online skullduggery.

I had my incredibly shady cousin Roy create a fake ID for me; he chose the name 'Nathaniel Blades.' That's Roy for you. Despite the name sounding fit for an action hero or an adult film star, it served its purpose. I used it to become an Emblazon Unlimited distributor. My initiation into the world of direct sales happened through emails and conference calls. There was a credit check, contracts to sign, and promises of a financial empire built on generic soaps and toilet paper.

Even for a newbie, my sales numbers were pitiful. Giving away stock to the needy will do that to you. There were more conference calls and increasingly insistent suggestions that I buy more sales training DVDs. I pleaded poverty and began talking about leaving the flock.

That's when they offered me a free consultation with their Northeastern Sales Coach, Davis Sawney. Imagine my surprise—they'd never mentioned a Sales Coach before. They sent me an address and an appointment time, naturally at night, so I put on my semi-good suit and shiniest shoes and made the hour-long drive to Ghent. As I was 'in disguise,' I left my straw fedora home.

There isn't much to say about Ghent; it's a quiet little town, the kind of place people move to if they find Utica too exciting. Davis Sawney's home wasn't all that fancy, but compared to some of the rural homes I'd passed on the way, it was practically a mansion.

No wait. That isn't fair. But as I've said many times before, I have been and probably always will be a city boy. Rural environments make me feel vulnerable, and rural people always make me feel like a nerd at football practice. When Joe Redneck looks at me, he knows he's looking at a guy who can't survive without fast food and Google Search; he knows that when civilization collapses, he and his kin will survive while I if I'm lucky, will have to earn food by selling my hiney to groups of feral rodeo clowns.

Wow. Now, that's what I call going off on a tangent.

My AMC Pacer made its way up the dirt driveway of the Sawney house, flecks of dirt spattering everywhere, even up onto the windshield. I parked near the house and walked up to the front door.

Knocking first yielded no response. Then I rang the bell, the sound echoing faintly inside the house, but no one answered the door or shouted a hearty "Come in!"

The longer I stood there, the more exposed I felt. That old familiar instinct to run began to settle into place, but I always ignored it. A strange feeling of being conspicuous came over me, that and the urge to run. I tried knocking and ringing again. Still nothing, I changed it up by ringing the bell and then knocking.

Still no answer.

My phone bleeped. I checked it and saw a text message from the same number that had sent me this address and directions. It said, "On conference call. Door unlocked. Come in and make yourself at home."

Dandy, just dandy.

A blast of unseasonably frigid air conditioning hit me as I let myself inside. It was so cold that I half expected to see sides of beef hanging from the ceiling. Instead, I found gentle lighting and tasteful colonial décor. Impressive-looking sliding doors blocked access to all the rooms and hallways except for one. Voices and music echoed towards me; I followed them, trying not to feel like a mouse in a maze or, to return to my previous metaphor, a cow in a slaughterhouse.

Either way, I made sure I tiptoed every step.

The hallway led to a wide receiving room, where a widescreen TV burbled and flickered with the latest Emblazon Unlimited promotional video. Plush, expensive-looking chairs were arranged in front of it. The walls of the room were eggshell white and decorated with tall oil paintings depicting cowboys being cowboys and bullfighters being assholes. In the center of the room was a wide table heaped with refreshments—sandwiches, fruit, and an impressive selection of alcoholic beverages.

I could imagine new arrivals making a beeline right for that table, so I didn't. Instead, I casually wandered around, looking for anything suspicious. After a few minutes, I realized the most questionable thing was the hairpiece the guy in the promotional video was wearing.

But this had to be the room where it all happened, the room where Sue Charney and at least a half dozen others had met their demise. I had tried to tell the state police what my investigations had revealed and what I suspected, but they dismissed me as always. As far as they were concerned, an ordinary run-of-the-mill serial killer was responsible for the desiccated bodies they were pulling out of Iron Fen Pond every six weeks or so.

Ten minutes went by, and still, no one had come into the room to meet Nathaniel Blades, aka Yours Truly. The promotional video must have been in a loop because it started playing again from the beginning. I brought up the "On conference call. Door unlocked. Come in and make yourself at home." message and tried to text back, only to get a number-not-in-service error.

"Hello?" I called out, "Is there anyone here?"

Nothing.

My eyes followed the path a normal person would take upon entering the room—I mentioned before they'd head straight for the refreshments. Briefly, I wondered if the bagel sandwiches had been spiked, then I saw it.

A square shape on the hardwood floor caught my eye, about a yard to the right of the table. It was barely noticeable, easily dismissed by anyone else as a flaw in the carpentry.

But 'normal' hasn't been part of my life for years. It didn't take much imagination to picture what came next: an unsuspecting soul enjoying free food, TV drowning out the sound of a trap door snapping open.

So, I lifted one of the plush chairs as gingerly and quietly as possible, setting it over the square on the floor. With that done, I decided to explore.

Each sliding door was locked, so I chose one at random and started picking the lock—a skill I've honed over the years, useful when dealing with the forces of darkness who rarely invest in high-end security.

After a few moments, the door slid open, revealing a narrow, twisting stairway. Climbing it induced serious vertigo. Twenty-four steps later, I faced a metal door. The lower floors of the house were chilly, but the upper floor was humid and thick. The hall had plenty of doors, but only one caught my attention, a thick, robust steel barrier resembling a meat freezer door. I crossed the hall and touched Its thick metal handle; it felt warm and clammy, like the skin of a sick man. As it swung open, I was hit by a gust of foul air.

The room revealed was not a freezer, but it had smooth, metallic walls that reflected the glow of the overhead fluorescent lights. A single window on the right side of the room was thick with condensation, matching the layer that coated every other surface—except for the altar.

And no, I wasn't surprised to find an altar on the far wall of the room. What else could there be in a place like this?

The altar, adorned in silver and gold, held an open-faced diorama of a yellow house. Within its central room stood a playhouse where seven wax figurines with wicks protruding from their heads were placed. Despite the heat, the only signs of melting were evident near the wicks of these figurines. My scowl became a mask of abject horror. I knew what those wax miniatures represented.

Dark, dried stains spattered the altar and its accessories. Blood had been spilled here, Sue Charney's specifically, but I'm sure every other corpse fished out of Fowler's Pond had started out here as a living being. I pulled out my phone and took some pictures.

The door hissed open behind me. I turned to see a short figure in a black suit that looked like a car salesman cosplaying as a high-powered executive. There was no anger or surprise in his voice. I snapped another picture.

"What is going on here?" I asked, "Why are you doing this?"

I've often said that I usually meet two kinds of trouble—stalkers and talkers. I'd expected Davis Sawney to be a talker, which was why I wasn't ready when he dove at me and brought me down.

Scrawny hands wrapped around my throat. I started choking and gasping.

We rolled across the cold floor. I pulled at the hands, but they wouldn't budge. I threw a few punches, but my attacker didn't react. When you're being strangled, you always find yourself staring into your attacker's eyes. They say the eyes are the gateway to the soul. If so, what kind of soul were those dull, emotionless eyes revealing?

I will probably never know because, at that moment, I jabbed my thumbs into them. There was no rewarding scream of pain and horror, but I could breathe again. I watched the black-suited stranger stagger and flail blindly. I'm not sure I can ever make you understand how much I wanted this murderer to make a sound. A curse, a scream, anything, but the only noise in that room was my gasping breaths and the shattering of glass when my assailant fell out the window...

---

"So, where are the pictures?" Sara asked as we sat on my couch. She spent almost every other night here so I could monitor her for further sleepwalking incidents. I think she would have preferred to stay every night, but that would have given her parents more to complain about. They believed she was spending time with an old friend from high school, and fortunately, that friend was willing to cover for her.

"It was broken in the fight," I said unhappily. "So I had to make an anonymous call to the police from a pay phone at a self-service gas station. I was surprised to find either, much less both."

She covered her smile with her hand, "How many phones is that for you?"

"I don't want to think about it." I also didn't want to think about whether I had left any usable fingerprints somewhere in that oh-so-elegant house of horrors. On my way out, I had wiped down both sides of the doorknob, but still...

Item: Forensics revealed blood traces of almost a dozen people on that altar, all linked to the bodies recovered from Iron Fen Pond. What they didn't find were the wax miniatures that had made me so justifiably nervous.

Item: As I suspected, Davis Sawney had been sacrificing his less productive underlings on a homemade altar for the last few months to appease whatever dark force had captured his interest. You might scoff, but the man amassed millions in cash and stocks, owning dozens of cars, a yacht, three mansions, and even an alpaca farm.

Item: What he didn't own was the house in Ghent, where he carried out his blasphemous acts. That house belonged to the corporate overlords of Emblazon Unlimited. It was loaned out to their top earners as a perk. No one in law enforcement or the legitimate press bothered to ask why this perk had trapdoors.

Item: While Emblazon Unlimited took no responsibility for the terrible crimes committed on their property, they did send heartfelt condolences, a year's supply of lavender-scented bath bombs, and the jerky-based treat called 'Beef Whips' to the families of the deceased.

And finally, as I said earlier, the body of Davis Sawney was never found. While some of you might think that means he survived his fall and slunk off like a movie maniac to kill again, I do not think so.

Why?

Now, you can take what I say with a grain of salt; after all, I had just finished being strangled. I told Sara, "When I ran to the window and looked out, I didn't see the yard or the driveway. I didn't see what I saw when I first arrived. I saw a swamp. It was night, but the sky was tinged green. The air smelled like stagnant water, but with just a trace of something else, like that odor you catch right after you blow out a candle. The trees were huge and twisted with branches that were tangled and thick with Spanish moss. Through them, I could just barely glimpse the silhouette of a tall, broken-looking building."

I hadn't realized I had begun to shiver until Sara took my hand. "What about Davis Sawney?" she asked.

There was a long pause before I told her, "I saw him. Just a glimpse. He was being dragged into the trees by a… a shape."

But what I didn't tell her was how very familiar that shape was.

Beginning

Previous

Observation Notes: S stated that she was feeling thirsty once more and asked for another bottle of water. Despite the room temperature being maintained at 75°F, she appeared to be sweating. Shortly afterward, she began to shiver and requested a blanket. In response, a blanket typically provided to jail cellmates was given to her.

XXXXX

Was Golden Bay everything you dreamt of?

It didn’t feel real. But there I was, in the car, windows rolled down and our heads out, letting the cool air whip through our hair. The city seemed so alive, just pulsating with energy.

Every sensation was heightened, every moment a new discovery. It was like being part of a movie scene. The city was a sensory overload. It even smelled different! It was a strange and intoxicating mix of sweet, smoky, savory, and stinky scents all at once. And you know what?

What?

I felt like I could do anything, be anything I wanted—maybe an actress or a model! Lady Venus told us we were going to become models, to look pretty in pictures and have people admire them. But I wasn't so sure I wanted to be a model; it sounded kind of dull.

I didn't know what I really wanted to be, but at that moment, I believed anything was possible. It was the closest I had ever felt to being free. It was an overwhelming feeling. The city was so different from the quiet countryside I had always known. It was like stepping into another world, one full of endless possibilities and hidden wonders. It didn't hit me until then that my life wasn't going to be the same.

Were you never taken on any field trips to a nearby town while you were living with Mama Pussett?

No, never. We weren't even allowed to go into the woods.

So you were kept in all the time?

Not all the time. We went out to tend the garden every week.

But never beyond that?

The furthest I ever went was down the long road that stretched out from our house. My sisters and I made it into a fun game, a simple game. We would run down the road to see if we could go beyond the black wall at the end.

The wall was big and made of stones stacked up high, and in the middle of it, there was an archway wide enough for a car to drive through. I can still remember how the stones felt when I touched them. Round, smooth, and glossy like polished glass. Deep black, as dark as a starless night, but in the sunlight, they glowed a deep green and midnight blue.

I've reached the wall a couple of times, but I could never move past it. None of us could. Every time I got close to the archway, a wave of nausea would overwhelm me. Once, I dared myself to step one foot through it while fighting back the sickness. My vision blurred, shifting in and out of focus, until everything went dark.

When I came around, I found myself lying on the ground, staring up at the black wall. And there were eyes staring back. Then a voice spoke to me inside my head. It told me to go back. To never try to go beyond the wall again.

And if you tried again, what would happen?

Punishment. Not from Mama Pussett or the matrons, but from–what would you call it? God?

I don't think God would punish a little girl for playing a silly little game.

But this one does.

Then that isn't the loving and forgiving God I grew up learning about in Sunday school.

Maybe we don't have the same God.

There’s only one.

One God with many faces.

I'm thinking that the reason would be to have as many eyes as it could to watch over you and protect you.

Or to keep us in until we were in bloom and Lady Venus came to take us away.

How about Lady Venus’ house? Did she have a black-stone wall to prevent you from leaving the premises?

No, but there was an iron gate around it. She had a beautiful three-story brick mansion on a hill, with a garden and a water fountain in the front. We could go outside the gate whenever we wanted. She never seemed to worry about us taking a quick stroll around the neighborhood block.

Sometimes we ventured down the hill, though we never went far. The road was too winding–cars whipped around the curve without slowing down, and there were no sidewalks for us to walk on. It was difficult and unsafe to explore beyond a short distance.

So, in the first few days after our arrival, we spent most of our time inside the house, which wasn't too bad. The house was spacious and comfortable, and it was stunning, completely different from Mama Pussett's house, which was dreary and always cold. It looked like a palace from a fairy tale, with lace curtains, crystal chandeliers, and everything seemed to glitter like gold and diamonds.

The rooms had elegant furniture, and the walls were decorated with beautiful paintings of the sea and mountains. What was a pleasant surprise for all of us was that each of us got our own room. My own room! I couldn't believe it!

My room was on the second floor, and Lady Venus called it the Jade Room. The walls were painted a soft green, and the floor was covered in a velvety, deeper green carpet. In the center of the room stood a four-poster bed with green silk sheets and pillows. Everything in the room was a jade green color. Even the lamps and flower vases were made of jade.

There was also a walk-in closet full of dresses and high heels, all of which fit me perfectly. Lady Venus told us to throw out the white frilly dresses that Mama Pussett made us wear and choose a new one from the closet. I picked out a nice one for myself. It was a simple light green dress with long sleeves and yellow flowers all over it.

But even though the room was incredible, it also felt strange. I couldn't shake the weird feeling it gave me. On one side of the room, facing the bed, was a wall-size mirror. It reminded me of the room at Mama Pussett's house where we opened our Christmas presents. There was a black curtain hanging in front of it to block it out, but we were supposed to keep the curtain open unless Lady Venus told us to close it. There were also paintings on the walls. They were unusual and…

And what? What were the paintings of?

They were unlike anything I had ever seen before. These were paintings of women with no clothes on, showing every detail of their bodies. You could see everything, inside and out, their wet pink flesh. There were also paintings of men who were naked, too. The men had something that looked like a big horn sticking out from their bodies.

In some paintings, the people were tangled up with their arms and legs twisted around each other. Their eyes were either shut tight or open wide in shock. Their mouths were twisted, and their jaws were clenched as if they were in extreme pain. It looked like they were caught in a moment of intense emotion or struggle.

My room wasn't the only one with paintings. The other bedrooms had a similar layout, and they also had strange paintings. Some were even stranger and more disturbing than the ones in my room. The people in the paintings looked like people, but their bodies seemed to be melting into one another, forming a single mass of flesh. Their eyes and mouths stared up at you in horror as they floated in a deep pool of skin.

I told Lady Venus that I thought the paintings were strange and made me feel uneasy.

I asked her, “What are they doing to each other?”

My sisters also wondered. They were a bit frightened and confused by the paintings. So, Lady Venus gathered us all in the sitting room. We looked up at her with complete trust because, at this point, she was the only person we had to rely on.

“Every flower serves a purpose,” she began to explain. “An important one. Yours is to bring beauty into people's lives. You must feed them your pollen because they are hungry. Hungry for your love and beauty.”

At first, we couldn't believe what she was telling us. I couldn't imagine that we would have to do the things shown in the paintings. At that time, I'd never been with a man, much less spoken to one. The only man I'd seen was Lady Venus’s driver.

The other girls looked worried; some were scared and even started to cry. Lady Venus saw our faces and tried to reassure us. She said everything would be okay and it wasn't as bad as we thought. She promised it would be a pleasurable experience and our lives would be comfortable and easy. All we had to do was obey her and make sure the visitors left the house happy.

Even though she tried to make it sound like it was going to be wonderful, I just had a terrible feeling. I felt sick. It never went away but I told myself to trust her.

Part 1

As the sun begins to rise, casting an eerie glow through the dense fog, the crime scene becomes a flurry of activity. CSI teams in white suits swarm the area, their movements meticulous as they comb through the marsh, documenting and collecting every scrap of evidence with clinical precision.

Audry and I watch them from a distance, our hands stuffed into the pockets of our jackets as a shield against the morning chill. Their careful movements unearth more than just the sad remnants of hurried flight. With each brush and marker set down, the layers of the night's horrors peel back, revealing deeper, darker secrets etched into the earth and trees around us.

One of the forensic technicians, a young woman with sharp eyes and a steady hand, calls us over. "Hey, detectives, you need to see this!"

We make our way over, our boots sinking slightly into the softened earth. The technician points to a set of tracks leading away from the crime scene. They're unlike any shoe or animal print; these are deep, oddly shaped grooves that seem to twist unnaturally, almost as if the creature that made them was skimming rather than walking on the marshy surface.

"Could be some sort of dragging," Martínez suggests, but his tone lacks conviction. I crouch down for a closer look. The tracks are irregular, spaced erratically as if whatever made them was staggering or... not entirely of this world.

Each print has a sharp, almost claw-like feature at the ends, suggesting whatever made them was neither fully animal nor human. They lead towards the dense underbrush, then disappear as if the maker had suddenly taken flight or simply vanished.

"Have these been cast yet?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

The tech nods. "Yeah, we've got casts and photos. But there's something else."

She leads me to the tree where we found the girl. At first glance, it looks like any other part of this morbid tableau, but then she hands me a flashlight. "Shine it here," he instructs. The beam catches on something etched deeply into the bark. Carved symbols, crude yet deliberate, spiral up the trunk.

Each symbol, jagged and deep, depicts scenes that are disturbingly ritualistic in nature—human figures in various poses of submission and agony, their limbs splayed outwards as if in offering. The central figure in the tableau is a towering, skeletal figure, its skin peeled back to reveal muscle and bone.

"The flayed god," I whisper, recognition dawning as the details of the carvings become clearer.

"We're dealing with a cult," Audrey concludes, her voice steady despite the gruesome realization.

—

After the initial shock of the gruesome crime scene, Audrey and I retreat back to the command tent to pore over the video of Lucia Alvarez. The setup is makeshift, a couple of laptops and monitors propped on a folding table, the humming of generators outside barely drowning out the eerie silence of the marshland.

"Let's run through this again," Audrey says, clicking on the video file labeled "Último Mensaje." The grainy footage flickers to life, Lucia's haunted face filling the screen.

As the video plays, I focus on the background, looking for any detail that might tell us where it was taken. The room is dim, but there are shadows that suggest depth and the presence of objects just out of the camera's view. Audrey jots down notes as we watch, pausing the video at key moments to scrutinize the surroundings.

"There," I point out, pausing the video. In the corner of the room, barely visible, is a poster with distinctive markings—perhaps a local band or a political advertisement. "That poster might help us pinpoint the location."

Audrey nods, zooming in on the image. We examine the poster, the resolution grainy but just clear enough to make out the first of a word and the first letter of the second. "NEW H—" the visible text reads, followed by a partially obscured logo that could be a sun or a gear, the edges blurred and indistinct.

"We need to enhance this, see if we can pull out more details," Audrey suggests, already on her phone, contacting the tech team for image enhancement.

My mind is racing. I recognize that logo from somewhere, something I came across in a report or a briefing note, perhaps. "Let's dig into it later, see if we can pull up anything on local businesses or landmarks with that name."

As the low hum of the generator filled the air, Audrey leaned back in her chair, a frown creasing her brow. "This Lord of the Underworld... who do you think that refers to? It’s all a bit dramatic, like something out of a horror film."

I rubbed my chin, pondering. "Sounds like something Aztec or Mayan, maybe?” My knowledge isn’t exactly comprehensive. Just bits and pieces of stories my mom used to tell me. Gods and spirits, all interwoven with lessons and warnings. None of that stuff particularly interested me.

Pulling out my phone, I type in "Lord of the Underworld" along with some keywords from our current case—ritual, cult, Aztec. The search churns through data, and within seconds, links to various articles and mythological databases pop up. One entry catches my eye, a piece on Mictlantecuhtli, the Aztec god of death and the underworld. I go to images and see the god depicted as a skeletal figure, surrounded by motifs of decay and regeneration.

I show the phone to Audrey, who leans over for a better look. "That’s our perp, huh? “Mictlantecuhtli," I muse, struggling to pronounce the Nahuatl word.

I scroll through more entries, but none provide a clear motive or reasoning behind such gruesome displays. It's like trying to read a book where half the pages are ripped out.

"What do you think he meant by 'for those who have seen death closely but survived'? That's not just random, it's targeted."

I lean back against the flimsy chair, the metal creaking under my weight. "I've got a bad feeling about this, Aud," I confess, feeling the weight of each word. "It’s like... it’s like that message isn’t just for anyone. It’s for us."

Audrey's eyes narrow, her analytical mind piecing together the unsaid. "The Alvarez case?" she murmurs, the name hanging in the air like a cold breath. "We came out of that by the skin of our teeth.”

"Yeah." The memory sits heavy in my stomach. We'd walked through a nightmare landscape, bodies scattered, a community shattered.

—

We decide to shift attention towards the hunt for the chapel described in Lucia's chilling video begins. We pour over maps of Otay Mesa and the surrounding areas, scouring every database and record we can access for any mention of the San Pedro chapel. The name is common enough to make it a difficult search, but eventually, we narrow it down to a few possible locations. One in particular, an abandoned chapel on the outskirts of Otay Mesa, stands out. It’s isolated, rundown, and has a history of being a hotspot for illicit activities.

With the chapel identified, we return to uncovering the killer's potential hideout. The forensic evidence collected at the crime scene proves invaluable. The peculiar, claw-like tracks leading away from the scene are of particular interest.

Upon closer examination, the forensic team uncovers soil discrepancies in the samples taken near the tracks.

The analysis from the forensics team reveals traces of minerals not typically found in the marshy outskirts of Otay Mesa. Instead, these minerals match those found in the more arid, rocky terrains to the north.

Utilizing geological maps, we pinpoint several potential areas where this soil composition could have originated. It's a tedious process, cross-referencing environmental data with recent satellite imagery to narrow down the locations.

It hits me that "NEW H-" could be the start of a company's name, possibly a mining company given the odd minerals found at the crime scene.

I open up a browser on one of the laptops, typing in "mining company" along with "NEW H" and "San Diego" as additional search terms. The results are mostly news articles about the local industry, but nothing catches my eye. I refine the search, adding "defunct" or "closed" to the terms. After several attempts and refining keywords, a hit—an old article about a now-defunct mining company catches my attention: New Horizon Quarries.

"Look at this," I call over to Audrey, pointing at the screen. The article is from a local paper, dated back several years, discussing the closure of New Horizon Quarries due to a series of legal and environmental issues. It mentions the company's last known operating location—a quarry on the northern edge of San Diego County, not too far from our current location.

This can't be a coincidence. The unique mineral traces, the location, and now a potential link to a quarry—it all starts to form a disturbing picture. We decide it's worth a shot to check out this quarry.

—

As Audrey and I huddle in the dim light of the command tent, the weight of what we’ve discovered presses down on us. We’re at a crucial juncture, each decision a potential misstep in a dance with an unknown and deadly partner.

“Okay, let’s think this through,” I start, tapping a pen against the notepad filled with details from the night. “We can’t just follow these instructions blindly. It’s obviously a trap—or at least a diversion.”

Audrey nods, her face set in a determined grimace. “Right, but we’ve got to engage somehow, keep him thinking we’re playing his game while we work our angle. We need to track this guy down before anyone else ends up like Lucia.”

The strategy is clear: engage, but on our terms. I sketch out a rough plan on a scrap of paper.

We map out a risky two-pronged approach. Audrey and I, along with a few trusted members from Martinez's team, will head to the chapel as per the instructions in Lucia's video. We'll make a show of following the steps, careful to keep our actions visible enough to suggest compliance without actually fulfilling the ritual's darker requirements. Meanwhile, another team, equipped with the best tracking and surveillance gear we have, will scout out the quarry, hoping to catch the killer or whoever is orchestrating these events off guard.

As the plan solidifies, I pull out my cell, dialing the number of our superior, Captain Barrett. The line clicks, and his gruff voice, perpetually tinged with the rasp of too many years on the job, crackles through the speaker.

“Castillo, what’s the situation?” Barrett’s voice is all business, the underlying concern barely noticeable beneath the surface.

I lean against the cold metal of our makeshift command center, watching the early morning mist roll over the marshlands. “Captain, we’ve got a lead on the murder. We think the perpetrator might be holed up in an abandoned quarry to the north of here.” There’s a pause, heavy with the weight of every bad outcome that could unfold from this conversation. “You think or you know?” Barrett’s tone sharpens, slicing through the fog of uncertainties.

“We’re nearly certain, sir,” I saw, walking him through the evidence and our plan. Barrett exhales heavily over the line, a low sound that carries all the weight of his experience and the ghosts of cases gone wrong. "Alright, Castillo, but I'm holding you to it. We can't have another Alvarez mess on our hands. You get in, assess the situation, and get out. No heroics, understand?"

"Understood, sir," I assure him, feeling the gravity of his words. "We'll handle it by the book."

He grunts, a noncommittal sound that's as close to an agreement as I'm likely to get from him. "Keep me updated, every step of the way. And Castillo?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Be careful. This sounds like you're walking into a den of snakes with a stick. Make sure it's a big stick."

The line goes dead, leaving a small echo of static that fades into the stillness of the morning.

— We spend the early part of the afternoon gearing up, pouring over maps and checking our equipment twice. Audrey and I, along with a couple of seasoned officers from Martinez's team, load up our SUVs with everything we might need—night vision goggles, body armor, and more firepower than I'd like to think necessary.

As the morning sun lifts the dense fog just enough to lend an eerie glow to the surroundings, our convoy heads out. Audrey and I are in the lead SUV, the mood tense but focused. We're heading to the chapel, the supposed site of the next ritual according to Lucia's chilling message. Meanwhile, the second team is making their way to the quarry, moving in quietly with the hopes of catching our suspect off guard.

We maintain open lines of communication, each vehicle fitted with radios tuned to a secure channel. The static crackles occasionally, the voice of Sergeant Rodríguez from the Sheriff’s Department checking in, his tone clipped and business-like. "Team two approaching the quarry perimeter. All quiet so far."

"Copy that," I respond, keeping my eyes on the dusty road leading up to the chapel. The structure looms in the distance, an abandoned relic that looks like it hasn't seen a congregation in decades. Its isolated location makes it an ideal spot for nefarious deeds, far from prying eyes, yet here we are, about to pry.

As we near the chapel, the air thickens with an uneasy stillness, the kind that speaks more of abandonment than peace. The structure itself casts long, sinister shadows across the cracked earth, its steeple jagged against the sky like a broken finger pointing accusingly at us intruders.

Audrey kills the headlights as we approach, the last few hundred yards covered under the cloak of the vehicle's silent glide. We park a good distance away, out of sight but not out of mind. Each step towards the chapel is measured, deliberate, our boots crunching softly against the dry earth.

"Keep your eyes peeled," I mutter to Audrey, scanning the windows of the chapel. They're dark, empty sockets in the fading daylight, giving nothing away. But I can't shake the feeling of being watched.

Martinez, who insisted on coming along, signals to his team. Two agents move to flank the building, their steps as silent as the grave. Another pair positions themselves at the back, cutting off any chance of escape. We're not just walking into a potential trap; we're ready to spring one of our own.

I nod to Audrey, and together we step up to the heavy, wooden front door of the chapel. It's slightly ajar, the dark interior beckoning us inside with an ominous promise. I push the door open with the barrel of my 12 gauge shotgun, letting the dim light from outside reveal the chapel's secrets.

The inside of the chapel is as dilapidated as the outside. Pews are overturned and graffiti mars much of the wall space. But it's the smell that hits us first—a mix of mold, decay, and something faintly metallic. Blood? It wouldn't surprise me.

Our lights sweep across the walls, catching on crude graffiti that speaks of dark rituals. Amidst the chaos, my beam settles on the altar at the far end of the chapel. Above it hangs an inverted cross on the wall, its wood aged and splintered, swaying slightly as if recently disturbed.

I gesture to Audrey, pointing towards the cross. "There," I whisper, my voice barely audible. Martinez, just a few steps behind, nods, his expression grim.

With a nod, I crouch down, pushing aside a pile of debris to reveal a small, rectangular area that's been disturbed recently. The dirt is looser here, contrasting with the compacted filth around it. I use my hands, the cool soil sifting through my fingers, until they meet the hard edges of something solid.

"Found something," I announce, my voice low and steady despite the pounding in my chest. The others gather around as I pull out a small, wooden box. It's old, the wood swollen from moisture, but it's what's inside that counts.

I open the box slowly, hinges creaking quietly in the heavy silence of the chapel. Inside, a collection of bones lies in disarray—femurs, ribs, vertebrae, each more chilling than the last. They are not uniform; their sizes and shapes vary, suggesting they belong to different individuals. Each bone bears the scars of violence, with cut marks and scrapes where flesh was once forcibly stripped. It's a gruesome patchwork of human remains, each piece telling a silent, horrific story of its own.

Audrey, her face pale under the beam of her flashlight, catalogs each piece on her camera with a clinical detachment necessary to keep the horror at bay. "We need to get these to the lab," she says, her voice steady. "Each one of these could help us identify a victim, piece together this bastard's history."

I start rearranging the bones into a spiral on the hardwood floor, more out of a forensic interest than any desire to play into the killer's narrative. Audrey watches closely, her camera clicking at intervals, capturing each phase of the arrangement. The pattern emerges slowly, a grim sort of artistry in the way the larger bones curve outward, tapering to the smaller ones at the center. It's macabre, and deeply unsettling, yet there's a method to this madness, a clue perhaps.

As I place the last bone, a small, oddly shaped skull at the heart of the spiral, I feel a sense of dread pooling in my gut. The arrangement is too deliberate, each piece interlocking with the others in a way that suggests not just violence, but ritual.

As I finish arranging the bones, the radio crackles to life, breaking the heavy silence of the chapel. "Team two to team one, come in," Sergeant Rodríguez's voice is urgent, cutting through the static.

I grab the radio, pressing the transmit button. "This is team one, go ahead, sergeant."

"We've got something here," Rodríguez reports, his voice tense. "You need to see this."

Audrey scrambles to set up the live feed on her laptop. The screen flickers to life, showing grainy, night-vision images from the cameras mounted on the team’s helmets. The footage is shaky, the camera angles shaky as each team member turns this way and that. The screen splits into multiple views, each one a chaotic snapshot of the quarry's rocky terrain. The harsh, white outlines of rocks and sparse vegetation jump out against the black background, but there’s something else—movements, too fluid and quick to be human.

My stomach churns as the camera on Rodríguez’s helmet stabilizes for a moment, giving us a clear view. It’s a cavernous space carved into the side of the quarry, the walls rough and echoing the chaos outside. And there, mounted on the walls, are racks filled with human heads, their lifeless eyes staring out into the dark, empty space.

The lower racks hold skulls long stripped of flesh, each one bleached white by time and exposure. But the top rack... the top rack is a fresh set of horrors, heads of victims in various stages of decay, their features frozen in silent screams of agony.

The sounds that flood the live feed next are unlike any I've heard in years of service— a blood curdling screech that pierces the air, followed by a flurry of panicked shouts and the unmistakable staccato of gunfire. Audrey and I watch helplessly, the images on the screen a chaotic jumble as Rodríguez and his team struggle to respond.

"Sergeant, talk to me!" I bark into the radio, gripping the handset so tightly my knuckles turn white.

There's a crackle of static, then a strained voice comes through. "It's—fuck—it's got me! I can't—" I can hear Rodriguez scream in agony, the sort of sound that tells you it's not just pain, but raw, primal fear.

Through the grainy night-vision footage, glimpses of the assailant flash intermittently—a blur of movement too swift to be clearly seen. But then, the camera jerks as Rodríguez falls to the ground, the view tilting crazily before stabilizing skyward. In that brief, haunting moment, we see it—a creature with a sharp, elongated beak and massive talons, swooping down with the ferocity of a raptor.

The chaos on the screen abruptly turns into a horrifying stillness. As the screams and gunfire die down, the camera attached to Rodríguez's helmet captures a terrifying close-up. His head is pinned to the rocky ground by razor-sharp talons, the creature's grip unyielding. Blood pools around his neck, stark against the pale, moonlit rocks.

​​a voice breaks through, ethereal and chilling, coming from just off-screen. The night-vision feed blurs for a moment, then refocuses, and though the figure speaking isn't visible, the voice envelops us, clear and disturbingly calm.

"You were warned," the voice says, its tone almost conversational but underlaid with a cold seriousness. "Instructions were given. Not just to be heard, but to be followed, Detective Castillo."

Audrey and I exchange a look, a mix of disbelief and terror as the killer called me out by name.

"Who are you? How do you know my name?" I demand, my voice steady despite the uncertainty that grips me.

"I am a herald of the Fifth Sun, a harbinger of rebirth and destruction. This world, this era—it's ending, and the new cycle must be initiated," the voice answers enigmatically.

The talons around Rodríguez tighten, a grotesque adjustment that elicits another stifled scream from him, barely audible over the crackling radio. "Please," his voice is a ragged whisper, a plea drowned out by the voice of the assailant.

“Complete the ritual, Detective,” the killer commands. “I won’t ask again.”

Audrey grips my arm, her fingers tight. “Ramón, we can’t... we can’t go along with this. It’s madness.”

I nod at Audrey, my mind racing. "We need to buy time," I murmur, keeping my voice low as I scan the chapel.

I grab a candle from the altar, the wax firm and cold in my grip. With a flick of my zippo, the wick catches fire, casting a flickering, unsteady light that throws long shadows across the chapel's decrepit walls. I lower the candle into the eye socket of the skull positioned at the center of the spiral of bones. The small flame seems absurdly delicate in the vast, dark emptiness of the space.

The light from the candle shivers as if it senses the weight of the darkness around it. The skull's hollow sockets stare back at us, the flame reflected like a tiny beacon in the depths of its eyeless gaze. "It's done," I say, my voice echoing slightly off the stone walls, more to convince myself that we're still in control than anything else.

“Álcese, Quetzalcóatl," (Arise, Quetzalcoatl,) the voice says, its tone laced with an edge that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

With a sudden, sickening pop, the killer's talons tighten around Rodriguez's head, crushing it with terrifying ease. Blood sprays across the rocky ground, spattering the camera lens and obscuring the footage.

Before we can process the brutality that unfolded, a sound chills us to my core—the rattling of bones, not from the feed, but right behind us in the chapel. We whirl around, weapons raised, my heart pounding in my throat.

The bones on the chapel floor tremble and clack against each other with a sound like distant thunder. As we watch, frozen in place, they begin to assemble themselves, each piece moving with unnatural precision. The larger bones form a base, spiraling upwards, stacking into a tight, serpentine coil that rises from the ground like some grotesque monument.

The coil thickens, and then flesh begins to appear, manifesting out of the chill, damp air. It wraps around the bones like clay being molded by an unseen potter’s hands. The flesh is pale and slick, glistening under the dim light as if it were wet. Muscles twitch and contract as they form, binding to the bones with sinewy snaps that echo in the hollow chapel.

The creature’s body elongates, stretching out into a serpentine form, while scales start to cover the newly formed flesh, shimmering under the dim light of our flashlights. The scales are an iridescent array of colors, shifting from green to a vibrant turquoise, each one catching the light like a gemstone.

As the final touch, bright, needle-like feathers sprout along its spine, framing its form in a mockery of regal splendor.

The creature's head forms last, with a jaw that splits distantly reminiscent of a snake’s, capable of dislocating to swallow large prey. Yet, its eyes, when they open, are undeniably human, deep and intelligent.

Audrey lets out a strangled cry, covering her mouth with her hand as she turns away from the screen. I feel bile rising in my throat, the horror of the situation hitting me like a physical blow.

The creature's feathers, bright and sharp as blades, fluff aggressively—a clear prelude to an imminent attack. My voice is sharp as I shout, "Take cover!" to my team.

As the feathers detach and hurtle towards us like a hail of arrows, I drive behind an overturned pew just as the feathers thud into where I stood mere seconds ago. The wood splinters loudly under the impact, the fragments peppering the air like shrapnel.

An agonized scream pierces the chaos. I spin around, expecting to see Audrey safely huddled behind me, but my heart sinks as my eyes find her instead lying vulnerable in the center aisle. Her body is twisted awkwardly, her face contorted in pain as she clutches her left arm, blood soaking through her fingers and staining the cold stone floor.

A few feet away, Martinez lay motionless, a dark pool expanding around him. A feather had torn right through his chest with brutal efficiency, the tip protruding from his back, pinning him to the ground like a grotesque specimen in a collection.

Audrey, pale and grimacing in pain, meets my eyes across the room. There's an unspoken understanding between us, a shared history of close calls and narrow escapes, but nothing like this.

Peeking out from my makeshift shelter, the eerie silence of the chapel weighs heavily, broken only by a low hissing sound and the distant drip of blood echoing off stone. The creature slithers with sinuous grace between the shadows, its scales catching the dim light, creating a tapestry of light and darkness across the floor.

I know the monster is using her as bait. It wants us out in the open so it can finish us off. But I can’t leave Audrey to die, not like this, not when I might still help her.

Previous

Although I was still shaken from my encounter with Mr. Fish, I went straight back to work after being discharged from the hospital. I could’ve taken a few weeks off, but I hated sitting at home doing nothing, feeling restless and twiddling my thumbs. No sooner had I returned to the station, without even a minute to brew a steaming pot of coffee, a call came through about a disturbance by the lake in the valley.

No surprises there, I thought. Well, at least this time it was happening during the day, so that's something.

I hopped in my patrol car and made my way to the location. When I got there, I was greeted by a sight of several vans, cars, and tents set up near the lake. It seemed like with the rent skyrocketing every year, people had resorted to camping here and there in the valley, although camping was prohibited in this area.

As I approached the scene, I noticed a group of people were gathered at the edge of the lake, their fingers pointing towards two mysterious lumps floating on the water's surface. Among the crowd, a woman's piercing wails cut through the tense air. Looking through my binoculars, I saw that those two lumps were bodies. Immediately, I called in for help. Twenty minutes later, an ambulance arrived along with a small coast guard team hauling a boat in their truck. They rowed the boat as fast as they could and retrieved the bodies.

Two young men. Both were long gone. Judging by the bluish pale skin of one of the bodies and the circumstance that he was discovered in, you could safely assume that he had drowned. But nothing could explain the dark red fractal pattern branched out across his chest, as if he’d been struck with lightning.

The second body was a different story. Part of his face seemed to have turned gelatinous. His jaw had vanished, leaving a hollow void in its place. The left side of his naked form had suffered a similar fate, with his arm, leg, and a good chunk of his abdomen now absent. His entrails hung out from the cavity like tentacles.

“Let the coroner figure that one out,” said one of the paramedics.

The corpses were zipped up in black body bags and carefully loaded into the ambulance, while their grieving parents followed closely behind. The sobbing woman, however, pleaded with the coast guards not to leave.

There was one more person out in the lake, a third boy who happened to be her son. He was only seventeen. But they found no other body, and they were reluctant to send rescue divers into what they had dubbed “the Black Hole.” The mission to save one boy in the Black Hole was too dangerous. Too expensive.

It got its name when a group of researchers had tried to measure its depth and map its topography using sonar. They shot a sound wave to the bottom and counted the time for how long it would take for an echo to return. Only there was no echo. They repeated their attempts multiple times, growing increasingly weary, but no luck. Eventually they gave up. It seemed like neither light nor sound could penetrate its depths. Just like a black hole in space.

Although no one knew how deep the lake was, most locals knew how dangerous it could be. Yet, no one ever heeded the red warning sign that was posted: Do Not Enter. Danger.

There were reports of divers disappearing into the Black Hole, never to resurface. Several eyewitnesses, most from the tent settlements, reported having seen something, like an aircraft, emerge from the water at night. And others had seen balls of light swirling around its surface then jumping out and vanishing into the atmosphere at impossible speed.

There was one account that had caught my interest. A diver who had miraculously survived claimed to have had an intense encounter with strange underwater creatures. That diver happened to be someone I knew. I was out with my wife and some friends, one being the diver, at a restaurant. That night, he had more drinks than the rest of us, and started rambling about his daredevil escapade to the Black Hole.

I asked him if I could record his story, just audio, no video. He eagerly shared the details of his adventure, sounding convinced that what he saw was real. Meanwhile, the other patrons smirked and exchanged glances that read “oh great, just our luck, we’ve got a cuckoo bird here.” Everyone at the table sat quietly, looking embarrassed. Did I believe him? Frankly, I didn’t know what to think but I was certainly drawn to his story.

The mother’s furious howls jolted me back to focus. Everyone by the lake stood frozen, uncertain of how to approach her. Every attempt at offering comfort was met with stubbornness and an angry slap. She refused to accept the heartbreaking reality that her boy was lost, likely having drowned in the Black Hole. The onlookers glanced at each other, then turned their curious gazes toward me, waiting to see how I would handle the situation.

Just as I was about to offer some comforting words to the devastated mom, someone yelled out that they spotted something in the lake. Everyone's eyes darted to the spot they were pointing at in the distance. I quickly grabbed my binoculars and took another look.

It was the boy, and he was actually alive, swimming his way to the shore. The coast guards wasted no time unloading their boat and rushing towards the water. In a matter of minutes, they plucked him out of the water and tucked him snugly in a towel on the boat. When they finally made it to the shore, his mom fiercely embraced him, sobbing his name “Jay, my Jay!” and planting a bunch of kisses all over his face. The medics gave him a quick once-over. They were surprised to find out that, despite being shaken up, he seemed to be in good health.

The mother guided him back to a tent they had set up near their car, all packed with suitcases and other belongings. They threw suspicious glances at me, but I assured them that they weren’t in any way in trouble. I just wanted to know what had happened out there. What happened to his two friends? And how the heck did he manage to make it out alive while the others didn't?

He looked up at me with glazed eyes and said, “You won’t believe me anyway. No one will understand what I’ve seen.”

"You’d be surprised,” I started to say, “how many strange things I’ve heard about this place. I think it’s important to tell someone your story, even if it does seem unbelievable. There’s someone who believes.” Then, pulling out the recording device, I asked him to start from the beginning.

XXXXX

Jay: Last night, my friends—Dan and George—and I snuck out of our tents, when everybody went to sleep. Dan got some beers from his dad’s cooler. So, we thought it would be good fun to relax by the lake and have a little drink.

We were just having a good time, talking about random stuff, mainly about the weird things they’d seen around here. Like ghost stories and the haunted buildings nearby. I was mostly listening to them because my mom and I haven’t been here long, so I’m still pretty new to this area.

The lake was pretty quiet and dark until we saw them—three round lights dancing around in the water, glowing soft blue. We stood there, just completely in awe. The lights came toward us. I backed away but Dan and George were drawn to them. And then, something popped out of the water… they looked human...like girls, I think. There were three of them.

Officer M: Can you remember what they looked like? Any distinctive features?

Jay: No, not really, only that their shape looked like girls with long hair and small faces, but they had the largest black eyes I’d ever seen, practically taking up half their face. They had this long appendage coming from the back and curving over their heads with a ball of light dangling at the tip.

I was scared, you know. I thought, what were they doing in the water? Why did they want from us?

Officer M: So, did they say anything to you? Or did you try to communicate with them?

Jay: No, but somehow, they were talking to us without moving their mouths…actually, I don’t remember seeing them having mouths. But they were talking to us inside our heads.

Officer M: Telepathy.

Jay: Yeah, that’s right. Telepathy. I mean, I know it sounds crazy but that’s what it was. They were telling us to follow them into the water. There was something that they wanted to show us. I told Dan and George that we should get away from them, and head back to our camp. But the guys wouldn’t budge. They were in a trance, and I couldn’t snap them out of it. Those things—I mean, I don’t even know if they were human—had some kind of hold on them.

Officer M: You didn’t feel as drawn to these creatures as your friends were?

Jay: Oh, I felt it. But its power got weaker, when I stepped back a bit from the water. I was able to yell at Dan and George to get away. They didn’t. George was the first one to dive. He stripped down and went in. Then, Dan was next. I tried to fight off its power over me, and I was close to breaking it off until I thought I heard my friends call me for help. And that was when I went in.

It was pitch black. I couldn’t tell what was up or down. I was just surrounded by darkness, and the water was freezing. So, I followed the light ahead of me, going deeper and deeper into the water. I was about to run out of breath. My lungs were burning. I needed air. And then, I felt something wrapping around me.

I was caught in a bubble, and inside I could breathe. But I was also trapped inside it. The bubble wouldn’t move where I wanted to move. It was taking me deeper. If I tried to leave it, I felt incredible pressure squeezing all the air out of me. So, I let it take me wherever it was taking me.

Officer M: And where was that?

Jay: A cave but it was like a giant hall with crystals. Some were as big as me and others were bigger, and when I got a closer look, I saw something inside those crystals. They looked like fetuses. I realized that we were probably in some kind of nursery where they kept their babies.

Officer M: Were the three creatures you saw the ones who trapped you?

Jay: Yeah, but there were others.

Officer M: Others?

Jay: Yeah, there were more creatures. They were taller, and they had silver skin-tight suits, like a diving suit. They had on helmets that looked like jellyfish, and each of these beings …creatures…things…Man, I don’t even know what to call them. But each one was carrying a long metal stick. And if they touched you with it, you’d get an electric shock.

Officer M: What did they want from you?

Jay: They said—well, they were speaking to me in my head—that we had to give ourselves to their queen. They wanted us to mate with her. I just felt so sick at the thought of having to do an act like that with something that wasn’t even human. The creatures took us into another cave. It was very dark again and there were no crystals lighting up the place.

And then I saw the queen. I... I can’t explain the terror I felt at that moment.

Officer M: What did the queen look like?

Jay: It was something you couldn’t see clearly, but you could quickly sense its huge fucking size that would make your heart drop to your stomach. They yanked George out of the bubble and shoved him towards the darkness. At that moment, I had no idea if he was okay, if he was hurting or not. You can't hear screams underwater.

And then next was Dan. He put up a fight. He tried to grab one of the creature’s weapons, but it shot him in the chest. There was an instant burst of light that lit up the place, only for a few seconds. But it was enough time for me to see what happened to George.

Officer M: What happened to him? What did you see?

Jay: Half of his body and his mouth were fused to the giant creature, big as a whale, if not bigger. He was still alive. But there wasn’t anything I could do. And there were other things dangling from its sides—spines, arms, legs—and I saw shadows of screaming faces. There’d been other people who had been sacrificed to this queen.

Officer M: You were the sole survivor. How did you survive?

Jay: The whole place started shaking, but it wasn’t a natural earthquake. It was the queen. It was shaking so violently that George became detached. A large chunk of his left side was missing. I knew he was dead.

The creatures were arguing with each other; and then they said to me, ‘your friend’s blood was tainted; it poisoned our queen.” I just remember that earlier we’d been drinking. Maybe that was the reason. So, because George’s blood was ‘tainted,’ they decided to bring us back up.

XXXXX

Jay’s mother stepped out of the tent for a smoke. Though she hadn’t said a word during the interview, she had listened to her son intently. Whether she believed in him or not, I couldn’t tell. I followed her out and asked her if she believed everything her son had said. Fixing her gaze at the still waters of the lake, she spoke with unwavering conviction, “My boy doesn’t lie.”

By Darius McCorkindale

I’d lived my whole life in the small, idyllic farming town of Harvest Hill, where the annual pumpkin festival is more than just an event; it’s a cherished tradition that brings the entire community together. Every fall, the townsfolk gather in the town square, surrounded by the glowing red and yellow of autumn leaves, to celebrate the season’s bounty and compete for the coveted title of the largest pumpkin. For years, I had dreamed of winning that prize, but this year my hopes were higher than ever.

Nestled at the edge of town, my modest farmhouse is surrounded by meticulously tended gardens. Each morning, I wake at dawn, don my gardening gloves, and tend to my plants with the care and precision of a master craftsman. This year, my pride and joy was a massive pumpkin that I’ve nurtured from a tiny seedling into a colossal gourd. It sat in the center of my garden, its vibrant orange skin gleaming in the sunlight, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride every time I looked at it.

However, there was one garden in Harvest Hill that always caught my eye with a mix of curiosity and unease: Old Farmer Joe’s. His property, just next door to mine, was shrouded in mystery. The garden was overgrown and wild, yet his pumpkins always seemed to grow bigger and healthier than anyone else’s. Joe was a reclusive, eccentric man who rarely spoke to anyone, and when he did, his words were often cryptic and unsettling. The townspeople often gossiped that he held secrets, old and dark, but of course this was all wild speculation and no one knew anything for sure.

As the days grew shorter and the festival drew near, I found myself working tirelessly in my garden, determined to finally outdo Joe and claim the grand prize. The townsfolk noticed my dedication and would often stop by to admire my giant pumpkin, offering words of encouragement and praise. The excitement was tangible, and for the first time, I felt that victory was within my grasp.

The day of the festival arrived with a crisp chill in the air. We were in the midst of autumn, and the town square was alive with activity, filled with stalls selling homemade pies, caramel apples, and other seasonal treats. Children ran around in costumes, laughing and playing, while adults admired the various pumpkins on display. My pumpkin, transported with great care, sat proudly among the contenders, drawing gasps of admiration from the crowd.

As the judges made their rounds, carefully inspecting each entry, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. When they finally approached my pumpkin, their eyes widened in surprise, and I saw them exchange impressed glances. After what felt like an eternity, they announced the winner: my pumpkin had claimed the top prize.

The crowd erupted in applause as I stepped forward to accept the trophy. My fellow townsfolk clapped me on the back and congratulated me, their faces beaming with genuine happiness. Amid the celebration, Old Farmer Joe approached me. His weathered face broke into a rare smile as he shook my hand, his grip firm and uncomfortably tight.

“Congratulations,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. “You’ve done well this year. But remember, there’s always a secret to true growth.”

His strange words lingered in my mind long after the festivities had ended and the crowd had dispersed. As I stood alone in my garden that evening, gazing at the enormous pumpkin that had brought me such joy, a strange sense of unease began to creep in. What did Joe mean by a “secret to true growth”? And why did his smile seem more like a warning than a congratulation?

Little did I know, the answer to those questions would soon turn the essence of my existence upside down, revealing a dark secret that lay hidden beneath the fertile soil of Harvest Hill.

****

My first night after the festival I experienced fitful sleep and unsettling dreams. I kept waking up to the image of Old Farmer Joe's cryptic smile and the ominous tone in his voice. By the first light of morning, all the elation I’d felt in victory had faded, replaced by a gnawing curiosity about Old Joe's parting words.

I was determined to get to the bottom of it, so I decided to pay Joe a visit. Under the guise of thanking him for his congratulations, I approached his property, feeling apprehensive, yet determined to find out what he meant. His garden, as always, was an overgrown mess of vines and leaves, with enormous pumpkins peeking out from the undergrowth. The sheer size of his produce, even larger than mine, seemed almost unnatural.

I found Joe in the back, hunched over a patch of particularly large pumpkins. He straightened up as I approached, wiping his hands on his worn overalls.

"Morning, Joe," I called out, trying my best to sound casual. "I just wanted to thank you for your kind words yesterday."

Joe looked up, his eyes sharp and piercing despite his age. "You're welcome," he said slowly, as if measuring each word. "Your pumpkin was truly impressive. What brings you here?"

Taking a deep breath, I decided to broach the subject directly. "I couldn't stop thinking about what you said, about the secret to true growth. What did you mean by that?"

For a moment, Joe said nothing. Then, he motioned for me to follow him. We walked through his garden, the dense foliage brushing against us, until we reached an old, decrepit shed. Joe pushed open the door, revealing a cluttered space filled with gardening tools, jars of strange substances, and dusty old books.

"Curiosity can be a dangerous thing," he said, rummaging through a pile of papers. "But since you've come this far, you deserve to know."

He handed me an ancient, leather-bound book, its pages yellowed with age. "This," he said, "is a grimoire of sorts. It's been passed down through my family for generations. It contains knowledge that most would deem unnatural."

I opened the book, my eyes scanning the strange symbols and diagrams that filled its pages. There were detailed instructions on rituals, strange ingredients, and dark incantations. My heart raced as I realized the implication of what I was seeing.

"Is this... magic?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Joe nodded. "Not the kind you'd read about in fairy tales, but… something much older and darker. It's a form of alchemy, using the natural world to bend nature to your will. My pumpkins thrive because of these rituals, but they come at a cost."

"What cost?" I asked, feeling a chill run down my spine.

Joe's expression grew grave. "The soil here is enriched with more than just nutrients. It requires sacrifices: animal blood, bones, and sometimes... other things. The magic demands a balance."

I stared at him in disbelief, the weight of his words sinking in. "And my pumpkin? How did it grow so large?"

Joe sighed. "I saw your dedication and wanted to help, so I... enhanced your soil when you weren't looking. I thought it was harmless, a way to give you a taste of success. But… I fear I may have set something in motion."

My mind reeled with the implications. My prize-winning pumpkin, the source of my pride and joy, was the result of dark, unnatural forces. The sense of accomplishment I had felt now seemed hollow and tainted.

As I left Joe's garden, clutching the grimoire tightly, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had crossed a line. The vibrant orange of my pumpkin now seemed sinister, and the whispers of the town took on a more menacing tone. The once-idyllic Harvest Hill was now shrouded in a shadow of ancient secrets and dark magic, and I was at the center of it all.

The true horror of my situation was beginning to unfold, and I knew that uncovering the full extent of Joe's secrets would come with a price; a price that I might not be willing to pay.

****

The days following Old Farmer Joe's revelation were filled with dread but also undeniable fascination. I couldn't bring myself to destroy the grimoire he had given me. Instead, I spent hours poring over its ancient pages, trying to understand the arcane rituals and the nature of the dark forces at work. The more I read, the more I realized how deep and dangerous the magic was.

As I delved deeper into the grimoire, I noticed strange changes in my garden. Other plants began to grow at an alarming rate, their leaves larger and more vibrant than ever before. The soil, once rich and loamy, took on a darker hue and a peculiar smell. The once-comforting sounds of nature were now accompanied by eerie whispers and rustling noises that seemed to emanate from the very ground.

Despite my growing unease, I continued to seek Joe’s guidance, hoping to find a way to undo what had been done. Our conversations grew increasingly bizarre. Joe spoke in riddles, his eyes often glazing over as if he were communicating with something unseen. He mentioned ancient spirits of the harvest, entities that demanded offerings in exchange for their gifts.

"You've tapped into something old and powerful," Joe said one evening as we stood by the garden fence. "The spirits are pleased, but they are never satisfied for long. They will demand more."

"What do you mean by 'more'?" I asked, a sense of dread curling in my stomach.

Joe's face darkened. "The rituals require balance. You must give back to the earth what you take. The larger the bounty, the greater the sacrifice."

That night, I awoke to strange noises outside my window. Peering into the darkness, I saw shadows moving in the garden, shifting and twisting in unnatural ways. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. I grabbed a flashlight and ventured outside, my heart pounding in my chest.

As I approached the center of the garden, the light illuminated a horrifying sight: small animals—rabbits, birds, and even a stray cat—lay dead among the plants, their bodies seemingly drained of life. The vines of the giant pumpkin had grown thicker, their tendrils wrapping around the lifeless creatures as if drawing nourishment from them. The pumpkin, which I’d severed from its roots to take it to the festival, was now reattached to the ground.

Panic set in, and I realized that whatever magic had been used was spiraling out of control. I needed answers, and I needed them fast.

Desperate for a solution, I visited the town library to research the history of Harvest Hill and its connection to Old Farmer Joe’s family. The librarian, an elderly woman with a wealth of knowledge about the town’s past, led me to a dusty archive filled with old newspapers and records.

As I sifted through the yellowed pages, I uncovered stories of mysterious disappearances and unexplained phenomena dating back generations. Each incident seemed to coincide with particularly bountiful harvests at Joe’s property. One article detailed the sudden disappearance of a young girl during a pumpkin festival many years ago, hinting at foul play but never proving anything.

The deeper I dug, the more I realized that Joe’s family had long been rumored to practice dark rituals. The townsfolk, though wary, had always turned a blind eye due to the prosperity the harvests brought.

Back at home, I began to experience vivid nightmares. I dreamt of being buried alive, of roots and vines slowly constricting around my body, pulling me deeper into the earth. Each morning, I awoke drenched in sweat, the images lingering in my mind.

Sarah, my wife, noticed the change in me. “You’ve been acting strange,” she said one morning, her eyes filled with concern. “What’s going on?”

I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the full truth. “Just stress from the festival,” I lied, trying to sound convincing. “I’ll be fine.”

But Sarah wasn’t the only one who noticed. Neighbors began to comment on the unusual growth in my garden, their curiosity tinged with suspicion. I could see the unease in their eyes, the way they whispered when they thought I wasn’t listening.

Determined to find a way to reverse the dark magic, I began documenting everything. I took photos of the garden, recorded the strange noises, and even collected samples of the soil. My collection of evidence grew, but so did my paranoia. I felt like I was being watched, not just by Joe, but by something else—something ancient and malevolent.

One night, while reviewing the footage from my garden camera, I saw a shadowy figure lurking near the pumpkin patch. It wasn’t Joe. The figure was tall and lean, dressed in dark clothing, and moved with a stealthy purpose. My blood ran cold as I realized the figure was performing a ritual, chanting words I couldn’t understand. The next morning, I found the pumpkin even larger, its vines more aggressive.

In a moment of clarity, I confronted Joe one last time. “I’ve seen the rituals. I know what you’ve done,” I said, my voice trembling with anger and fear. “Tell me how to stop it.”

Joe sighed, his shoulders slumping as if carrying the weight of centuries. “You can’t stop it,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “The spirits are already here. The only way to appease them is with a greater sacrifice.”

“What kind of sacrifice?” I demanded, my mind racing through the possibilities.

Joe looked at me with a mix of pity and resignation. “You know what kind,” he said. “Blood for growth. Life for life.”

As his words sank in, I realized the true horror of my situation. The price of my success was far greater than I could have ever imagined, and the darkness I had unleashed was now beyond my control.

****

The situation reached a horrifying turning point on a cold, moonless night. The ghostly quiet of the garden was shattered by an unsettling noise, a low hum that seemed to resonate from the very earth itself. Unable to sleep, I decided to investigate, clutching the grimoire tightly and armed with a flashlight.

As I stepped into the garden, the hum grew louder, vibrating through the ground and into my bones. The flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the twisted vines of my giant pumpkin, which now seemed almost sentient, writhing and pulsing as if alive. My heart pounded as I moved closer, the sense of impending doom thick in the air.

Suddenly, I saw it: an area of disturbed soil near the pumpkin, freshly turned and dark with moisture. Kneeling down, I used my hands to brush away the loose dirt, uncovering something that made my blood run cold. Beneath the soil were the remains of small animals, their bodies contorted in unnatural ways. Among them, a human hand protruded, the flesh pale and lifeless.

A wave of nausea swept over me as I realized the full extent of the horror. This was no longer just about a giant pumpkin or an eccentric neighbor. The garden had become a graveyard, and the dark magic I had unknowingly nurtured now demanded human lives as its true price.

Desperate for answers, I turned to the grimoire, flipping through the pages with shaking hands. The ancient text described a ritual of appeasement, a way to communicate with the spirits of the harvest. The instructions were clear but chilling: a sacrifice was needed to stop the dark forces—one that matched the scale of the magic used.

Fueled by feelings of both fear and purpose, I stormed over to Joe’s house, the grimoire clutched in my hand. He met me at the door, his expression one of grim understanding.

"I found the bodies, Joe," I said, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and horror. "How do I stop this?"

Joe sighed, his face etched with lines of regret and sorrow. "I warned you about the cost," he said softly. "The spirits demand balance. The greater the gift, the greater the sacrifice."

"Tell me how to end it," I demanded, desperation creeping into my voice.

Joe led me to his cluttered shed once more. From a hidden compartment, he retrieved a small, intricately carved wooden box. Opening it, he revealed a ceremonial dagger and a piece of parchment covered in ancient runes.

"This is the ritual of severance," he explained. "It’s the only way to break the bond with the spirits. But it requires a life for a life."

My heart sank as I realized the implications. The life of someone I loved would have to be sacrificed to undo the dark magic that had taken hold of my garden. The weight of this knowledge bore down on me like a crushing force.

Returning home, I found Sarah waiting for me, her eyes filled with concern. "What’s going on?" she asked. "You’ve been so distant, and the garden... it feels wrong."

Torn between the need to protect her and the truth of what I had discovered, I decided to tell her everything. As I recounted the dark history of Old Farmer Joe’s magic and the horrific revelation in the garden, Sarah’s face paled.

"We need to leave," she said urgently. "We can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous."

But I knew running wouldn’t solve the problem. The spirits were bound to the land, and they wouldn’t let us escape so easily. The only way to free ourselves was to complete the ritual, but I couldn’t bring myself to suggest the unthinkable.

In the days that followed, the garden’s transformation accelerated. The giant pumpkin grew even larger, its vines spreading like a cancer across the property, suffocating everything in their path. The eerie hum became a constant presence, a sinister reminder of the dark forces at play.

As the situation grew more dire, I spent hours each day in the library, seeking any alternative to the ritual of severance. One evening, as the sun set behind the hills, casting long shadows across the town, I stumbled upon an old, forgotten diary tucked away in the archives.

The diary belonged to a woman named Margaret, who had lived in Harvest Hill over a century ago. Her entries detailed her own encounters with the dark magic and the spirits of the harvest. In her final entry, she wrote of a similar situation, describing the unbearable choice she had to make to protect her family.

"My husband’s life was the price I paid," Margaret wrote. "But the spirits are never truly satisfied. They always return, hungry for more. The cycle must be broken, or it will continue forever."

With a sinking heart, I realized the full horror of what Joe had been trying to tell me. The ritual of severance might only be a temporary solution. The spirits’ hunger could not be sated for long, and the dark magic would eventually return, demanding new sacrifices.

Standing in my garden that night, surrounded by the monstrous vines and the eerie hum, I felt the weight of an impossible decision. The midpoint of my journey had revealed the true nature of the darkness I faced, and the path ahead was fraught with danger and sacrifice.

In the distance, Old Farmer Joe’s house stood in shadow, a silent witness to the legacy of the dark magic. As I stared at the giant pumpkin, its surface pulsating with a malevolent life, I knew that the hardest part of my ordeal was yet to come.

****

The night of the final confrontation arrived, shrouded in an unnatural darkness that seemed to swallow all light. The air was heavy with the scent of decaying leaves and the pervasive hum of the restless spirits. The giant pumpkin, now a monstrous, grotesque behemoth, dominated the garden, its vines twisting and writhing with a life of their own.

Desperate to end the nightmare, I gathered the necessary items for the ritual of severance: the ceremonial dagger, the ancient parchment, and a vial of my own blood. Each item felt like a lead weight in my hands, the significance of what I was about to do pressing down on me.

Sarah stood by my side, her face pale but resolute. She had insisted on being there, despite my attempts to protect her from the full horror of the situation. Her presence gave me strength, but also deepened my fear of what might come.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. The decision had been made, and there was no turning back. Together, we walked to the heart of the garden, where the monstrous pumpkin loomed.

I knelt before the pumpkin, spreading the parchment on the ground and placing the dagger and vial beside it. With a deep breath, I began to chant the incantation from the grimoire, my voice shaking but gaining strength as I went on. The words felt foreign and ancient, resonating with a power that made the air around us vibrate.

The vines reacted almost immediately, writhing more violently, as if sensing the impending threat. The hum grew louder, filling my ears and making it difficult to concentrate. I took the vial of blood and poured it onto the parchment, watching as the dark liquid seeped into the ancient runes, making them glow with an eerie light.

As I continued the chant, I felt a presence growing stronger, an unseen force that seemed to watch and judge my every move. The final part of the ritual required the sacrifice of a life—one that had been touched by the dark magic. I had hoped that the animal sacrifices Joe had made would be enough, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t.

Tears streamed down my face as I raised the ceremonial dagger. I turned to Sarah, her eyes wide with fear and understanding. "I’m so sorry," I whispered, my voice breaking.

Before I could act, a powerful force knocked me to the ground, the dagger flying from my hand. The vines surged forward, wrapping around Sarah and lifting her into the air. She screamed, struggling against the crushing grip of the tendrils.

"No!" I shouted, scrambling to my feet and grabbing the dagger. I slashed at the vines, but more took their place, pulling Sarah towards the monstrous pumpkin. Desperation fueled my actions as I hacked and cut, my hands slick with blood from the thorny tendrils.

Suddenly, Old Farmer Joe appeared, his face a mask of determination and sorrow. "This is my doing," he said, his voice barely audible over the cacophony. "I have to set it right."

With a swift motion, he took the dagger from my hand and plunged it into his own chest. The vines recoiled, releasing Sarah and retracting towards the pumpkin. Joe fell to the ground, blood pooling around him as he chanted the final words of the ritual.

The air crackled with energy as the ground trembled beneath our feet. The giant pumpkin began to wither, its vibrant orange fading to a sickly brown. The vines shriveled and turned to dust, releasing a cloud of dark, acrid smoke. The hum intensified, reaching a deafening crescendo before abruptly stopping.

Joe’s body lay still, his sacrifice complete. The garden fell silent, the oppressive weight lifting as the dark magic dissipated. The spirits, momentarily appeased by Joe’s selfless act, retreated into the earth, their hunger sated for now.

Sarah and I stood in stunned silence, the horror of what had just happened slowly sinking in. The garden, once a source of pride and joy, was now a barren wasteland, the remnants of the dark magic leaving an indelible mark.

We buried Joe next to his monstrous pumpkin, marking his grave with a simple stone. His sacrifice had saved us, but the cost had been immeasurable. As we left the garden, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the spirits were still watching, waiting for their next opportunity.

The climax of our ordeal had revealed the true price of tampering with forces beyond our understanding. The darkness that had taken root in Harvest Hill was not so easily vanquished, and the memory of that fateful night would haunt us forever.

The ultimate confrontation had ended, but the scars it left behind would remain, a chilling reminder of the danger that lurked beneath the surface of our once-idyllic town.

****

The days following the climactic confrontation were a blur of exhaustion and grief. The garden, once the pride of my efforts, was now a desolate patch of scorched earth and withered plants. The giant pumpkin had collapsed into a decaying heap, its vibrant orange hue now a sickly brown. The oppressive atmosphere that had hung over our home seemed to dissipate, leaving a profound silence in its wake.

Sarah and I struggled to come to terms with the events that had transpired. We moved through our daily routines in a daze, haunted by the memories of that fateful night. Old Farmer Joe’s sacrifice had saved us, but the price had been high, and the weight of guilt and sorrow was overwhelming.

News of the bizarre occurrences spread quickly through Harvest Hill. The townspeople, initially skeptical, became increasingly curious and wary. They whispered about the giant pumpkin, the strange lights, and the eerie hum that had emanated from our property. Joe’s sudden death added to the sense of mystery and fear that gripped the town.

One afternoon, the town council paid us a visit. They stood in our barren garden, their faces a mixture of disbelief and concern.

"What happened here?" asked Mayor Thompson, his voice filled with apprehension.

I hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. "There was an... incident," I said slowly. "Old Farmer Joe tried to help us, but things got out of control. He... sacrificed himself to stop it."

The council members exchanged uneasy glances. "We’ve heard rumors about Joe and his family," said Mrs. Henderson, the town librarian. "Dark rumors. Is there any truth to them?"

I nodded reluctantly. "Joe had a knowledge of ancient rituals, a kind of dark magic. It’s what caused the giant pumpkin to grow so large. But it came with a price."

The council members fell silent, absorbing the gravity of my words. "We need to ensure this never happens again," said Mayor Thompson finally. "The town must be protected."

Sarah and I knew we couldn’t stay in Harvest Hill. The memories were too painful, the whispers too loud. We decided to sell our property and move to a neighboring town, hoping to find a fresh start away from the darkness that had consumed our lives.

As we packed our belongings, I couldn’t help but feel a lingering unease. The grimoire, now hidden away in a locked chest, seemed to call to me, its pages filled with secrets I could never unlearn. I debated whether to destroy it, but something held me back—the fear that the knowledge within might be needed again.

On our last day in Harvest Hill, Sarah and I visited Joe’s grave. We placed a small bouquet of wildflowers on the simple stone marker, a silent thank you for his sacrifice. The air was still, the oppressive presence of the spirits gone, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were not entirely vanquished.

Harvest Hill took measures to prevent a recurrence of the dark magic. The town council declared Joe’s property off-limits, eventually bulldozing the decrepit shed and covering the garden with fresh soil. They held a town meeting to discuss the strange events, urging residents to remain vigilant and to report any unusual occurrences.

The town slowly returned to normal, but the memory of the giant pumpkin and the dark rituals lingered. Stories and legends grew around the events, becoming a cautionary tale passed down through generations. Harvest Hill would never forget the price of tampering with forces beyond their understanding.

In our new town, Sarah and I worked hard to rebuild our lives. The shadow of Harvest Hill loomed over us, but we found solace in each other’s company and the fresh start we had created. We planted a small garden, careful to use only natural methods, and watched as it flourished without the taint of dark magic.

But the past was never far behind. I kept the grimoire hidden, a reminder of the danger that knowledge could bring. Late at night, when the world was quiet, I would sometimes hear the faint hum of the spirits in my dreams, a chilling reminder of the darkness that still lurked beneath the surface.

Our new life was a testament to resilience and the power of love, but it was also a constant struggle to keep the shadows at bay. The events in Harvest Hill had changed us forever, leaving scars that would never fully heal.

In the end, we learned to live with the memory, finding strength in our shared experiences and the hope that we could prevent such horrors from ever happening again. This part of our story was a quiet one, marked by the slow but steady process of healing and the enduring reminder of the price we had paid for our brush with darkness.

****

Years passed, and Sarah and I slowly built a peaceful life in our new town. The horrors of Harvest Hill faded into distant memories, although the scars always remained. We had a child, a bright and curious boy named Tommy, who brought joy and light into our lives. Our small garden flourished naturally, free from any dark influences.

One crisp autumn evening, as we were putting Tommy to bed, he handed me a small, carved wooden box he had found while playing in the attic. My heart skipped a beat when I saw it—it was the same intricate design as the box Joe had used to store the ceremonial dagger.

"Daddy, look what I found!" Tommy said, his eyes wide with excitement. "It’s full of old papers and stuff."

With trembling hands, I opened the box. Inside were several yellowed pieces of parchment, covered in familiar runes, and a small vial of dark, dried liquid. My breath caught in my throat as I realized what it was—the remnants of the grimoire and the tools for dark rituals.

Late that night, after Sarah and Tommy were asleep, I sat alone at the kitchen table, the contents of the box spread before me. My mind raced as I tried to understand how these items had followed us. Had the spirits somehow transferred their connection to our new home? Or had the dark magic never truly left me?

As I studied the parchments, a familiar hum began to fill the air, soft at first, then growing louder. My heart pounded in my chest as I realized the horrifying truth—the spirits had found us, and they were growing restless once again.

Suddenly, a shadow flickered across the kitchen, and the air grew icy cold. I turned, expecting to see some ghastly apparition, but instead, there was nothing. The hum, however, persisted, a constant reminder of the darkness that lurked just out of sight.

Unable to ignore the growing sense of dread, I knew I had to act quickly. I retrieved the hidden grimoire and compared it to the new parchments, hoping to find a way to protect my family. As I read, it became clear that the spirits were not simply satisfied with the occasional sacrifice—they sought to bind themselves permanently to a powerful source of life, such as a child.

Panic surged through me as I realized their target was Tommy. Desperate to shield him from the impending danger, I decided to confront the spirits directly. I returned to the garden, now bathed in the eerie glow of the full moon, clutching the grimoire and the ceremonial items.

Standing in the center of the garden, I began to chant the incantations from the grimoire, calling forth the spirits. The ground trembled beneath my feet, and the air grew thick with a palpable energy. The vines around the garden began to stir, twisting and curling as if awakened by my words.

A shadowy figure emerged from the darkness, its form shifting and indistinct. It was the same figure I had seen in the garden all those years ago, the entity that had fed on the sacrifices. It spoke in a voice that seemed to echo from the depths of the earth.

"You have summoned us," it intoned, its eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. "What do you seek?"

"Release my family," I demanded, my voice steady despite the fear coursing through me. "You’ve taken enough. Let us live in peace."

The figure laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "The bond is not so easily broken," it said. "A life for a life, remember? But there are other ways to appease us."

Desperate, I offered myself in place of my son. "Take me," I pleaded. "Just leave my family alone."

The spirit considered my offer, its eyes narrowing. "A noble sacrifice," it mused. "But we require something more. Your life alone is not enough. You must bind your bloodline to us, ensuring that our connection endures."

The full weight of the spirit’s demand crashed down on me. Binding my bloodline meant condemning future generations to the same darkness I had tried so hard to escape. But there was no other way to protect Tommy and ensure his immediate safety.

With a heavy heart, I agreed. "I will bind my bloodline to you," I said, my voice breaking. "But spare my son and allow us to live in peace for as long as we can."

The spirit’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "So be it," it said, extending a shadowy hand. "Seal the pact."

With trembling hands, I used the ceremonial dagger to cut my palm, letting the blood drip onto the ancient parchment. The runes glowed bright red, and the hum intensified, resonating through the garden and into the night.

As the ritual concluded, the shadowy figure dissipated, and the garden fell silent once more. The oppressive presence lifted, leaving me drained but relieved. I returned to the house, where Sarah and Tommy slept soundly, unaware of the pact that had been made.

The next morning, I buried the grimoire and the ceremonial items deep in the forest, far from our home. The garden slowly returned to its natural state, free from the monstrous growths and eerie hum. Life continued, seemingly peaceful, but I could never forget the price we had paid.

Years later, as I watched Tommy grow into a bright and inquisitive young man, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of dread. The spirits’ hunger had been sated for now, but the pact I had made would hang over our family like a dark cloud, a chilling reminder of the darkness that lurked just beneath the surface.

In the quiet moments, when the wind rustled through the trees or the moon cast long shadows across the yard, I could still hear the faint, sinister hum—a reminder that the spirits were always watching, waiting for the next chapter of our bloodline to unfold.

The Night Blogger The Graveyard Game (and other cemetery plots) Episode Five - Digging In The Dirt by Al Bruno III

October 10th: A few weeks after playing the Graveyard Game, Sara Bishop began sleepwalking. Her wealthy family in Clifton Park was incredibly upset—not out of concern for her well-being, as they had made it clear since her childhood that she was considered the runt of the litter and, worse, a girl. No, they were upset because, to the prestigious Bishop family, mental health issues were simply unacceptable. Just like not flying first class or mingling with minorities, it simply wasn't done.

You see, Sara was a menopause baby, a surprise of the highest order for her mother, father, and two teenage brothers. She had what she called a 'begrudging childhood.' Whatever her family did for her, they did begrudgingly. I know some of you might say, "So what, she was rich?" but just think about it: every trip, every gift, every gesture—they made sure she knew the price tag. They even ragged on her about the cost of her tonsillectomy.

And no matter how much gratitude Sara expressed, it was never enough.

With a family like that, is it any wonder she ended up not being good at making friends? With a family like that, is it any wonder that after getting a scholarship to a prestigious university, she simply didn't go? Is it any wonder she stayed up nights researching cryptids and creepypastas? Bigfoot, you could make sense of. But your own mother treating you like less than garbage? Not so much.

Each night, Sara woke up a little further from home. At first, she dismissed finding herself in her bedroom doorway as a half-conscious trip to the restroom or kitchen. But soon, she was waking up in the hallway, then at the top of the stairs. The night she found herself standing in the front doorway, she went to her family for help. They offered more accusations than advice, making it clear in no uncertain terms that she would not be allowed to embarrass the family by seeking any kind of professional help. Instead, Sara's mother handed her a bottle of opioids and told her not to do anything stupid.

The pills had no effect. She started staying awake as long as she could, but in the end, sleep always won out.

Then, one night, as her brother was coming home from a night out with his friends, he found her stumbling down the driveway in her panties and t-shirt. He almost ran her over. When her father found out, he called her a slut.

So she started sleeping in her clothes and shoes, barricading herself in her room. But it did no good. She kept waking up further and further down the street.

Then, when all hope was almost lost, she called me...

###
…And I blew it. I invited Sara to spend the night at my place, I would sleep on the couch, and she would sleep in my bed. Thank God Mrs. Vincenzo changed my sheets for me on a weekly basis.

 She blamed herself for this situation, for playing the Graveyard game, but as far as I was concerned, I was the one responsible. I had more experience in these matters, and I had lost so much for wanting to see the secrets that hid in the shadows.

Staying awake to watch over her should have been a simple matter of working on my blog, but Sara couldn't sleep. She asked me to watch a movie with her. It was the least I could do. And that was how I learned her favorite film was This Is Spinal Tap. I'd never seen it before, but damn if it wasn't hilarious. After the movie was over, we got to talking. She told me about her profoundly toxic family, and I told her a sanitized version of the preternatural entity that had destroyed most of my family. All that confession finally made her feel sleepy, and she said she wanted to sleep on the couch. I told her it would be safer for her to be in my room, that was, there were two doors between her and the outside world, but she said she couldn't stand to be alone.

Lord, did I understand that feeling.

So I camped out on the recliner with a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew and a mystery novel called The Case Of The Barking Clock. Well, it turns out the only mystery about that novel was how many drugs the author was in when he wrote it. I don't even remember falling asleep, but I did.

When I woke up, it was a little after 2 AM, and Sara was gone.

First, I blundered around my apartment, calling her name. Then, I ran down the stairs and started combing the neighborhood street by street. The night air was thick with a damp chill, and even though I was running along the sidewalks, I heard the faint rustling of leaves echoing around me. Each step seemed to drag as if time itself had slowed in the darkness. I called her name; no one answered, aside from an old man yelling at me to shut up from his second-story window.

So I doubled back to my place, jumped into my beat-up AMC Pacer, and started combing the streets that way. All my headlights showed me were empty sidewalks and closed storefronts. My eyes strained to see any sign of movement. Nothing. Then, to make matters worse, a cop pulled me over for driving suspiciously.

As I sat there waiting for the cop to write up my citation for driving fifteen miles an hour in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone, I prayed he wasn't one of Detective Bradshaw's pals. Then it hit me where I should have gone in the first place.

Once the ticket joined the others in the glove compartment, I started driving again, but this time, I headed straight for Pinewood Cemetery—the place where this nonsense had begun.

The idea that Sara would be there was one of my loopier notions. The abandoned graveyard was at least twenty miles away; in a sane world, it would take her hours to get there on foot.

But my world hasn't been sane for years.

 Albany's familiar landmarks passed in a blur. I was sick with the unsettling feeling that time was slipping away. My route to Pinewood Cemetery took me through some of the older, more rundown parts of the city and out onto the rural byroads. The streetlights became dwindling specks in my rearview mirror. Three AM was drawing close.

Three AM. The witching hour.

Certainly! Here's a revised version while maintaining the narrative voice:

I'm a city boy by nature, and I hate country roads, especially at night. They're too dark and isolated, with shadows below and cold stars above. The further I drove, the more alone I felt. A pair of headlights rounded the corner in the oncoming lane, glaring like those of a truck or SUV. They blinded me, and suddenly, I wished for a bit of isolation again. I was so busy cursing and fumbling with the sun visor that I almost didn't notice the vehicle swerving into my lane and accelerating.

It bore down on me, and in that terrifying moment, I saw it was Bus 55. Time seemed to slow as I took in every detail—the chipped and faded paint, the grimy windows. I could vaguely make out the shape of the bus driver, but his face was obscured in shadow.

With a surge of panic, I yanked the wheel, sending my car screeching into the opposite lane, careening along the ditch, and smashing through part of the guardrail. As I corrected course and found myself back on the road, I had a perfect view of the retreating vehicle.

And the nightmares that rode that bus had a perfect view of me. They crowded around the rear windshield, figures of men with faces painted in grotesque shades of gray and black. Their expressions twisted into mirthless grins. In the center of them stood the one who had spoken my name over a month ago, and he gave a little wave.

I sat in the middle of the road, trying to catch my breath. I whispered a chant reminiscent of Psalm 23 but with a lot of 'Fuck' interspersed. When I stopped shaking, I turned my car around and drove the rest of the way to the outskirts of Pinewood Cemetery. Parking in a secluded spot, and unlike last time, I remembered to grab my satchel out of the back seat. With my knees still watery, I started walking along the fence line.

I wondered to myself, what was that damn bus doing out here in the boonies?

This wasn't its regular route.

Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

I found the hole in the fence easily, the same one that first Sara and then I had squeezed through before. The graveyard lay ahead, a sprawling expanse of crumbling tombstones and overgrown paths. How long had it been since there had been a groundskeeper? I couldn't imagine. The wind rustled the leaves in the trees, an owl hooted somewhere in the distance, each sound amplifying the stillness of the night and adding to the sense of foreboding. I retrieved my flashlight from the satchel, its beam cutting through the darkness as I slipped through the gap in the fence.

Moonlight filtered through the ugly trees, casting equally unpleasant shadows. To my right stood a ruined mausoleum, its wall crumbled and empty stone niches where bodies once lay. I shuddered, pondering where those bodies had gone. Had they been taken by the authorities or something more sinister? Over the years, I'd learned there were many ways for a corpse to leave its grave. Stealing one was so simple, even a blogger could do it.

Sara was at her namesake's grave, illuminated by a faint glimmer of moonlight, her figure almost ghostly in the dimness. She was kneeling, her hands caked with dirt as she clawed through the earth, muttering under her breath.

At first, I tried to call her by her name, but she didn't notice me. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, her fingers trembling as they worked at the cold soil. With careful urgency, I reached out, gently pulling her away from the grave's edge. "Sara," I whispered, my voice barely a whisper.

"What's happening to me?" Her voice trembled, barely audible over the whispering wind.

"I don't know," I admitted. "But let's try and find out."

I pulled out a collapsible shovel from my satchel bag and told Sara to go back to the car. She refused, her eyes a mix of fear and determination. I had her take the flashlight and keep it trained on me.

Like I said before, digging up a body is so easy even a blogger can do it. The sun would be up in three or four hours, so I worked as fast as I could, the rhythm of my shovel crunching into the dirt breaking through the night's silence. The ground was stubborn and thick with roots. I was sweating and shivering all at once. My back started to ache, and then it REALLY started to ache. Around the time exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me, my shovel hit something hard.

The casket containing the remains of Sara Bishop's namesake was nearly two hundred years old. I had conducted research on the woman, but I chose to keep my findings to myself. According to historical records, she had been executed by hanging in 1848 for murder. However, rumors circulated widely, originating from unreliable sources. Some claimed she was the high priestess of a doomsday cult, others accused her of murdering children, and there were even whispers suggesting she was not entirely human.

Straddling the ancient casket, I positioned the shovel carefully, its metal blade scraping against weathered wood. With determined force, I pried and prodded until the lid yielded with a resounding crack, and the aged wood splintered apart. I asked Sara to bring the flashlight closer, and we both screamed at what it revealed. I clenched my eyes shut, then opened them again.

Inside lay the remains of a long-dead woman, but they had been grotesquely altered by some mad taxidermist. A caul of pockmarked flesh stretched over her face, and both hands had been removed, replaced by animal appendages—one serpentine, the other bestial.

"Gorgo..." Sara wept, her voice trembling. "Mormo... Luna... thousand-faced moon…"

###

October 11th: Before I filled the grave back in, I smashed the twisted shape it contained about twenty times in one of my standard acts of futility. Then I brought Sara back home to my apartment above Vincenzo's Pawn Shop and did my best to care for her. She spent most of the morning vacillating between catatonia and hysteria, but she's asleep on my couch now. I don't think she'll sleepwalk again, but I pushed the coffee table in front of the door just in case.

I am not sure what I am going to do when I start my shift downstairs in about an hour. Maybe Sara can nap in the back room? Maybe the forever patient Mrs. Vincenzo will keep an eye on her for me? I don't know. I'm just sitting on the floor, trying to figure out what the Hell I'm going to do.

This is a possession, but it isn't the result of some vengeful witch or surly phantom. What am I dealing with here?

Gorgo, Mormo, Luna, thousand-faced moon… What are you? How am I going to stop you? And why, upon closer examination, did I find that the 'grotesque stitched-together monstrosity' didn't actually have any stitches at all?

Seagulls viciously attack couple on boardwalk! By Julia Marismody The Bite article published 6/30/24

Last night, an absolutely harrowing scene occurred on the North Briar Bay end of the boardwalk, a few blocks down from the new Kennedy Pier. A young couple, Thomas and Madilyn Lentzlauch, were mauled by seagulls who wanted their food. You read that right, MAULED. The couple was violently pecked at and attacked while walking back to their rental house on 8th street, and both are currently recovering in st. John's hospital. The pizza they were carrying (from a local favorite Andretti’s), however, is not, and was seemingly the cause of the altercation. Eyewitnesses claim to have seen several birds dive bomb into the boxes, an unprecedented and unexplainable turn for the violent from the usually annoying but harmless seagulls of our town. We sat down with local bird watcher Daniel Morosoff for his theory on what may have caused this unbelievable incident. He claims that “Due to recent overcrowding of our beaches and boardwalk, as well as the increase in fishing that that naturally causes, the seagulls of briar bay simply no longer need to hunt. Scavenging has always been an organic part of the seagulls diet, but with the amount of food that is left behind in our town, as well as the trash that is left abandoned on the boardwalk, it appears that the birds have no need to seek out prey that is a challenge to catch. While this is more disheartening than seriously concerning, behavior such as the kind displayed on the boardwalk last night shows a potential issue with this imbalance in the food chain. With a strong new desire for human food, they may begin to fight humans for it more often, even to the death. Now, there is a more likely explanation, that being that the birds have more than enough food for their individual selves, and are in fact, just harvesting food for their nests.” Mr Morosoff explained to us that the severity of the injuries inflicted on the two unfortunate honeymooners may not have been a proper indication of the level of aggression behind the birds motives, telling us that “These birds don’t hate the beach going people of Briar Bay, they just don’t know their strength. For as strong and resilient we humans are, unfortunately, a sharp beak and a naturally forceful bite can quickly take us down for the count. It is more than incredibly likely that these birds are just taking food back to their nests. Although I will say, if their babies are as hungry as they seem, I'm sure they’ll be too tired to harm us any time soon.” We of course are praying for Mr. and Mrs. Lentzlauch, and if you would like to send any condolences or flowers, you may find their contact information on www.thebite.com. Hide your food, and stay safe out there Briar Bay.

—

Afterwards, the brothers refused to acknowledge the incident on the boardwalk. They kept eating pizza but had it delivered, neither wanting to go on the boardwalk, neither admitting why. Two days later, after ignoring their troubles on the oddly desolate beaches, they were again at the dinner table silently eating Andretti’s pizza. The night before, the news had done a follow up segment on the couple that had been attacked. The woman, Madilyn, had made progress towards a full recovery, minus the fact she would limp on her right leg for the rest of her life. Her husband Thomas, however, had been blinded. The birds, instead of his pizza, had eaten his eyes clean out of his head. The news anchor with the bright blonde hair and shining white teeth explained in detail through a painfully forced smile how the seagulls had served his optic nerve completely, and how they had found his undigested eyes vomited up a few blocks down the boardwalk. Art had watched the report in shame, disgusted with himself that he hadn’t helped, He had just stood there, close enough to have helped pick up the pizzas, dumbfounded as the birds tore the couple apart. He felt dirty. His brother went back to being his normal, stupid, self, but Art couldn’t stop thinking about it. His mind would wander off to it like it did now at dinner. He wished he had done something.

After Wyatt had gone to his room for the night, Art washed the dishes in the kitchen sink, his train of thought driving far away as he robotically scrubbed. The kitchen window faced out onto the side of the house, giving Art the blank wall of the neighbors house as he cleaned. Behind him, off in the bathroom that faced the back alley, Percy Shrieked. The usually calm and lazy cat’s cry rocked Art back to reality. He rushed towards the bathroom, hands still soapy and faucet still running. He threw open the bathroom door and saw Percy, sitting at the window looking at the backyard like he had done hundreds of times before. He turned around, assuming he was just doing weird cat things, when Percy Screeched again. Art turned and watched him, studying the cat's behavior.

Percy meowed at the window, his tail growing fat and fuzzy. He scrunched his legs back and wailed against the glass again, never moving his eyes from the backyard. Something shattered in the alley, and Art moved over to the cat to see what he was freaking out about. He assumed that the raccoons were back. Leaning onto the window sill he felt Percy vibrating, shuddering as he meowed, harsh noises almost like barks. Art looked out into the alley, lit by a dim, flickering light. Moths buzzed around the street lamp, bumping against it and flying away to other temptations. Something loud shattered again in the alley, and Art followed his cat's vicious gaze to the trash cans.

There was something huge hunched over in the dumpsters, tearing through the garbage, gigantic frame just barely concealed in the dark, hairy and impossibly tall.

It stood with its back to the window, neck craned down, head buried deep in the trash. Long strips of hair dangled from its odd, bony appendages and swayed slightly in the breeze. Art quieted his cat and lifted the window, the sounds emitting from the thing at the trash drifting over to him. It sounded like chewing. Strewn about its feet were shattered jars and crushed cans, tattered newspapers and cardboard. It was licking through the rotten trash and eating the discarded food, paper, and wrappers, throwing anything else aside. Its arms shook as it thrust its head deeper into the can, flinging more trash onto the pavement. Hooked talons scraped into the metal can, high pitched squeaks biting through the night as it clawed, steadying itself.

Percy began to shriek again, and the things back straightened. Its hair stood on end and quivered as it lifted its head out of the dumpster. Jutting out of the mass of hair was a sharp beak that bent down into a wickedly jagged point. Its muzzle was smeared with rotten candy and pink, moldy meat that had long since gone bad. From the edge of its jaws dropped saliva and a dark black drool that was as thick and ropey as oil. It opened its mouth and spit out the lumpy white core of a ruined apple, turning towards the window bearing rows and rows of tiny pointed teeth. It growled towards the window and curled its spine.

Percy, oblivious to any danger, continued to screech at it, hissing and meowing, protecting his territory. Before Art could stop him, he popped out of the open window and landed softly in the backyard, plopping with a muffled thud onto the grass. He hurriedly shuffled towards the thing as if it couldn’t hear him approaching, and leaped into the air, hissing at the monster. It caught Percy easily, its webbed claws jutting out of the shadows, nails glinting in the streetlight. It clutched him tightly in its hands, making him wail in pain. It shook him forcefully, back and forth, up and down. He scraped against the long hairy forearms that held him, and strings of hair, of feathers, some unnatural fur, flaked down into the trash.

Art threw open the back door, racing towards his cat as long, sharp fingers slid down to either end of Percy. They began stretching him while still holding him deadly tight to its fuzzy chest, like a demented accordion. The thing began to pull its hands apart, bringing the cat with them. Percy yelped and moaned in pain, helpless as his frail bones reached their breaking point.

Art ran at the creature as his cat screamed and yelped in agony. The thing heard him coming and quickly dropped the cat, who landed hard on the pavement and yowled in pain. He scrambled to the back door, hind legs faltering and failing as he limped. Art watched as the thing that had tried to pull his cat apart, still mostly covered in shadow, shuffled its huge body towards the opposite block's neighbors fence and hopped over it with a strained caw. Its feathery strands of hair draped over the fence for a moment before slinking down into the back yard and disappearing with their owner. Art stumbled to the ground, unbelieving, and realized his cat was still mewling and groaning. He crawled over to it and held him in his arms, cradling him as he staggered back inside. Inside, Wyatt stood at the door, looking out into the alley. He asked his brother what had happened as he stepped inside. He only replied with “Percy had an accident and we’re going to take him to the vet now.” Something shattered farther down the alley, and Art locked the back door behind him.

—

After dropping off the cat, who had needed to stay overnight to get his double casts applied, Art drove a passed out Wyatt home from the animal hospital. He tucked him into bed and walked back out into the alley, which was now thankfully silent. The trash still lined the outside of the trash can and the alley was dotted with a trail of similar garbage. Art noticed a fat footprint sunk into the sandy ground near it and kneeled down to inspect it. It was fresh, still wet with whatever saliva had dripped from the creature's mouth. He followed the strange webbed footsteps out of the alley and through backyards, the steps littered with banana peels and small bones that were soggy with old meat. He stepped through shattered fences and through busted railings, dropping down into ditches and thickets. Eventually, he came to a patch of dunes that emptied out onto the beach, the steps growing fainter but still clear in the beach sand. He slunk through the sand slowly, struggling in the dark in his cheap flip flops. The tracks cut off suddenly, and Art looked up in the darkness, looking straight down a tunnel under the boardwalk. All the light that rocketed off the neon signs and rides, all the noise from the arcade machines and sizzling food, stopped at the mouth of the tunnel. Its darkness was almost beckoning, a black hole darker and deeper than the night around it. Deep within it, Art heard a strange animalistic sound, a cross between a dog's bark and the crow of a songbird. He went back home the way he came, never taking his eyes off the tunnel until it was completely out of sight.

Previous

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Borges,

In 1892, in New York City, a young coachman and a socialite fell in love and eloped to the former's small hometown in Massachusetts. I was born as a result of this affair, but our quiet and happy family life would be short-lived. My mother succumbed to an unknown illness a year after my birth. Her death was slow and wretched.

During that time, the New England region was plagued by fear stemming from a phenomenon wherein the deceased supposedly returned from their graves to afflict the living, draining their lifeblood in a quest for eternal life.

My mother had all the telltale signs of this disease—gray skin, hallucinations, and the obvious of all, an insatiable thirst for blood. Fearing the worst, the villagers exhumed her corpse, subjecting it to the ritualistic burning of her heart and other vital organs, before the ultimate act of removing her head.

My father couldn't cope with her death. Consequently, he neglected my well-being, failing to feed me and clean me, leaving me abandoned in my crib without a single human touch. My endless screaming tormented the neighbor, who, driven to madness, forcefully entered the house. Upon discovering my frail self on the brink of death, she also stumbled upon the lifeless body of my father suspended mid-air, gently swaying back and forth, a rope tightly wound around his neck, anchored to a supporting beam in the ceiling.

As my relatives on my father's side were too impoverished to take on the responsibility of feeding another mouth, I was sent off to New York City to be cared for by my wealthy maternal grandmother. She hated me with a passion. I figured her intense animosity came from her disapproval of my parents' union, as she regarded my father's social standing as significantly inferior to her own.

In her eyes, my existence was a constant reminder of their ill-fated and ill-matched marriage. She also held the belief that I had been responsible for my mother’s death and that there was a monster that lay dormant in my bones. She was wary of being around me and avoided me as much as she could. Despite this, she fulfilled the fundamental obligations of care, ensuring that I received a respectable education, the assistance of a nanny, and an abundance of books. She also arranged for private lessons in tennis, music, and art to occupy my time.

Aside from the deaths of both my parents, my childhood was uneventful until I reached my late adolescent years. The monster that I mentioned lying dormant in my bones...well, Grandmother wasn’t far from the truth.

I fell deathly ill and was bedridden for weeks. When the doctors thought I was near death, Grandmother initiated funeral preparations and pleaded with them to show me mercy by putting me into a deep sleep from which I would never awaken. Beneath the remorseful tone of her voice, there lay a hidden layer of relief and joy. Much to her disappointment, however, I survived.

As I gradually regained my strength, something deep within me stirred, and an insatiable hunger took hold. No amount of food could appease this voracious craving. What I craved was flesh... human flesh.

A mere taste of it had been inadvertently granted to me when my nanny sliced their finger while preparing supper. The scent wafted through the air, irresistibly drawing me closer. My mouth watered, and I found myself unable to resist the primal urge within me.

I took a small bite of her finger, and in response, she screamed and slapped me. However, I didn't let go; instead, I clung on tightly. My teeth sank into her hand, and I savored the delicious flow of her blood down my throat. The commotion in the kitchen caught Grandmother's attention, and she burst into the room, prepared to scold us for the noise. However, she froze in the doorway, petrified by the shocking scene that unfolded before her eyes.

By that time, I had consumed the nanny's entire hand, and she lay on the floor, cradling her wound, as a growing pool of blood formed around her. I knelt down like a thirsty animal and lapped up the blood.

Before Grandmother could strike me with the knife she had picked up from the counter, she suddenly collapsed, her body convulsing violently. Moments later, after the seizure had subsided, she found herself paralyzed. Her mouth remained twisted open, incapable of closing without my assistance.

The gaze in Grandmother's eyes revealed an escalated animosity towards me, coupled with a profound fear, as she realized she was entirely at my mercy. It wouldn't be until years later that I learned that it was a stroke which had left her immobile except for eating and moving her eyes. She would spend the remaining years of her life confined to her bed. As for the nanny, I did what I believed was the best decision at the time—I compassionately sent her to be with her god. Her body provided me enough sustenance to satiate the hunger.

You may be wondering why I let Grandmother live, despite her obvious disdain for me. While going through her legal documents, I discovered that I wasn't the sole heir to her fortunes; instead, she intended to donate it all to the orphanages.

It's ironic, isn't it? How could this frail-looking old wench be so generous to orphans, yet so cold-hearted towards her own orphaned grandson? I made arrangements to correct her legal documents, guiding her hand to forge her signature. Once all the required paperwork was signed and sealed, there was no need for her to continue suffering. After her death, I became one of the wealthiest young men in the city.

You must be wondering where I’m going with this? And what does this have to do with your dearest Gabriela? I promise I’ll get to that point in my story. First, I want you to understand who I am... what I am.

Since the day I had changed into this … being... I couldn’t rely solely on food that humans eat; I needed fresh blood. Raw flesh. How did I go about acquiring it? Well, to pay tribute to the old wench, I made arrangements for the orphanages to receive a generous monthly stipend in return for providing three well-behaved children every quarter of the year. The nuns overseeing the orphanages readily agreed, as they were burdened with an abundance of unwanted children.

Word of my generosity quickly spread, warming the hearts of many who were touched by the idea of one of New York's most esteemed gentlemen taking the pitiful orphans under his care. It was seen as a noble and charitable act, offering the orphans a small advantage in life. This perception served me well, as everyone remained oblivious to my true intentions.

My lambs, that was what I called the children—such delicacies they were. However, I didn't immediately eat them. I learned that the stress and fear inflicted upon a person tainted the flesh, rendering its taste too bitter for my palate. No matter how much I drank or rinsed my mouth, the unpleasant flavor persisted.

And so, in the first few weeks of their stay with me, the three selected lambs would encounter luxuries and comforts beyond their wildest dreams. Once their guards were down and hope glimmered in their eyes, I would pluck them off, one by one. The taste of their tender, sweet meat surpassed that of an adult's.

How did I explain their disappearance? I didn’t need to. And who cared to know? No one, except for one of the nuns who would occasionally inquire about the orphans under my mentorship. I assured her that they were embarking on world travels, experiencing the finest things that life had to offer. As expected, upon receiving another generous donation, she ceased her inquiries. Nonetheless, I remained diligent in keeping my gastronomic pursuits hidden from prying eyes.

There was one child whom I spared, a peculiar little girl who caught me in the act. Instead of fleeing in fright, she boldly entered my feeding chamber and eagerly lapped up the blood that pooled around the lifeless body. She thirsted for it, just as I had on that fateful occasion when I first tasted it.

This, of course, pleasantly surprised me, as I had never encountered another like myself. Her name was Sarah. She was born prematurely when her mother succumbed to the same illness that took my own mother. Thus, she too harbored the same monstrous affliction in her bones. I treated her as if she were my own flesh and blood. And in truth, she was. She was of my kind.

Although I loved the girl so dearly, Sarah proved to be challenging to control. Her insatiable hunger surpassed my own, demanding a greater number of victims. As time passed, the nun grew suspicious and eventually reported her concerns to the police, though their response was lackluster, yielding no action or intervention. However, everything changed when my neighbor, Mrs. Pendleton, ventured out in search of her missing poodle, only to witness Sarah indulging in a macabre feast upon the lifeless creature.

I feared that our lives would unravel, so I hastily packed our bags, and together we fled the city. Boarding the train bound for Chicago, and subsequently transferring to another destined for Los Angeles, we sought refuge in the anonymity of these grand locomotives. However, with each passing mile, my nerves became increasingly frayed. Paranoia gripped me tightly, rendering me on edge and dreadfully agitated.

Sarah, my once-protégé, had spiraled beyond my capacity of control. There’d been a few passengers who’d gone missing or found dead, which immediately prompted authorities to investigate. And so, I did what I had to do to ensure my survival—I ate her.

For decades, I wandered alone, never encountering another being like myself again. But then, one fateful day, I crossed paths with a young woman whose beauty evoked memories of my beloved Sarah. Intrigued, I surreptitiously trailed her, eventually leading me to your restaurant. Who was this young lady I’m speaking of? None other than your dearest Gabriela.

She possessed a gentle spirit, always willing to lend a helping hand to those in need. One particular night, her true kindness shone through. I found myself wandering the darkened road on foot, lost in the shadows. It was then that she appeared, pulling her car alongside me and rolling down her window. With genuine concern, she asked if I needed a ride. Her compassionate gaze touched my heart, and I gratefully accepted her offer, expressing my desire to reach my humble home nestled in the valley.

I regret to inform you that there are no remains for you to retrieve for a proper burial. I had drained every drop of blood from her veins and ate her flesh, relishing the succulent meat and rich fat. Even the bones did not escape my voracious appetite, as I sucked out every trace of marrow.

If it is any comfort, Gabriela's soul now lives within me. You can see her. Come to the valley yonder.

Sincerely yours,

Fish

Thunder rumbles far away from the beach. The boardwalk hums and screams into the night, bright lights reflecting on the empty black sea. Roller Coasters throw themselves up into the heavens and arcades buzz into the blackness and the boardwalk shivers slightly under the weight of the crowds. Rings are tossed and water guns find their targets in the mouths of open jawed clowns, cranes grip the fur of stuffed bears and slip and drop them again and again into piles of toys. Skeeball machines pop and funnel cakes are shoveled onto plates and coated with sugar, ice cream cones drip messily through fingers and down arms. Half eaten chicken tenders and burgers are thrown into trash cans or off the railings or anywhere there’s room.

During the day, the boardwalk is merely a backup to the real lure of the seaside town. The beach sits calm and unmoving at the end of every street, all roads in the small town leading straight to it one way or another. It pulls crowds by the thousands every day to bake in the pristine white sands and splash through the cool salty water. Umbrellas pop up in the early morning like sores on a body riddled with diseases, brightly colored pimples thrusting into the soft white dunes that don’t come down until the sun does. The people pass hours lounging and tanning, sleeping and applying sunscreen and careening into impromptu games of football and frisbee. They eat ice cream cones and baskets of fries and chips and dips and throw it all into the sand to be swept away or cleaned up by someone else. They make their messes and then as soon as twilight calls, they pack up their tents and fold their chairs and shuffle, sunburnt and exhausted back to their rented houses and hotels, trails of wrappers and plastic bags in their wake.

Now, the beach sits abandoned, the moonlight bouncing off waves that lick the shore in calm, repeating motions, undisturbed by the noises and lights of the people beyond it.

On the dunes, a small picnic has been abandoned by the lovers that set it up, and the wind has dragged the pizza and fries through the sand. A small gray seagull lands on the deserted feast and picks through the dust and wrappers and finds a perfectly soggy French fry. Golden brown, greasy, and barely coated with sand. The bird nibbles and sifts through the rest of the mess for others of its kind, and for its trouble is rewarded with a completely untouched slice of pepperoni pizza, not that it would care if it had been touched, bitten, or trampled. It forsakes its runt of a fry for the haul of pizza and begins to drag it somewhere there will be no competition. Thunder rumbles, close to the beach, and the bird quickens its pace to escape the cold seaside rain. The bird in its determination does not feel the dunes vibrate as hulking steps inch towards it. It only senses another animal when the smell of it overpowers that of the faint hot cheese and meat radiating from the pizza.

The seagull does not even get the luxury of seeing its rival before a scaled claw grips its head. Another hand darts forward and holds the struggling creature down and tugs at its neck. Feathers and blood begin to leap from the bird's head as its spine is slowly shaken loose by the talons gripping it. Vicious pops ring out as tendons are loosened and scraped off of frail bones, and the bird with what little energy it still holds begins to shriek and nip at the massive fingers wrapped around it. Blood sprays out of its beak and the seagulls' puny eyes bulge and burst as the hands detach its head from its minuscule shoulders. The white thin spine of the unlucky seagull shines in the moonlight, wet with gamey pink meat and glistening blood. The thing crushes the bird with a muffled crunch and flings it aside. It shuffles over to the abandoned picnic and brushes through the food.

Thunder rumbles, and it begins to rain, soft at first but soon hard, and the crowds on the boardwalk begin to run home or shelter in the arcades and diners, and the sea churns and smashes against the sands. The boards grow quiet and are washed with rain, and the wind carries the sand and buries the body of the frail seagull. The thing drags the food and trash away in its long bony arms and trundles back under the boardwalk.

—

Briar Bay Boardwalk reopens just in time for summer rush!

By Michael Rodokowski

The Bite article published 6/25/24

After months of planning and weeks of hard work, the North Briar bay end of the boardwalk has finally reopened, with new boards and an entirely new entertainment pier. Mayor Jacob Williams excitedly spoke about the new facilities at last Friday’s ribbon cutting ceremony, having this to say about the additions: “I am incredibly proud of the hard work that our citizens have dedicated to Kennedy pier, named of course after our founder. With an all new ferris wheel, roller coasters, funhouses, and dozens of game stands, I can assure you lucky people that there will be no risk of boredom during the coming season. And there will be no shortage of food either, I myself will certainly be making more than a few trips to Cindy’s snack shack for the double dipper combo. Our town has made it through a difficult past few years, and I as much as anyone can understand the concerns some people have regarding the cost of this addition. I assure all of you that this Pier is good for Briar Bay. My team and I have worked tirelessly to save as much money as possible while still providing a safe, entertaining, and most importantly, profitable new destination in order to help our small local businesses. They are the lifeblood of this town, and would never do anything to endanger them. I hope…I know, that with creative ideas like this Pier and the integrity and determination that comes naturally to you wonderful folks, we will be an even better town than before, and these renovations are the first step towards that.” Crowds are beginning to pour in now that summer is officially in full swing, and garbage collectors have been working double duty to keep our streets and boardwalk clean. While the trash can sometimes be unmanageable, the common consensus is that Kennedy Pier is a hit, and lines have been wrapping down the boardwalk for days. Especially for the Laboyd and Co ferris wheel, which stops at the top to provide a majestic view of the entire town and a stunning bird’s eye view of the beach. Don’t forget to subscribe to our monthly email for more, and stay cool out there Briar Bay.

—

Art Tanner watches the seagulls circle above Andretti's pizza shop, slowly but purposefully, waiting for food to be dropped. Ahead of him, the line for takeout slices spans almost a full block off the boardwalk from where the pizza store actually sits, comfortably nestled at the foot of the new Kennedy Pier. Behind him, his brother Wyatt is complaining about how long they’re going to wait and how the pizza might run out before they can even order. Around him, the crowds surge and kids run past slapping their shoes on the newly laid wood and babies drop fires and candy through the slats. Armies of teens push through everyone, laughing and screaming and running away before they can get into any real trouble. Parents run after their newly rich children making straight for the expensive crane games and water guns, wishing they had not given them those hefty rolls of quarters. All of them leave behind their trash, their wrappers, tickets, and junk. Piles of wadded up napkins ring around the base of garbage cans, crumpled bottles dot the sand they’ve been thrown off the boardwalk into.

A little boy runs past Art holding a big chocolate sprinkle dipped cone. His hands and face are smeared with ice cream and it melts off the cone and through his fingers, splashing onto the boardwalk as he runs. His little flip flops barely touch the wood as he bounds away from his parents, who are trailing quickly behind him. Art watches as his shoe catches on a freshly cracked board, tripping him and crashing him to the ground. His little face smacks into the wooden slats and he drops his ice cream with a sad squelch. He pulls himself up and wails, blood leaking from his little button nose that has already begun to swell. His parents bundle him in their arms and carry him off, and already the seagulls have descended on the cone. They squawk and peck at each other, fighting over it and tearing it apart in under a minute. There are seagulls all around Art, many unmoved by the ice cream cone, perched here and there on trash can lids and streetlights, pooping on the hoods of parked cars and sifting through the rotting food in the gutters. There are even more on the power lines and in the trees, watching the line with dumb beady eyes that think of nothing but food, food, food. Slowly, the line pushes forward, and waves of people come in and out of the cozy shop. Art and Wyatt advance a few feet, then stop, then a few more, and stop again, trudging painfully slowly towards the store. His brother complains and Art ignores him, brainlessly scrolling on his phone.

Half an hour later they reached the counter, the store strong with the smell of oil and cheese. A short blonde girl stands behind the register, and Art thinks he recognizes her from school. She is pretty and smiles at Art as he realizes he hasn't thought of his order yet. He looks up at the menu and blurts out a slow, meandering “Let me get uhhhhh…” The line behind him groans with impatience, and Art quickly decides on a half pepperoni and sausage, half hawaiian pie. He pays and leaves a hefty tip for the girl behind the counter and winks at her, but she just placidly smiles and giggles. He considers giving her his number as he waits for his pizza, but he watches the dudes behind him in line all do the same, tip and wink and try to make her laugh. He and Wyatt grab their food and leave.

—

“It's just gross! It’s a fruit, it doesn’t belong there!” Wyatt bounces up and down on the sidewalk as the siblings walk home, desperately trying to convince Art that his half of the pizza is unnatural. “Have you ever even tried it?” Art asked, leaning his slice towards his brother's face, chunks of pineapple and ham sliding fat and lumpy off the edge of the crust. “You might like it.” Art waggled his pizza in front of his brother's disgusted face, laughing. Wyatt looked at his brother, then to the pizza, face twisting with revulsion. “Yuck!” he blurted out, holding his nose and pretending to vomit onto his brother's food. “Your loss!” Art said, shrugging and leading the pizza into his mouth and biting it fiercely.

Around them, dozens of people are lounging on the boardwalk, assembled around their own boxes of pizza. Art and Wyatt watch a couple a few yards down the boardwalk walking away with their meal, a tall stack of pizzas. On top of the pile sits a greasy brown bag, surely full to the brim with fries. They’re arguing about something, and the man carrying the boxes’ face is red with frustration. The brothers follow, walking in the same direction anyways, and eavesdrop on their conversation. Before they can get more than pieces of the argument, something to do with parking and the man’s brother, some meaningless squabble, a seagull dive bombs into the stack of food the man is holding.

It skewers its beak through the first box and gets stuck halfway through the pizza. The force of its impact makes the man drop the pile, spilling food onto the boards. The argument dies as he and his wife begin to unhappily clean up their lost dinner, cursing at the bird and each other. The brainless seagull pulls its beak from the pizza, dripping with grease, and hops towards a dropped slice. The couple brushes it away and it flaps off down the boardwalk. As they dejectedly pick up the ruined pizza, slice by slice, another seagull hops onto the street, flitting down from a street sign. It waddles over to them, cooing, and hops up to the slice that slid farthest away from the couple. It pecks at it and begins to drag it away before the couple notices it and shoos it off. It hops a few feet back before going after it again, and now another bird has noticed the mess, dropping down from a flagpost. It goes after a different slice of pizza, followed by another bird that does the same, and another, and another, until the couple who’s pizza had been destroyed was surrounded by a ring of seagulls, at least two dozen. They shake them away and brush them off, but the birds only step a foot back before walking two forward, slowly advancing on the kneeling couple. Confused, annoyed, they do not move until the first seagull that landed stumbles forwards to the husbands outstretched hand and bites into it hard. It grips the skin of his pointer finger at the knuckle and yanks, tearing out a string of meat. The bird pulls quickly, but strong, and rips the strip of flesh from the man's finger up to his nail before he can even react. The couple finally does react, the man beginning to gasp and moan at the sight of his half-skinned finger, blood spurting from it in thick red waves. He stumbles to his feet, forgetting about the pizza and staggers, tripping on the boards and landing face first. The other birds begin to peck at his ears as he lays on the ground, jabbing their beaks into his ear canals and tearing out deep chunks of earlobe. The seagulls turn towards his wife as she scrambles away and they begin to bite at her toes, ripping at her nails and heels. She turns and crawls to her feet, and the birds bite deep into her achilles tendon, snapping through her skin and muscle like a frayed guitar string. Ropes of flesh dangle from her ruined ankle as she pulls herself up, shooting gusts of blood onto the wood. Unable to walk, she lands on the boards knee first, a poorly hammered nail ramming into her kneecap and shattering it. The seagulls grow bored of the couple and begin to fight over the pizzas and fries, tearing the pieces and each other as the crowd rushes forward to help the couple. Art and Wyatt watch, dumbfounded, as store owners and beach goers alike kick away the seagulls and pull the couple up, each groaning with intense pain as they do. A boardwalk cop comes past and the good samaritans of the crowd drag the couple into the back of his golf cart, getting soaked in their blood as they do. People throw away the bits of dropped pizza the seagulls had not taken, and it was as if nothing had happened. The only remnant of the incident was the fat stain of fresh blood that seeped through the light brown slats of the boardwalk, soaking it, mixing with the grease and cheese from the dropped food. As quickly as it had happened, it was over, and the boys walked home confused.

The boys bring their pizza home and eat it quietly, home alone for the next two weeks while their parents enjoy a cruise they didnt feel like inviting their children to. They do not talk at all for the rest of the night, neither wanting to address what they watched. Art tucked Wyatt into bed and turned on the news, hoping there would be something about the incident on the boardwalk. But there was nothing but news about Kennedy Pier and ads for restaurants in town, and he had already had more Andretti's Pizza or Chang’s Ice Cream than he would ever need. He turned the TV off and cleaned up dinner, then took the trash out. The soft flaky grass of the backyard felt good on his bare feet, and the distant hum of the boardwalk drifted through the streets like music. The dumpster lid had been popped open and there was torn paper and food on the ground. Fucking racoons, Art thought, and kneeled down to clean up the mess. When he returned to the back door, Percy greeted him, the fat gray cat’s tail twisting between Art's legs as he replaced the trash bag. He pet him and fed him before going to bed himself, mind reeling with the day's events. He closed his eyes and saw the seagull biting into that poor man's fingers, seeing them crowding around that woman and tearing into her ankles. He did not fall asleep for a long, long time.

Smelling the barbecue reminded me of the desert. Suddenly all those months at Western State meant nothing. I fell over, convulsing and crawling under the wooden picnic table, my voice raised in panic as I scrambled. I realized I'd done this and crawled back out, avoiding looking at everyone.

I walked back to the ride, but without keys. I just sat on the parking curb and waited to be rescued. My sister took her time, but only because she stopped to say whatever to everyone. Then we went home.

I could recall all of it. The nightmare, the diabolical ravings of Professor Frenzy, some kind of captain cannibal. Nobody believes me, I am just some fringe heretic of the world of amateur geologists and too good-looking in a straightjacket for the UFO people.

Being a summer student, in the afterglow of graduation, made me feel like I was Indiana Jones as the girl. Cool stuff, but not popular. That's me, with eyeglasses so thick that Anthony Hopkins could pluck them off my face and start a campfire by popping out a lens and using it as a magnifying glass. Then he'd have me with Favah beans. I'd have laughed at that at one time, but now it makes me unable to eat.

Having written a thesis on the formation of clastic pipes, how they billow out through the cracks in the earth during earthquakes and other similar formations, the invitation was extended to me. Clastic pipes are made from sediments and are squeezed through the cracks of harder stone around them, even if that stone happens to be shale, which erodes much more rapidly than sandstone. They look bloomed out at the top, and the shale could erode away and so could the blossom. Then mud could pour around this wall-like formation and harden, which was the theory as to how our walls formed. Purely geologic.

Doctor Amantis was there explaining how the cracks had formed to look like bricks, an expert on such a process. None of us entertained the notion that these were manmade. The wall of petrified concrete 'bricks' was nearly thirteen million years old. If it was made by anything, it wasn't human. And we were confident we had explained how it could have formed naturally, although I had some questions still.

One of those questions was how the mud had become elevated and flowed over the sandstone wall in a geological event that had left the fragile exposed wall undamaged. Where there was no hardened petrified mud, the wall was eroded from the hundreds of thousands of years since it became exposed from the adjacent hillside, where further formations supported our estimate of the age and process of the rock wall formation. Everything looked good, except that one little detail.

It occurred to me that if this rare composite of sandstone were a deliberately mixed concrete, that long ago it could have stood freely, and even formed the base of a much larger structure. This was problematic, because it was supported by the fact that the cracks, when we mapped them out, were a little too long and straight and began to look more and more like an urban sprawl than the kind of jagged geysers most clastic pipes emerge as. I pointed this out to Doctor Amantis, who justified it by saying we were looking at a unique scale. Eventually, the emergence of the pattern formed by the clastic pipes would appear more familiar, and more natural. I just wasn't seeing it yet.

Walking along the wall I noticed soot markings, the occasional tallied chisel marks and even a few arch ways. All of it was circumstantial, as these formations had stood exposed throughout all of human history. I stopped when I found a piece of petrified charcoal embedded between two bricks where the hill had eroded from the base. When I pried it out the rock split, revealing a long porcelain fang. I held it to the sunlight, noting its warmth and translucence.

Sarah and Rachel took the tooth from me and began dating it. I've never dated a tooth, but I went out with a dentist once, she looked like Doctor Garcia from the Crest commercial and actually showed up in her dental hygienist's uniform. This tooth though, we quickly determined was artificial and came from no animal. Its preservation was due partially to its glass-like composition, although it proved to be as hard as any ballistic laminate material, scratching copper with ease.

"This appears to be a prosthetic tooth, and it appears to be the age of the stone it was encased in, some thirteen to thirteen and a quarter million years ago. Give or take a hundred thousand years, our method in the field is less precise." Sarah said. I pointed out the method was the same, only our confidence was different. How could we believe our results?

After we had spent days testing the tooth Doctor Amantis and Professor Frenzy found us, and they were very excited about what they had discovered. Apparently, they had excavated the foundation of one of the corners of our wall and had found proof it was all an archaeological discovery.

"We came here as geologists." Doctor Amantis kept saying weirdly.

"Aren't you fascinated, Ruth?" Professor Frenzy asked me.

They opened champagne and someone found everyone's phones and put them in a locked glove compartment. We were under radio silence until help could arrive. Some kind of joke, I guessed. Nobody had service out there anyway, at Rend Vista.

I like to think about Marius Ranch, as where I returned to the real world. I suppose it was actually just a state of mind. Nothing was real, out there in the desert. Without reality, things become a nightmare in broad daylight. Ever see a nightmare walking around under bright sunlight? You'll never feel safe again.

I took a walk, tired of Doctor Amantis continuing to point out we were all geologists. I was tired of watching Sarah and Rachel making up for spending college nights doing homework instead of partying. Champagne gives me a headache.

Something was already wrong with Professor Frenzy. His smile was wrong, his eyes were wrong. The way he folded his hands and watched everyone was wrong. Something was wrong, I just didn't know how to make it clear in my own mind, let alone say or do anything about his wrongness.

I remember the first real feelings of fear creeping up along my back, like a slug of cold sweat. Staring at Professor Frenzy in the moonlight of the desert as he jerkily danced and cackled. He was holding a bottle, so I assumed he was drunk. Then he threw the bottle against the stone wall violently and suddenly his head swiveled and his moonlit eyes shone on me with predatory intensity. I instinctively took a step back.

I don't recall the exchange. I must have said something like "Are you alright?" and then he started making noises. I got very frightened very fast by the growling and grunting he was doing, and his attempt to speak in raspberry syllables was like a demonic Daffy Duck impression. I think I was laughing for a moment, the high from the champagne making me slightly unsure if I was scared or not for about one instant. Then the terror set in and I had turned and started to run away.

When I realized he was pursuing me, I screamed. My voice was cut short as I was close-lined in the throat by Doctor Amantis. I flipped with my feet still pumping air and my head going towards the packed sand. The impact knocked the sense out of me for long enough that I missed what happened next.

I sat up to an uncomfortable silence. Somehow, I had dreamed of horror and screaming and the sounds of things ripping and splashing and gurgling. The after-silence in the camp had somehow brought me awake. My head was throbbing and I wanted to go find something to ease my migraine. I felt dizzy, and realized I was probably concussed.

Hours must have gone by before my shocked body had reduced the acetylcholine levels to a steady and conscious pulse. I was blinking a lot and trembling, but I seemed to be intact. I slowly got to my feet, shaking and worried that Professor Frenzy had gone berserk and killed everyone for no apparent reason. I began shuffling slowly through the camp, leaving a trail like I was on skis when I went with my parents that one year.

I looked at my ski marks in the sand and heard a howl. It came to me like a wind that was actually a bucket of icy cold water on a hot day poured over me without warning. I was certainly reacting exactly the same way, my body posed like a Venus pudica and breathing like I was about to give birth. The howl was a man's howl, a man who had become like an animal, and the note wasn't mournful or resonant like the noble wolf or the wise coyote, but rather depraved and homicidal, like the maniac madman.

When I was in the hospital, there was a boy who would howl all the time. It did not remind me of Professor Frenzy, but the doctors thought it did. It didn't remind me and I didn't mind him howling, it didn't bother me. I can see how someone would worry that a different crazy person howling would trigger those awful memories, but it is scent that floods my thoughts with flashbacks, not sound.

Doctor Amantis had tried to catch me, seeing me running in a panic. Professor Frenzy must have gotten to Doctor Amantis and made a tackle. Strangulation was next. I don't know how I know, I was in and out, my eyes fluttering open, things barely registering. I just have this one thought of Professor Frenzy atop Doctor Amantis and throttling them.

Sarah and Rachel must have reacted, but drunk and having no idea of the severity of Professor Frenzy until he'd stabbed Rachel between her neck and shoulder using a broken protractor. Rachel hurried off somewhere, holding her neck at intervals and letting it spray out with the kind of consistency of the mist they use on the fresh vegetables at your favorite grocery store whenever she let go of the hole. She collapsed not far from where Sarah was being mauled by Professor Frenzy.

Was I lying on the ground unconscious or was I witnessing these atrocities? This is how I am unsure of my memories. I know I saw those things, but I don't know when I saw them. Maybe I got knocked out more than once. It would explain the gash on my forehead, if I was struck upon the head later and fell down. I'm doing my best to find what I lost out there.

Somewhere in my memories I know I heard Professor Frenzy speak. What he said made perfect sense. It was so profound and so well articulated that I knew it was the ultimate truth. I was happy to hear it, and I was sure that all that he did was necessary and right. It was a weird feeling, and I cannot recall a single word he said or what it might have contained, just how I felt about it. If I could go back to that moment and hear what he said, I know I could forget this whole thing and heal and have a life ahead of me.

I had looked up from where I was kneeling in prayer, and seen something rising from within the red glow, the tumbling cloud of white dust, the black sky of the starless night, just before dawn. As Professor Frenzy prayed to the rising god, I saw its limbs, its eyes, its teeth, its gemstones and paint upon its gnarled and twisted thorny muscles. I was in awe of the living nightmare, and as the sun bathed it in the light of our world it was born again, anew. We had done a great thing to call it forth from slumber, or so it said, somehow. I cannot describe the words it spoke into our minds, like an echo of an emotion, a law of nature written in our blood.

Plenty of blood was on the sand.

Professor Frenzy had hanged Sarah and let her drip over the god's bed. Rachel had lost her head, making me laugh and sing, some part of my mind shattering outward, unable to withstand the pressure of so much hideous carnage all around me. Doctor Amantis had run through the camp on fire, setting everything ablaze. The black-brown smoke and ash washed over me, calming me like a beehive. My mind stopped swarming all around me and focused on survival.

I'd laughed and sang and welcomed Professor Frenzy's nightmare into the morning of reality. I had no choice, I am not strong enough to resist the will of such creatures. When they accepted me as part of their choir, I was not in any danger. My temporary insanity had saved me.

During the nightmare feast, while the chewing and devouring was going on, I stood and began my journey out into the desert on foot. The god and its apostle were eating the dead, and if I was offered a morsel I'd have eaten as well. Perhaps I did, and my body remembers something that my mind refuses to acknowledge.

Charred and disturbed, I took our god's image with me across the desert, swearing to remember my way home. I was not meaning my childhood home. I felt the ruined temple of the old god was my home, until I reached Marius Ranch.

The dog was barking and frothing, and the man was nervous and alarmed. My appearance, my smell, the look on my face - these things had warned everyone that I wore signs of terrible horror. Where is Professor Frenzy?

Whatever the sheriff decided to do with me, I ended up in a hospital back home. Whatever I said to them changed nothing. Everyone was dead, cooked and eaten by some kind of ancient desert thing that had made a puppet out of Professor Frenzy. That's probably what I told them - and I'm sure the information was about as useful to them as it would be to anyone who didn't believe what I was saying to be entirely accurate.

How can I be sure of anything, when this is all I am left with?

I tried to get away, but I was so afraid I had no idea how to escape. I went through the camp, and I am unsure of the sequence of my memories, but I have specific memories I cannot forget. In my mind, I've learned to revisit that night and continue to search for the way out. I will find it someday. If I do not, and these events become the history I was part of, then history shall repeat itself, and in this way, another might follow my tracks in the sand and leave the same desert behind.

Previous

Not long after my encounter with Arthur, a new case landed in my lap: Gabriela Borges. Mr. and Mrs. Borges came into the station. The Borges were an affluent family living in a recently gentrified area within the San Ysidro district, just a short drive from the border. Both seemed sleep-deprived, their clothes wrinkled and disheveled, while Mrs. Borges's eyes were bloodshot and puffy.

Each time she tried to say something, her words would get caught in her throat, and she began sobbing on her husband's shoulder. Mr. Borges was also at a loss for words, his tired eyes were fixed on a spot on the wall behind me.

It took a solid five minutes for Mrs. Borges's cries to subside. After taking a sip of water and wiping away the tears, unintentionally smudging her mascara, she finally gathered herself and found her voice: "Our daughter, Gabby, is missing."

I began typing up the details of her story, assuring her that I would do everything I could to help them find their daughter. A glimmer of hope flickered across their faces when I mentioned that I had previously dealt with a couple of missing person cases and had successfully located them unharmed.

However, in both instances, they were young children who had run away following a disagreement with their families. I was sure of myself that the Borges family would be a similar case.

Gabriela Borges, a vibrant nineteen-year-old college student, was back home for the summer, helping out her parents at their restaurant, Borges Cucina. I had dined there a couple of times myself and recalled the remarkable waitress whose welcoming and cheerful demeanor always made customers feel at home. When I realized the missing person was that kind server, my heart sank into my stomach.

The other night, after closing the restaurant, Gabriela didn't return home. She was expected to be home by 10. Mrs. Borges anxiously paced around the living room, occasionally glancing out the window, hoping to see Gabriela's car pulling into the driveway. But she never arrived. Mrs. Borges made over five phone calls to Gabriela's phone and sent a dozen texts, all of which had gone unanswered.

Early in the following morning, Mr. Borges rushed to the restaurant and reviewed the security camera footage that overlooked the parking lot. He felt a sense of despair as he observed nothing unusual that could provide any insight into what might have happened to his beloved daughter or where she could have gone.

Nevertheless, there was a small detail that caught his attention, which he believed could potentially be a clue. He knew he needed the assistance of another person with expert analysis skills to thoroughly examine the video.

I agreed to stop by their business later that day to review the footage. The first thing I saw on the screen was Gabriela getting into her car, which was the only vehicle parked on the lot, but Mr. Borges insisted there was something else present, and he pointed to a spot in the background.

After manipulating the brightness on the video, I was able to discern the silhouette of a tall and lanky man standing perfectly still in the dark background nearby the trees. Once Gabriela drove away, the shadow darted at great speed across the lot in the same direction as the car and vanished off camera.

I rewound the footage and paused it on the man mid-dash. Mrs. Borges, whose face had turned white, was the one who instantly recognized him.

“That’s Mr. Fish,” she gasped.

“Who is he?” I asked.

Mr. Borges’s face also paled. “He’s one of our most loyal customers.”

Both witnesses described Mr. Fish as tall and thin, estimating his age to be around 60, and they noted his grayish complexion, which gave him a sickly appearance. He frequented Borges Cucina every day at lunchtime, except on Thursdays when the restaurant was closed. Mr. Fish would enter the restaurant wearing a well-fitted dark gray suit, complemented by a matching bowler hat.

His regular order was a carne asada burrito, and he downed it with a refreshing glass of ice-cold water. However, Mr. Fish had an unusual eating habit. He wouldn't simply pick up the burrito and eat it with the tortilla wrapping. Instead, he would delicately tear it open with a knife and fork, savoring only the raw meat inside.

“Raw meat?” I said, raising a brow.

Mrs. Borges nodded. She vividly recalled that Mr. Fish requested to be served only raw meat, as he claimed to have a dietary issue related to cooked meat. Other than his strange food preference, he was polite, settling his bills exclusively in cash and giving the servers generous tips, often amounting to double the total bill. Gabriela appreciated his generosity, although it did raise some suspicions in her mind.

While I reassured the Borges that I would find their daughter as soon as possible, my ability to track Mr. Fish down was hindered. The Borges family, unfortunately, had never learned his first name, and the only information I had was his surname and estimated age. Exhausting all available public resources, including scrutinizing social media pictures, I reached a frustrating dead end.

None of the individuals with the matching surname seemed to be our elusive Mr. Fish. It was almost as if he didn't exist. Moreover, since Gabriela's disappearance, he had abruptly stopped frequenting the restaurant altogether.

Desperate and filled with despair, the Borges reached out to the local news, pleading with the public to provide any information about Mr. Fish. Their plea resonated with several individuals who came forward as witnesses. They reported having seen a man wearing a distinctive bowler hat. Their encounters took place during daylight hours, with sightings of him hitchhiking along the sidewalk.

One of the witnesses made the bold decision to offer Mr. Fish a ride. The witness asked him where he was heading, and the aged gray man cryptically replied, "To the valley yonder." However, upon reaching the designated location, the man inexplicably vanished into thin air, leaving no trace behind.

I asked the witness to give me the location of where he had driven Mr. Fish. Along with a group of search and rescue volunteers, we set off to the valley where we found only an expansive field covered in tall, withered grass. After wandering for about a couple of miles, we came across an abandoned two-story house with Gabriela’s empty car parked in front of it.

Not far from the location were three other decrepit buildings—a school, a church, a grocery shop and a few saloons. None of the volunteers, even the local historian, could recall the name of the small town that had once existed in the area.

The house stood desolate and devoid of life. Within its walls, rusted and broken furniture lay scattered, serving as remnants of a forgotten era. Cobwebs adorned the corners while mold thrived, claiming the walls as its territory. Insects scuttled, finding refuge in the crevices of the deteriorating structure, their presence lending an eerie vitality to the lifeless surroundings.

An unsettling odor permeated the air, its pungency almost suffocating me. Disgusted, the volunteers ran out of the house, coughing and gagging. Only I stayed, covering my nose and mouth with a handkerchief.

I searched every room, and in the bedroom, my eyes fell upon a wardrobe. I cautiously opened its doors and found a moth-eaten suit and a tattered, dusty bowler hat. Determined to gather any potential evidence, I collected the clothing and took them back to the station for further analysis, though the police captain believed it was a useless effort.

Indeed, he was right. There was neither blood nor other bodily fluids, not even a strand of hair, to analyze and use as proof that Mr. Fish was involved in Gabriela’s disappearance.

Days stretched into weeks, and weeks turned into months, with no new leads emerging from our efforts, until one day the Borges received a handwritten letter from none other than Mr. Fish. The address from where it was sent simply read: the valley yonder.

The letter spanned a few pages, unraveling the unbelievable tale of his life, his harrowing journeys across North America in the past one hundred and forty years, and the string of murders he claimed to have committed for his own survival. Each line revealed a chilling narrative of darkness.

It was difficult to believe. It had to be some kind of sick joke.

This man was delusional. Insane.

As the family reached the last page, their hearts were torn apart by anguish. There, in haunting detail, was an account of Mr. Fish's encounter with Gabriela on that fateful night. Mr. Borges couldn’t bring himself to finish reading it and handed the letter over to me. He wanted nothing to do with it, as it served as a repulsive reminder of his daughter’s tragic fate, intensifying the profound pain that had settled within the family.

The letter’s contents left me feeling nauseous and disturbed. I sealed it in a secure box and stored it within the station's vault in the basement. However, its haunting words continued to torment me relentlessly. For weeks, it invaded my thoughts, infiltrated my dreams, and startled me awake in the dead of night, drenched in sweat.

Then, one morning, as I was abruptly awoken from yet another nightmare, a surge of determination coursed through me. Instead of fear, a renewed resolve took hold. I knew that I had to track down and bring justice to Mr. Fish.

I returned to the dark abandoned house. This time, I drove to the valley after the sun had gone down. When I reached the house, I saw the light emitting from a kerosene lamp, casting an eerie glow on the second floor. The striking silhouette of a tall and lanky man stretched across the wall.

I’d be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t scared shitless.

Despite the overwhelming sense of terror that gripped me, I stepped out of the car and cautiously approached the house. Aware of the gravity of the situation, I activated my bodycam, ensuring that every moment was captured for documentation. My trembling hand instinctively sought the comforting grip of my gun, while the other retrieved a small flashlight from my back pocket.

The front door stood wide open, inviting me into the unknown depths of the house. As I crossed the threshold, a palpable sense of foreboding enveloped me, as if multiple unseen entities lingered in the shadows, held at bay by the piercing beam of my flashlight. I climbed up the stairs, each creaking step amplifying the tension in the air. Arriving on the second floor, my eyes shot towards the partially open door of the master bedroom.

That was the last thing I saw that night, and when I woke up, I thought I had escaped from another nightmare, and nothing had happened. However, waking up in a hospital bed hooked up to machines and wrapped in bandages, told me otherwise. As soon as the nurse saw me awake, the doctor was called in, followed by my anxious wife, who entered along with my parents.

They filled me in on what had happened. According to them, I’d been in a coma for two weeks. Since I hadn't reported back to the station that night, the police captain immediately dispatched a search team. They discovered my patrol car flipped over, with me still inside, kept in place by the seat belt.

I was in rough shape. My body was scratched up, a nasty gash down my back, and a broken femur. If I had been found an hour later, I’d have been dead from blood loss. Before I had lost consciousness, I tried to tell them what I had encountered, but they mistook it as nonsensical babbling, a result from a possible head injury.

The captain visited a couple of days later to inform me that he had reviewed my bodycam footage. He saw the ruins of a bedroom and a kerosene lamp sitting on a table. He believed that I was alone in the room and speculated that the Borges case had taken a toll on my psyche, leading me to imagine things.

I sat up quickly in the bed, wincing as my body protested against my sudden movement. I was ready to tell him that I hadn’t been alone in the house. I had seen something, but I just couldn’t remember what it was. He gestured for me to let him finish.

After zooming in and tweaking the brightness on the footage, what he saw in the video baffled him. He didn’t see Mr. Fish. Instead, he had noticed a large shadow on the wall, cast by the flame of the lamp. At first, the captain was inclined to dismiss it as a mere shadow of one of the room's pieces of furniture.

But then, he heard it speak.

“I need to see it,” I said.

“Are you sure you want to do that?”

“I don’t want to see it, but I need to do it.”

He retrieved the video camera from his pocket and switched it on, handing it over to me.

XXXXX

[I rushed into the bedroom and aimed my gun at the long shadow by the window.]

Officer M: You’re going to die right here, right now!

Entity: [Static] [Laughter]

Officer M: Don’t come closer! Step back! I said step back!

[I pulled the trigger. Two shots fired.]

[The shadow recoiled then shifted, its shape resembling the figure of a young woman]

Entity: [Gabriela’s voice] You shot me. Why did you do that?

Officer M: No… no… you’re not here. You’re not real.

Entity: [Gabriela’s voice, laughing] Oh, don’t you want me, officer? I saw the way you looked at me when you came into the restaurant.

Officer M: Don’t. Come. Closer. You’re not real.

Entity: [Gabriela’s voice] But I’m here right now. Touch me.

[The shadow enveloped me.]

Officer M: No…

[Two more shots fired]

Entity: [roared]

[The shadow returned to its former long shape. Mr. Fish.]

[I ran out of the room and flew down the flight of stairs. I climbed into the car. Slammed the door shut. The car hummed alive, and I stepped on the gas]

[Darkness consumed the screen.]

[The sound of metal crumbling resounded.]

XXXXX

I thrusted the camera back into the captain’s hands.

The memory of that night rushed me all at once:

I peeked through the door and discovered Mr. Fish standing by the window. His posture was hunched, with arms and legs unnaturally elongated like those of a daddy long spider. Folds of gray, wrinkled skin hung loosely on his lanky, naked frame.

What startled me wasn’t his lack of clothing; rather, it was his solid black eyes and wide grin that stretched from ear to ear. His grin revealed two razor-yellow fangs while a long tubular tongue slithered out.

As I fired another two bullets into the creature's chest, it remained unfazed. It showed no signs of pain. Then, to my astonishment, it transformed into Gabriela. In that split second, my body froze, unable to comprehend the surreal sight before me. Slowly, she advanced, her hand outstretched, poised to graze my face.

Her voice, a beguiling siren's call, encircled me, ensnaring my senses and luring me into her embrace. But I broke free from the trance and swiftly unleashed two more shots. The creature jerked back, visibly enraged.

I sprinted out of the bedroom, descending the stairs as swiftly as my legs would allow, conscious not to stumble. Reaching the car, I wasted no time sliding behind the wheel and igniting the engine. Without hesitation, I pressed my foot down on the gas pedal, propelling the vehicle forward, steadily increasing the speed.

40mph...45mph...50mph...60mph.

The feeble glow of the headlights struggled to pierce beyond a few feet ahead. Suddenly, there was relentless pounding against the windows, imprinting ghostly handprints across the glass. Laughter and giggles echoed around me, emanating from invisible entities that encircled the car.

And then, a colossal presence landed atop the roof with a resounding thud, denting the sturdy metal. And there it was, right before my eyes, plastered onto the windshield— Mr. Fish, with his oversized black orbs staring into my soul and his ghastly grin, stretching impossibly wide.

I’ve been a security guard at Somatic Self Storage for a few years now. I’d lost my previous job due to the first round of Covid lockdowns, and at the time, getting hired here seemed like a godsend. It pays more than double the average rate for a security guard around here, despite it otherwise being a pretty standard job. The only catch was that I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement regarding exactly what it was we were keeping in storage.

Maybe I was naïve to think that nothing nefarious was going on, or maybe I’m just a selfish prick who was persuaded to turn a blind eye for a few extra dollars, but up until recently, I honestly had no solid proof that any of our clients weren’t here willingly.

Somatic Self Storage is located in our town’s old industrial district. It’s mostly abandoned, other than a few small manufacturing plants owned by a local tech company, and self-storage is just about the only legitimate business that can survive out there now. There are three or four other self-storage facilities nearby, and from the outside, ours doesn’t look like anything special. The entire lot’s bricked off so that no one can see inside, with several modern storage garages built around an old factory that was converted into our primary building.

The units that are accessible from the outside are perfectly normal, and rented out to the general public to keep anyone from getting too suspicious. But the indoor units are a different story. Some of our clients keep some personal items in them, sure, but the main thing we keep in the indoor units are people.

Our clients aren’t living in their storage units. I know that’s a thing that happens, but it’s not what’s going on at Somatic Self Storage. We aren’t keeping dead bodies there either. I wouldn’t have stayed there this long if that’s what was going on.

The first time the owner – a self-assured fop by the name of Seneca Chamberlain – showed me the inside of one of the storage units, I thought I was looking at some kind of wax statue. The body didn’t show any signs of life, but it didn’t show any signs of decay either. It wasn’t alive, it wasn’t dead, it just… was.

“There’s more than one way to live forever, some of them more enjoyable than others,” Chamberlain mused as he blithely lifted up the lid of the glass coffin that contained the body.

“I don’t understand, sir. Is this some kind of cryonics facility?” I asked.

“Of course not! Cryogenic temperatures turn living cells into mush!” Chamberlain replied aghast. “There’s also not a single cryonics facility in the world that currently offers reanimation services, which rather defeats the point, wouldn’t you say? Our clients expect their bodies to be kept in mint condition and reclaimable at a moment’s notice, and that’s precisely what we deliver! I like to call what we offer ‘holistic metabolic respite’. It appeals more to the chemophobic 'whole foods' types. For all practical intents and purposes, these bodies are alchemically frozen in time. There’s no damage and no side effects; just a single instant stretched out for as long as we wish. Go ahead and touch the body. You’ll notice there’s no heartbeat, no breath, but that it’s still warm.”

Hesitantly, I slowly reached out and pressed the back of my index and middle fingers up against the body’s neck. There was no response or pulse, but it was still warm and felt very much alive.

“How is this possible?” I gasped, pulling away in confusion. “Is the casket keeping them like that?”

“Heavens no! This Sleeping Beauty set-up is merely for show,” Chamberlain explained with a slight chuckle. “Well, that’s not entirely true. If they ever start to wake up prematurely, you’ll notice the glass above their face begin to fog. Keep an eye out for that or any other disturbances you may notice during your rounds and note it in your log.”

“But what do I do if they wake up?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t lose any sleep over that, my dear boy,” Seneca reassured me. “You see, my business partner is very adept at refining the humours of living creatures, amplifying desirable traits and removing unwanted ones. In this case, he’s altered their thermodynamic properties to eliminate entropy without needing to cool them down to absolute zero. Or, if you prefer to think of it this way, he raised absolute zero to body temperature. Either way, their bodies are completely still on a fundamental level. A carefully prepared philtre must be specially applied to catalyze the reanimation process, ensuring that they remain pristinely inert until we desire otherwise.”

“Then… why the glass caskets?” I asked.

“Err… yes. Obviously, no process is a hundred percent effective, and occasionally the humours may not have been refined to the required purity,” Seneca admitted. “In these cases, it’s possible that certain impurities left in the body can catalyze reanimation on their own. But this is always a rather ghastly and drawn-out affair, giving us plenty of time to intervene. If you see any signs that a client is waking up, like fog on the glass, simply report it and we’ll handle the rest.”

“But, if someone does wake up, like, completely wakes up, what do I –” I started to ask.  

“I said not to lose any sleep over it,” Chamberlain cut me off abruptly, his tone making it clear I was to let the matter drop. “Any more questions?”

“I… I still don’t understand why these people are here,” I admitted. “You called them clients. They’re here willingly? They paid for this?”

“They paid good money. Enough for us to throw in the glass caskets free of charge,” he nodded, gently knocking on the casket beside him with his knuckles.  

“But, why? Are they sick? What do they gain by doing this?” I asked.

“It’s self-storage,” Chamberlain shrugged. “It’s where you keep things you don’t need at the moment but can’t bring yourself to part with. For some people, that includes their bodies. As a consummate professional, I never pry into the private lives of our clientele. I suggest you make that your guiding maxim, as well.”

I never got anything more than that out of Mr. Chamberlain, not that I ever saw him very much. Somatic Self Storage was just a turnkey operation for him. For the past few years, I’ve just shown up, made my rounds, helped the regular customers and service people, investigated anything out of the ordinary and dealt with trespassers. Other than the clients in storage, it was a pretty normal security gig.

There’s only been a few times that I’ve noticed any fog on the glass caskets, and each time I did exactly what Chamberlain told me to. I made a note of it in my report, and the next day everything would be fine. If that was the weirdest thing that had ever happened, I’d probably still be doing that job right now.

But yesterday, for the first time, I heard the sound of glass shattering.

The noise instantly jolted me out of my seat. My first and worst thought was that one of my clients was not only awake but ambulatory, but there was plenty of other glass in the building besides those caskets, I told myself. I checked all the camera feeds on my security desk, along with all the input from the door and window sensors, and quickly ruled out the possibility of a break-in. The place was as impregnable as an Egyptian tomb. Nothing could get in. Or out.

Grabbing hold of my baton and checking to make sure that my taser was fully charged, I set off to locate the source of the disturbance.

“Is anyone in here?” I shouted authoritatively as I marched down the hallways. “You are trespassing on private property! Identify yourself!”

My commands were initially met with utter silence, and for a moment it seemed plausible that some precariously placed fragile thing had finally fallen from its ill-chosen resting spot.

But then I turned a corner, and found a trail of bloodied glass shards littering the floor. The trail had of course started in one of the storage cells, where the glass casket lay in ruins, becoming sparser and sparser as it meandered down the hall before dissipating entirely.

“Hello! Are you hurt?” I shouted as I burst out into a sprint.

Receiving no reply, I headed in the same direction as the glass trail and checked every cell or possible hiding space along the way until I hit a dead end.

It didn’t make any sense. There was nowhere a human being could hide that I hadn’t looked. The vents were small enough that a fat raccoon had once gotten stuck in one, so there was no way anyone could be crawling around inside of them.

Deciding that the best thing to do would be to review the surveillance footage, I promptly made my way back to my desk.

I came to a dead stop when I saw someone sitting in my chair.

There was no question that he was the client that had broken out of the casket. I knew the faces of all the clients entrusted to my care well. He was an older man, balding with deeply sunken eyes and bony cheeks. I could see that shards of glass were still embedded into his fists, leaving no doubt that he had punched his way out. Though he sat expectantly with his hands clasped, I could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t oblivious to the pain.

“Did you call it in yet?” he asked flatly.

“Sir, please, you’re bleeding,” I said as I let my baton clatter to the ground, slowly raising my hands over my head so as not to provoke him. “I know you must be disoriented, but –”

“Do disoriented patients leave false trails and then double back?” he asked rhetorically. “I know exactly where I am and what’s going on. More than you do, I’d wager. Now answer my question; did you call it in yet?”

“No. Chamberlain doesn’t know about this yet,” I replied.

“Good. Throw your taser on the ground,” he ordered.

“…Or?” I asked, as it hardly seemed that he was in a position to threaten me.

“Your desk phone here has Chamberlain on speed dial. All I have to do is press it, and if he hears even one word from me he’ll know what’s happened,” he explained. “He’ll be afraid of what I might have told you, and that wouldn’t end up very well for you.”

I considered the validity of his threat against any physical risk he might pose to me, and quickly decided to relinquish my taser.

“Trusting your life to a stranger rather than Seneca Chamberlain? You know him well, then,” the old man smirked. “Kick the taser over to me.”

I complied without a fuss, but he had made no mention of my baton, which I made sure to stay within easy reaching distance of.

He bent down and scooped up the taser, wasting no time in pointing it directly at me.

“Now tell me the codes to disable the security system,” he ordered.

“Or what? You’ll taser me? That won’t get you out of here,” I replied. “You talking to me is one thing, but if I actively help you escape, I’m definitely screwed. On the other hand, if I take a taser hit rather than let you loose, that might actually earn me some favour with the boss. So go ahead, fire away.”

The old man groaned in frustration, and it relieved me greatly to know we were at an impasse.

“Kid, do you even know why he’s keeping us here?” he asked.

“He told me it was some kind of alchemical suspended animation,” I replied. “He’s always been vague about exactly why you were in suspension, but he told me that you were here willingly. Said you even paid good money for it.”

“Oh, we paid for it, son. Believe me,” he said with a grim shake of his head. “Did he mention his partner Raubritter at all?”

“Yeah. He said he was the one who did this to you,” I replied.

“There’s an old abandoned factory not far from here. The Fawn & Raubritter Foundry, it was called,” the man replied. “Over a hundred years ago, there was a worker uprising and fire that killed Fawn. Officially it’s been abandoned ever since, but anyone who’s managed to get inside knows that’s not true. When there’s a lot of death in one place, especially death that’s sudden, violent, and tragic, it scars the very fabric of reality around it, weakens it, and Raubritter capitalized on that before the burnt and bloodied ground even had a chance to heal. He claimed the deaths of his partner and indentured workers as a sacrifice to… well, I suppose you could call them a ‘Titan’ of industry. The burnt-out interior of his foundry was hallowed and translocated to some strange and ungodly netherworld, one where acid rains fall from jaundiced clouds upon a landscape of ever-churning mud writhing with the monstrous larva of god-eating insects. I’ve been inside that foundry, and I’ve looked out those windows into a world where the ruins of both nature and industry rot and rust side by side, everything eating each other until there was nothing left, and still the god who calls it his Eden hungers for more! Using that Foundry as his sanctuary, Raubritter refined his alchemy until he could transmogrify any body, living or dead, into anything he wanted, and what he wanted was a workforce of mindlessly devoted slaves. Workers who could never even slack off, let alone rebel. I’ve seen them, the abominations inside the Foundry, and if I don’t get out of here, that’s what I’ll become!”

“Sir, please, you’re talking nonsense. You’re delirious from the after-effects of whatever was keeping you in suspended animation,” I tried to assuage him. “There’s no magical, extra-dimensional factory with zombie workers. And how would you even know if there was?”

“Because; I had a job interview there,” he said with a bitter smirk. “Everything I just told you, Raubritter told me himself. He’s quite proud of all he’s accomplished, you see. I wanted to know what the hell was going on in there and he was all too happy to explain it. All of his workers are technically there by choice, though it was usually the only choice they had.  I was… well, that doesn’t matter now, I guess, but if I didn’t sign up with Raubritter I knew I was a dead man. But it seems that Raubritter is facing a bit of a labour surplus at the moment, and since his labour costs are already as low as he could get them, he needed another way to turn this to his benefit. That’s what Somatic Self Storage is for, kid. Me, and everyone else here, are surplus population. For less than the cost of an overpriced cup of coffee a day, he keeps us tucked away for when the labour market becomes less favourable to him. He’ll never have to worry about being short on manpower so long as he has us to fall back on, and apparently letting us age like wine before rolling us out into the factory floor is great for productivity. But if we wake up, that means we’re more resistant to his alchemical concoctions than he’d like, and we’re no good to him as workers. All we’re good for is parts. I’m a dead man now whether I stay or go, so I may as well try to stay alive as long as I can. Tell me the codes, son, and let me out of here.”   

“Sir, I don’t think just letting you walk out of here is the best option for either of us,” I tried to persuade him. “Maybe we should call Chamberlain and see if we can convince him to –”

He fired the prongs of the taser at me before I could finish. Fortunately, I was quick on my feet, and his aim wasn’t the greatest, so they just barely missed.

“Fucking hell!” he cursed as he jumped up from his chair.

He tried to make a run for it, but I grabbed my baton off the ground and struck him with it across the back of the head. I heard him cry out as he collapsed to the floor, and I raised my baton again, ready to strike him down should he try to get back up.

But there was no need. He just laid there on the floor, clasping the back of his head, softly whimpering in defeat.

With a guilty sigh, I walked over to my desk and phoned it in.

It was a matter of minutes before Chamberlain’s private security detail barged in. They swarmed the helpless old man and dragged him off out of my sight, while two remained behind to ensure that I didn’t go anywhere before Chamberlain himself came and decided what to do with me. They didn’t say much to me, and I didn’t say much to them either, but I caught the muffled shouts of the others as they interrogated the old man, whose soft and pitiful pleas were just loud enough to hear.

Though it felt like hours, it wasn’t much longer before I saw Chamberlain strutting towards me, clad as always in a three-piece burgundy suit and top hat. I mentioned that I started working for him during the Pandemic, and when I first met him, he had been wearing this snarling Oni half-mask made of gold laid over top of his black medical mask. It had made quite the impression on me, and it’s an image of him I’ve never been able to shake.

He was flanked by a bodyguard to each side, and behind him, I recognized the similarly dressed if much less approachable figure of Raubritter, who I saw was carrying an old-fashioned leather medical bag with him.

“Right this way, Herr Raubritter,” one of my guards said as he escorted him to where the old man was being held.

“I’m terribly sorry about all of this,” Chamberlain said without an ounce of sincerity. “It’s so rare for one of our clients to regain full consciousness this quickly, especially when they’ve been suspended for so long. Don’t you worry now, you’re not in any trouble for having to use your trusty nightstick on him. He obviously wasn’t in his right mind.”

“Obviously. Yes sir,” I nodded emphatically. “Everything he said was incoherent nonsense. I don’t think I understood a word of it.”

“Hmmm. Good,” he smirked.

He rambled on for a few more minutes about nothing of any particular relevance, either to my account or in general, before coming to an abrupt stop and looking over my shoulder. I immediately turned around to see the bald, bony, and ashen visage of Raubritter standing in the hallway.

“Well?” Chamberlain asked him.

“I’ve given him an extra dose. It should do for now, but I’ve taken a blood sample as well,” Raubritter replied as he adjusted his opaque, hexagonal spectacles. “I will be analyzing it to see what went wrong, and if necessary, I shall return to administer a modified version of the serum.”

He took a few steps towards the desk, then turned his head towards me in one slow, methodical sweeping motion.

“I think I owe you an apology, Guter Herr. It is rather embarrassing that such shotty workmanship has slipped through my fingers. I do hope my client did not give you too much of a fright?” he said.

“I’m security. It’s part of the job,” I said nonchalantly, trying my best not to look at him without coming across as offensive.        

“Still, an uncomfortable situation for anyone to be in, and yet you did quite well, I think,” he said as he handed me an aged business card with an ornate, old-fashioned font printed on it. “If Seneca here ever lets you go, or you simply decide that you aren’t reaching your full potential here, I encourage you to give me a call. Not only can I offer you a more stimulating work environment, but my… health plan, I think is the right translation, is unlike anything anyone else could offer.

“I think you’ll find that I really know how to bring out the best in my employees.”

There exists a nameless town in the valley somewhere in the most southwestern part of California. If you were to go look for it during the day, you wouldn’t have any luck in finding it. Only under the dark shroud of nightfall does this accursed settlement reveal itself to those unfortunate souls who chance upon its dread-strewn road.

I grew up listening to the tales woven by those who claimed to have been there. Their narratives recounted encounters with apparitions, cryptic beings, and strange celestial phenomena that defied the limits of known human ingenuity. While these stories enthralled me, even occasionally giving me nightmares, the passage of time wore away their prominence, and they slipped into the recesses of my mind, forgotten.

That is until I was assigned to patrol the area. It was early morning when I started my shift. In the first hour, nothing much happened. The place was quiet and boring, and the summer heat made it even worse. But then, things took an interesting turn when I spotted a man wandering along the road that led to the valley.

At that moment, I pulled over and interrogated him. His clothes were disheveled and torn. He appeared bewildered and was sunburned, showing signs of dehydration, and he had a few scratches on his face and arms.

With a voice trembling in fear and desperation, all he said was, “Get me away from here! Far, far, far away!”

I escorted him into my patrol car and drove to the station. There, I got him some water while the nurse attended to his minor wounds. Once he had calmed down and seemed more willing to talk, I went ahead and questioned him again. I took out a recorder and asked him to give me details of the previous day’s events.

First, he gave me the basic information about himself. His name was Arthur, and he flew down from Sacramento to San Diego for a conference.

What he shared with me brought back those tales about the mysterious town I’ve heard in my childhood. This time, instead of finding excitement in the story, I felt a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. I couldn’t help but suspect that he was pulling my leg! The fear etched on his face, however, told me that he was dead serious.

His story was just one of the many crazy stories I would hear during my time on the force. I recorded the interviews and transcribed them to be posted online. Although I want others to learn about these phenomena, I honestly don’t know what good it does to tell anyone when most people will mark you as a fool, a “tinfoil nut job” or worse, a conspiracy theorist. A part of me hopes there’s someone out there who believes. I suppose it’s pointless, as well, to keep it all to yourself, letting it gradually drive you into madness.

XXXXX

Arthur: After the conference, I decided to rent a car and take a short trip to Tijuana for a day before flying back home.

Officer M: Oh, yeah? What did you do there?

Arthur: Oh, you know, I drank a couple of beers and ate enough tacos to fill an elephant’s stomach. What else do you need in life, am I right? I ended up staying in the city the whole day, and by the time I got to the US border, the sun was already going down. I think it was probably about 7:30 in the evening.

Once I passed the checkpoint, I started to drive my way up to Chula Vista where I was staying at a friend’s house. But I guess I must’ve taken a wrong turn on the way. I continued driving on the road for quite some time—I don’t know how long, but it felt like more than twenty minutes. Eventually, I realized that I was the only one on that road. There was no traffic, and I don’t remember seeing another driver pass by.

My phone couldn’t pick up any reception, not even a Wi-Fi signal. The night was pitch-black, and the car’s headlights couldn’t light more than a couple of feet ahead. And then, I saw lights in the distance.

Officer M: Lights?

Arthur: Yeah, lights. As I drove closer, I saw that they were lights of a neon sign belonging to a two-story bar called The Three Sisters.

Officer M: The Three Sisters, huh. You know, I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve never heard of a bar with that name. In fact, there aren’t any businesses or people living in that area.

Arthur: I’m telling you that it exists. I was there.

Officer M: Okay, okay, go on with your story.

Arthur: The bar had two stories, like I mentioned. The second story was dark, but the first floor looked pretty lively from the outside. There were several cars parked in its lot. I felt very relieved at that moment. Finally, a sign of life! As I pulled up front and got out of the car, I could hear loud music and people talking. I went in to ask if I could use a phone and let him know my whereabouts.

But the moment I stepped inside, the music and the chatting came to a dead stop. I felt as though I was a lamb that had stupidly wandered into a lion’s den. My instincts told me to leave, and so I quickly returned to the car and stepped on the gas. But, after a few minutes of speeding on the road, I saw the bar again!

Officer M: Are you sure it was the same bar?

Arthur: I’m very sure of it! It was the exact same one! Same music, same sign, and the same cars parked in the lot. I got the courage to go back into that bar again, this time asking for a phone. Oh boy, I could feel their stares just burning right into the back of my neck.

Officer M: Tell me more about the people you saw there. Did anyone try to get in your face? Verbally or physically harass you?

Arthur: No, but the atmosphere was, you know, heavy. It felt like the room was full of hungry animals. I noticed that the majority of the patrons were men, except for the bartender. She was the only one who welcomed me as I entered. She was a young lady, perhaps in her mid to late 20s, with long, straight black hair and a kind smile.

Her name was Marie. She let me use the landline phone. What’s even more strange is that it was a rotary phone. Now, that’s an antique. I attempted to call my friend, but the call wouldn’t fully connect. It would ring a few times, and then I would hear nothing but static on the other end of the line.

I asked her if I could use her phone to look up my location because mine wasn’t receiving any signal. She appeared confused and didn’t seem to understand what I was saying. Instead, she insisted that I stay and have a drink, suggesting that it was late, and it would be better to wait until morning to figure things out. Reluctantly, I took a seat at the bar, thinking what I should do, while she poured me a shot of gin.

“On the house,” she said and then asked me if I was hungry. She mentioned that her sister, Linda, was the cook in the kitchen and could whip up a juicy burger in no time. But I wasn’t hungry at all. My appetite was gone because of the stress caused by the unusual situation. Her other sister, Sarah, worked as a waitress. As it turned out, all three of them ran the bar, or rather, as they clarified, it was a tavern because the second floor served as lodging for travelers.

Officer M: How long were you at the bar? Did you end up staying overnight?

Arthur: Yeah, I did. It was pretty late, almost midnight, I believe. Since I had several drinks, driving wasn’t an option. Marie kindly offered me a room, assuring me that I didn’t need to worry about the bill.

“On the house,” she said again, though I wouldn't be the only one she would be extending the offer to. Another guy, who had also stumbled into the bar and seemed lost like me, was offered the same hospitality. He had been driving aimlessly on the same road until he spotted the bar. Marie gave him a drink and mentioned that she could provide him with a room for the night as well.

Officer M: Free shots and a room. That’s really kind of her. Too kind, to be honest. Why do you think you were offered drinks and a place to sleep, all for free? Isn’t that suspicious, don’t you think? I would assume she’d want something in return.

Arthur: She did. Her and her sisters.

Officer M: What did they want?

Arthur: Food, meaning us.

Officer M: Cannibals?

Arthur: I think they’re something else.

Officer M: Like what?

Arthur: I don’t know exactly. But I know that they’re not human. Sarah escorted us to our rooms. As we made our way up the stairs, she kept sniffing us, trying to get close to our necks and inhaling deeply. I could see her salivate, and her eyes had an indescribable hunger in them.

I thanked her for her and her sister’s hospitality and went into my room, shutting the door behind me and ensuring it was locked. I ended up passing out on the bed. Later, a loud noise in the next room abruptly woke me up. It sounded like a struggle—someone fighting for their life. It was brief, followed by a loud cry, and then absolute silence.

Sleep and drunkenness left me. I was wide awake. Sober. My heart was beating out of my chest so hard, blood roared in my ears. I heard my neighbor’s door creak open. There was the sound of footsteps and what sounded like something heavy being dragged across the floor. It paused at my door for a moment, sniffing, and then continued down the hall, dragging that heavy thing behind it, though I had this gut feeling it was that other poor guy...

Officer M: Did you see what it was that took the man?

Arthur: Hell no! I held my breath and waited for it to pass by. I wanted to get the fuck out of there right away, but I didn’t want to attract the sisters’ attention. I tried the window. They had nailed it shut! I snuck out of the room. There was a trail of blood from the room next to mine, going all the way down the steps.

I checked the window at the end of the hall. They had nailed it shut, too. It dawned on me that there was no way out but through the front door downstairs. As I went down the steps, there was an aroma in the air. The door leading to the kitchen was partially open and I saw the sisters standing by the stove. What made me sick, almost blacking out from shock, was the body on the kitchen counter.

I heard them talking about me. They were planning to take me next. I was about to reach the front door when I accidentally stumbled into a chair and knocked over a table. I didn’t look back to see if they were behind me. I already knew they were. I bolted out of there, got into my car, and started to reverse when one of the sisters suddenly appeared on the hood.

It was Marie, and she started changing into some kind of creature... It looked like a humanoid bat!

Officer M: A humanoid bat?

Arthur: I know it sounds absolutely insane.

Officer M: Yup, you’re right, it’s really insane. I think we’re done here.

Arthur: But I‘m telling you what I saw was real! It’s the truth!

Officer M: Cannibalistic murderers I can believe, but someone transforming into a bat like Dracula? Seriously, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Arthur: I swear I saw it. It had enormous wings that sprouted from her back, stretching out about ten feet wide!

Officer M: Stop.

Arthur: Her eyes glowed red, pulsating in their sockets, and they had a power that drew me in.

Officer M: Sir, I’ve heard enough.

Arthur: But let me finish my story. I need someone to just listen to me. So, please, let me finish my story. You need to hear me out. You need to know what’s out there. Your life may depend on it.

Officer M: Alright, fine. Get on with it!

Arthur: Okay, where was I? Oh, yes, Marie had transformed into a large bat. Then, without moving her lips, she spoke to me, her voice loud inside my head, urging me to turn off the engine and go back into the tavern. It was difficult to resist. I felt a force pulling my hand, inching it closer to the ignition and shutting off the car.

But then, an instinct, as primal as it was powerful, jolted me back to reality. I stomped on the gas and drove off. The creature clung to the hood with relentless determination. I swerved the car from side to side, trying to throw off the creature. I ended up rolling into a ditch. The car! I can take you there. I’ll show you! I know it’s still there.

XXXXX

Here, at this point in the interview, I switched off the recorder and drove us to the spot where Arthur had crashed. On the way there, I kept telling myself that it was likely Arthur was experiencing delusions. I figured he suffered from a head injury from the car incident and being stranded in the middle of nowhere for hours without food or water.

Deep inside, however, there was a feeling of awful dread that he was telling the truth. The tales I had heard and the nightmares I had endured as a child were indeed real. The inexplicable nature of it all was undeniably terrifying.

Arthur's excitement nearly caused him to leap up as he pointed to a distant metal lump. As I drove us closer, the lump transformed into a more distinct shape—a white car with its windshield completely shattered and the front hood crumpled, as if something heavy had sat upon it.

I turned back on the recorder.

XXXXX

Officer M: Okay, explain what happened here.

Arthur: When I drove into the ditch, the creature was still on top of the hood, and it started to hammer the windshield with its fists. It finally broke through the glass, the only thing that had been protecting me, and grabbed me by the front of my shirt. I managed to break free—you can see here; my shirt is ripped—and I crawled out of the car. I started running. I didn’t know where I was going. The darkness seemed to seep into my bones, clouding my judgment.

And then I heard its wail and the flapping of its wings. Loud and thunderous. My god, it was the most terrifying sound I’ve ever heard. It sounded like the screams of tortured souls echoing from the bowels of hell. I didn’t look behind me. I kept running until I came across a small town, and there were people walking on the streets.

Officer M: A town? There’s no town here. As you can see, it’s all empty. Just grassy fields for miles.

Arthur: What I saw was real. The people there weren’t...

Officer M: Weren’t what?

Arthur: They weren’t human, not by any stretch of the imagination. Their red eyes pierced through the darkness, giving off an unholy, sinister glow. Just pure evil. But it was their teeth that really terrified me.

Their mouths held razor-sharp fangs. Their tongues slithered from their mouths, elongated and forked like snakes in the grass. Each flick of their tongues seemed to taste the very air, seeking out something unseen. And then I felt their eyes on me. They looked at me with that same hunger I’d seen in the tavern from the patrons. That’s when I realized that some of them were the ones from the tavern.

Officer M: And somehow you survived the night? How did that happen?

Arthur: Dawn. The sun started coming up. The town and the creatures all just evaporated into thin air. The only evidence of what happened is the wrecked car and me. Believe me or not. I don’t care.

I know what happened, and I’ll be forever haunted by it.

A cabin remained half-rooved on its eastern face by pelts of dead things while the west slanted with a freshly cleared and smooth metal—it stood alongside a dugout stocked with crates; the structures overlooked an open plane of snow from their hilly perch and beyond that there were black jagged trees against the dreary yonder. Though the wind pushed as an abrupt force against the cabin’s walls, within the noise was hardly a whisper and the heater lamps along the interior walls of the large singular room offered a steady hum that disappeared even that.

The room had two beds—one double and another short cot pushed into a corner— and each was separated by a thin curtain nailed to the overhead support beams; the curtain caught in the life of the place, the gust from the heater lamps, the movement of those that lived there, and it listed so carefully it might not have moved at all.

Opposite the beds on the far wall, there stood a kitchen with cabinets and a stove, and the stove was attended by a thin young woman; she was no older than her second decade. In the corner by the stove just beyond where the kitchen counter ended, there sat a rocking chair where an old man nestled underneath pelts and a wool blanket, and he puffed tobacco and he watched the woman as she worked—she stirred the pot over a red eye and examined the liquid which lowly simmered. The man watched her silently, eyes far away like in remembrance. He absently pushed his gray mustache down with the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. Smoke came from the pipe in spider string and the man blinked dumbly.

Amid the place where pelts lined the floor between the far wall of beds and the far wall of the kitchen, there sat a young pale boy with a scrap of canvas rubbish in the center—he used the canvas strip, browned and filthy, like a bird in his play, spreading the strip out and letting it fall to the ground. “Fly,” whispered the small boy to the strip; each time he lifted the rubbish, it fell to the floor by his crossed legs, and he repeated this process.

The adults ignored the boy, and the woman swiped the back of her hand across her forehead then wiped her knuckles down the front of her blouse. “It’ll be ready soon,” she said.

The man nodded then drifted off in his long expression again, staring at the door which remained closed. Wind speed pitched and the door seemed to warp inward. Alongside the door, there sat a thick glass porthole which one could use to look out on the snow-covered landscape; the curtains before the porthole were mostly drawn but on late evenings, light splintered through ghostly.

Shrugging of his warm coverings, the man lifted from the chair and crossed the room to pull aside the curtains; he stood there in the light of the hole, painted dull in his gray thermals. He watched outside, scratched his receding hairline and when he moved to shut the curtain, he saw the boy had joined him there at the window. The man smiled, lifted the curtain, and angled from there, allowing the boy to peer outside; he puffed on his pipe heavily, holding the thing stiffly with his free hand and offering a glance to the woman by the stove who watched the pair from where she was.

“I can’t even see the road,” said the boy.

The man nodded, “Snow covered it.”

“It’s winter?”

Again, the man nodded.

Winter, with the mutated ecology of the planet, was nearly a death sentence in northern Manitoba. Those places just north of Lake Winnipeg were mostly forgotten or abandoned, but there still lingered a few souls that dared the relative safety of the frozen wasteland—sometimes curious vagabonds, sometimes ex-convicts, or slaves, sometimes even criminals upstarted townships where there was nothing prior.

“Pa, I see someone,” said the boy.

The man angled forward again, squinted through the porthole, and puffed the pipe hard so his face glowed orange then moved surprisingly quickly to hand the pipe to the woman; she fumbled with the object and sat it upright on the counter while he rushed to remove a parka from a wall hook by the door. He shouldered into the thing and then leapt to the place by the door where his boots were kept and slammed into them each, knotting them swiftly.

“What is it?” the woman’s voice shook.

They caught one another’s eyes. “Snowmobile,” said the man.

“One?”

He nodded and strapped his gloves on then moved to the latch of the door—before levering the thing, he took another glance at the boy.

“We’ll shut it behind you,” said the boy. The woman nodded.

The door swung inward with explosive force and the outside wind ripped into the warm abode. The man immediately shivered and stumbled into the snow, appropriately clothed save his legs where only his gray thermals clung to him.

After spilling into the boot-high snow, the man twisted around and aided the others in shutting the door behind him; he pulled as they pushed, and he listened past the howling wind for the latch on the opposite side of the door. He let go of the door and spun to inspect the far-off blinding whiteness—clouds of snow were thrown up in the wake of a barreling snowmobile; it headed towards him, first from between the naked spaces between the black trees then into the open white. The man threw up both his hands, waving the snowmobile down, long stepping through the arduous terrain till he came to the bottom of the perch that supported the cabin. His shouts of, “Hey!” were totally lost in the wind but still he shouted.

The snowmobile braked twenty yards out from the man and the stranger on the machine killed the engine, adjusted the strings around their throat and threw off the hood of their own parka to expose blackened goggles beneath a gray tuque; a wrap obscured the lower half of their face. The stranger took a gloved hand to yank the wrap from their mouth and yelled over the wind a greeting then removed themselves from the seat to land in the snow.

“Cold?” offered the man with a shout.

The stranger nodded in agreement and removed an oblong instrument case from the rear storage grates of the snowmobile then took a few careful steps towards the man.

“Dinner’s almost ready! I’m sure you’d like the warmth!” The man waved the stranger closer and the stranger obliged, following the man towards the cabin; each of the figures tumbled through the snow with slow and swiveling footwork. The man stopped at the door, supporting himself on the exterior wall by the porthole.

The stranger angled within arm’s reach, so the man did not have to yell as loudly as before. “Guitar?” The man pointed at the case which the stranger carried.

The stranger nodded.

“Maybe you’ll play us something.” he pounded on the metal of the exterior door, “It’s been some time since I’ve heard music.” The door opened and the two stumbled into the cabin.

The stranger shivered and snow dust fell from their shoulders as they deposited the guitar case on the floor by their feet—they moved directly to help the man and the boy close the door while the woman watched and held her elbows by the porthole.

With the door sealed and the latch secured, the man removed his parka so that he was in his boots and thermals.

The stranger removed their own parka, lifted the goggles to their forehead, and stepped to the nearby heater lamp to remove their gloves and warm their hands against the radiating warmth; the stranger was a young tall man with a hint of facial hair just below his nose and along his jaw. He wore a gun belt occupied on his right hip with a revolver. His fingers were covered in long faded scars all over. “Thanks,” said the young man, “Clarkesville far? I think I was turned around in the snow. I’m not so used to it.”

The older man went to his rocking chair to cover himself with the wool blanket; he huffed and shivered. “At least a hundred kilometers west from here. You’re looking for Clearwater?”

The young man nodded then shifted to place his back to the heater lamp so that he could look on the family fully. “I’m Gomez,” he said to them. The man in the rocking chair stiffened in his seat and craned forward so that his boots were flatly planted before him.

The boy offered his name first with a smile so broad it exposed that his front two teeth along the bottom row were missing entirely. “Patrick,” said the boy.

The woman spoke gently and nodded in a quick reply, “Tam-Tam.”

“Huh?” asked the man in the chair, “You’re unfamiliar of the area? Where are you from?”

Gomez stuffed his arms beneath his armpits. “Originally?”

The man motioned for his pipe and Tam-Tam handed it to him—puffed on the dead tobacco and frowned. He nodded at Gomez.

“I’ve been making my way across the U.S. Mostly western territories, but I heard it was safer in Canada—North Country. Fewer prowlers. Originally though? Far south. Zapatistas—joined their cause for a bit, but,” Gomez looked to the guitar case on the floor, “I was better at music than killing. Or at least preferred it.” The young man let go of a small laugh, “Do you know anything of the Zapatistas?”

The man nodded, stroked his great mustache, and craned far to lift matches from the counter. He lit the pipe, and it smoked alive while he shook the match and puffed. “Durango.” The man hooked a thumb at himself.

Gomez nodded. “I played there before. Good money. Good people.”

The man grinned slyly over his pipe, “What are the odds? All the way up here?”

“It’s a small world,” Gomez agreed, “It’s getting smaller all the time. What are you doing so far from home?”

“Same as you. It’s safer, right? Everyone said, but I’m not so sure.”

The boy interjected, “You play music?” Patrick neared the case which sat on the floor, and he leaned forward to examine the outside of the object; it was constructed from a very hard, shining, plastic material.

“I do,” said Gomez.

“I haven’t heard music before. We sing sometimes, but not music for real,” said the boy.

Gomez frowned. “How old are you?”

Patrick turned to the man in the chair. “Pa?”

“He’s six,” said the man.

Tam-Tam shook her head, removing the pot from the hot eye. “He’s almost six.”

“Almost six,” said the boy, turning back to look at the stranger.

Gomez shook his head. “Almost six and you’ve never heard music? Not for real?” He sniffed through a cold clog and swallowed hard. “I’ll play you some.”

Patrick’s eyes widened and a delicate smile grew across his mouth.

“I’m Emil,” said the man in his chair, “You offered yours, so my name’s Emil.” Smoke erupted from his mouth while the pipe glowed orange. The older man wafted the air with his hand to dispel the smoke.

Tam-Tam Shut off the oven and placed the pot of stew on the counter atop a towel swatch and she pressed her face to the brim and inhaled.

“Is it good, dear?” asked Emil leaning forward in his chair by the counter to question the woman; the woman lifted a steaming ladle to her mouth and sipped then nodded and Patrick moved quickly to the woman’s side.

The boy received the first bowl and then turned to look at the interloper, metal spoon jammed into the side of his jaw while he spoke, “Play some music.”

“After,” said Emil, placing the pipe on the counter to grab himself some grub.

Emil ate while rocking in his chair and Tam-Tam leaned with her back against the counter, sipping directly from her bowl without a utensil. Gomez took his own bowl and squatted by the front door, pressing his lower back against the wall for support; Patrick, eyes wide, remained enamored with the strange man and questioned more, “Pa said it's warm in other places, that it’s not so dark either. What’s it like where you come from?”

Gomez smiled at the boy, blew on the spoonful he held in front of his lips then nodded, “It’s dangerous, more dangerous.”

Patrick nodded emphatically then finished his food with enthusiasm.

The stranger examined the bowl while turning the stew in his mouth with his tongue; the concoction had long-cut onions, chunked potatoes, strange jerky meat. “Pelts,” said Gomez.

Emil perked with a mouthful, unable to speak.

“You have pelts all over—are you a hunter?”

Emil swallowed back, “Trapper,” he nodded then continued the excavation of his bowl.

“Elk?”

The old man in the chair hissed in air to cool the food in his mouth then swallowed without hardly chewing, and patted his chest, “Sometimes.”

Gomez stirred his bowl, took a final bite then dipped the spoon there in the stew and sat the dish by his foot and moved to kneel and open his instrument case.

“It’ll get cold,” protested Tam-Tam.

Gomez smiled, “I’ll eat it. Your boy seems excited. Besides, I’d like to play a little.” He wiggled his scarred fingers, “It’ll work the cold out of my hands.”

He pressed the switches of the case while turning it on its side and opened it to expose a flamenco guitar. Patrick edged near the stranger, and Gomez nodded at the boy and lifted the guitar from its case, angling himself against the wall in a half-sit where his rear levitated. Gomez played the strings a bit, listened, twisted the nobs at the head of the guitar.

“Is that it?” asked the boy.

Gomez shook his head, “Just testing it. Warming my hands on it.”

In moments, the man began ‘Paloma Negra’, singing the words gently, in a higher register than his speaking voice would have otherwise hinted at. Patrick watched the man while he played, the boy’s hands remained clasped behind himself while he teetered on his heels and listened. Emil rocked in the chair, finished his meal, and relit the pipe. Tam-Tam listened most absently and instead went for seconds in the pot; she turned with her lower back on the counter and watched the man with the guitar.

There was no other noise besides the song which felt haunted alongside the hum of the heater lamps. Once it finished, the boy clapped, Emil clapped, Tam-Tam nodded, and Gomez bowed then sat the guitar beneath the porthole by the doorway.

“Thank you,” said Gomez.

“That’s quite good,” said Emil. As if spurred on by the music, the man gently rotated a palm around his stomach and rocked in his chair more fervently, “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

“All over,” said Gomez, “I like to pick up songs where I find them. Sometimes a fellow musician has a piece I like, almost never their own anyway, so I think we all share in some way.”

“Poetic,” offered Tam-Tam.

Gomez caught the woman’s eyes, nodded. “I guess it is.”

“Where’d you find that one?” asked Emil, “I heard it a few times but never this far north. It’s like a love song,” he offered the last sentence to the others in the room.

“You’re right—sort of,” Gomez placed his body against the wall by the door, glanced at the bowl of food he’d left on the floor then sighed and bowed again to lift it—the interloper tilted the bowl back on his bottom lip and sipped then casually leaned with the utensil against his sternum. “Somewhere in Mexico is where I heard it first. Maybe same as you.”

Patrick examined the guitar under the porthole, put his face directly up to the strings and peered into the hole in the center of the instrument; his expression was one of awe. He quickly whipped from the thing and stared at the guitarist and opened his mouth like he intended to ask a question. The boy stared at the scars on the interloper’s hands. “What’s those from?”

Not understanding the direction of the question, Gomez looked down to examine his fingers then shifted on his feet and nodded. “Mechanical work.”

Emil continued rocking in his chair and gathered the wool around his throat. “Where did you do that?”

“Zapatistas,” Gomez sipped from the bowl again and chewed, “It’s work I was never good at.” The young man shrugged.

“I wasn’t going to pry, but seeing as the boy’s asked, I’ll push more some if it’s not impolite.”

“It’s not,” Gomez agreed.

“That’s a lot of deep scarring for mechanical work,” Emil rocked in his chair, puffed, raised a furry eyebrow, “What stuff did you work on?”

“You want to know?”

Emil nodded, withdrew the pipe from his mouth and rolled his wrist out in front of himself then slammed the mouthpiece into his teeth.

“I worked with the army, but before then—well there was a boy, a little Chicano lad taken into one of the El Paso houses way back and all the girls that worked there loved him, but his mother perished, and no one even knew who she was. That was, oh,” Gomez tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, “Twenty-two years ago or a little more.”

“Your hands?” asked Tam-Tam.

Gomez smiled warm and continued, “Well this little boy was given a name, but what’s in a name?” He seemed to pose the question to Emil who shook his head like he didn’t understand.

“I don’t understand,” said Emil aloud.

The younger man continued with the tale, “There was this boy, but he was taken over the Republican border by a group of desperados calling themselves Los Carniceros,” Gomez angled down to look at the boy, “Patrick, do you know what a desperado is?”

The boy shook his head, his expression one of total bafflement and a twinkle of nervousness. “A music-people?”

Gomez laughed heartily while Emil shuffled under his wool blanket—the older man stopped rocking in his chair, craned forward so his elbows rested on his knees and his thermals showed as the blanket slipped around his armpits. The hum of the heater lamps continued beside the silence.

“Los Carniceros are a group of fancy criminals that hail out of Veracruz, but they have networks all over. San Luis Potosi.” Gomez’s eyes locked with Emil’s, “Durango. They have connections with the cattle industries all over Mexico. Their name’s tongue-in-cheek, but that shouldn’t fool anyone—they are just as ready to butcher a man as they are a cow. They control the food; they control the politicians; they control trade.” Gomez shook his head. “I’ve gotten carried away. This is no history lesson. There was a boy taken into Los Carniceros territory. He was bought—I’m glad that never happened to you, Patrick—boys that are bought are never kept good for long. So, they brought Johnny-Boy, that’s what they called him, into their inner circle and they used to have Johnny-Boy fight dogs in a ring for the amusement of Los Carniceros’s officers. Sometimes they gambled on the whether the boy would die, but he never did.”

Tam-Tam shivered aloud and rubbed her biceps with her hands and shook her head. “What’s that have anything to do with your hands?”

“You’re right,” said Gomez, “I guess what I mean is when you spend time fighting dogs, they bite—they bite hard, and they break skin that needs to heal. But just as well as dogs bite, so too does the boy that is raised as a dog.” Gomez shrugged.

“Quite the story,” said Emil; he’d refrained from rocking in his chair and stayed very still. “You fought dogs?”

“I did. It’s been a helluva long time, but you know I did, Emil Vargas.”

The older man took a long drag from his pipe then cupped the thing in his hands while his vision drifted around the room. “Have you come to take me back?” asked the older man.

The interloper shook his head.

Emil’s gaze drifted to the faces of Patrick and Tam-Tam. “Will it just be me?”

Gomez shook his head, “I can do you first. You won’t need to see it.”

“What?” clamored Tam-Tam, “What the hell is going on?”

Patrick stumbled away from the stranger, clung to Tam-Tam, and said nothing but began to let out a low sob.

Emil took one last drag and tossed the pipe to the counter. “It wouldn’t help to beg?”

“Would it stop you?” asked Gomez.

“Probably not,” nodded the older man, “Me first then.”

Gomez withdrew his revolver and Tam-Tam let go of an awful shriek as Emil’s head jerked back in his chair to the bullet entering his chest. At the second bullet, Emil’s limbs shot out from him like he was a star.

Patrick and Tam-Tam gathered around each other, shuffled to the counter of the kitchen.

Juan Rodriguez—that was the interloper’s real name—took a step forward and fired the gun again and Tam-Tam struck the counter and blood rained down from her forehead; to perhaps save Patrick, she shoved the boy away in her death spasm. The boy stumbled over onto his knees and when he raised his head, Juan towered over him.

Patrick, almost six, shook violently and wept.

“Turn around,” said Juan.

Patrick turned away from the interloper, stared at the corpses of his mother and father.

Juan fired the revolver one last time and the boy hit the floor; the man holstered the pistol and wiped his cheek with a sleeve. His face was touched with blood splatter; he searched the floor, found a scrap of canvas, bent to snatch it. He wiped his face clear with the canvas and sighed and tossed the scrap away.

The cabin was entirely quiet, save the hum of the heater lamps, and Juan set about clearing the bodies from the cabin, first by opening the door. He chucked the corpse of the boy into the snow by the door, piled his mother alongside him, and fought with the heavier corpse of Emil till Juan fell into the snow beside the others. He pulled himself from the thick storm, staggered through the whistle-blow wind and fought through grunts and mild shouts to close the door.

Upon spinning with the closed door at his back, he saw several of the heater lamps had gone out in the wind. Shivering, teeth chattering, Juan found Emil’s matches on the counter and set about relighting each of the heater lamps which had gone out; he did the act automatonlike, a person driven by force but no lively one.

Through the harsh outside wind, which sounded like breathing against the boards, he hummed a tune to himself that manifested into him whistling a light tune—the River Kwai March—then rifled through the cabinetry of the kitchen, went through the footlocker by the double bed and dumped the contents onto the floor; he kicked the personal affects—papers, trinkets—across the boards. Among the things, he found a shiny glass-reflective tablet, lifted it, pocketed the thing into his parka, then kept looking for what else might catch his attention. He found a small square picture, frameless, face down and lifted it to his eyes then angled over to the nearest heater lamp with it pinched by the corner. The photo was of a woman too young to be a mother—she was more of a girl, really; she carried a fat-bellied infant on her hip in one arm and with the other, she held up a dual-finger peace sign. Juan stared at the picture in complete silence then chuckled at the blank expression of the baby, then threw the square photo like a shuriken across the room; it thunked against the wall and disappeared behind the double bed, never to be seen ever again.

As it went full dark outside, the chitter sounds of outside became prevalent, and Juan went to the porthole by the door, pulled the curtains tightly closed and offered no response to the alien sounds which culminated around the walls of the cabin. It was delirium incarnate—abyssal noise which swallowed even the blizzard howl. Things moved outside and Juan went to the kitchen again, looked over the cabinet doors, opened and slammed them; he huffed with exasperation and moved to the pot where the cooled stew sat and began to eat directly from there with the ladle. His far-off eyesight glared into the dimness of the heater lamps, his face glowing by them, and once he was finished with the pot, he chucked the thing and watched the leftover contents splatter into a wild configuration across the single room’s floor.

Only after removing his boots, he fell onto the double bed, removed his revolver from the holster and placed it there on the well-maintained bedding beside himself; he slept with his parka draped over his torso.

He did not open his eyes for the insect noises of the outside.

In the morning, he promptly wiped sleep from his eyes, rebolstered his weapon, and stared across the room with a blank expression. In a moment, spasm-like, he removed the tuque he slept in to reveal a head of black hair, and scratched his fingers over his head. He replaced the tuque, went to the porthole; upon swiping away the curtains, he stared into the white expanse, the black forest beyond—he took the sleeve of his thermal shirt and wiped across the porthole’s glass where condensation fogged.

Knee-high snow hills spilled inward as he opened the door, and he kicked the snow out lazily and stomped into the mess while shouldering his parka on; the hood flapped helplessly till he stiffly yanked it down his forehead. The wind was entirely mild, still. Through goggled eyes, he examined around the entrance, but there was no sign of the corpses—he waywardly stomped through the heavied snow in the place he’d deposited them and there was nothing below the surface.

Juan stumbled through the high snow around to where the dugout stood alongside the cabin and traced a smallish hill where he crawled for a moment to gather his footing. Snow had fallen in through the high apertures of the dugout, but there was a small door-gate attached between two of the pillars which held the slanted roof of the dugout. After fighting the door-gate out, he squeezed through, removed a flashlight from the inner pocket of his parka and settled down the few steps which led into the earth. A bit of morning light spilled in through those spaces of the wall along the high points, just beneath the roof, but Juan held the flashlight in his mouth and began examining the mess of snow-dusted containers.

Along the lefthand were sacks, well preserved if only for the weather; he kicked a tobacco sack—there was a crunch underfoot. Opposite the piled sacks of grains, vegetables, and dried meats were many metal crates, each one with hinges. At the rear of the dugout were a series of battery banks which seemed to hum with electricity.

He stomped each of the sacks, cocked his left ear to the air and began making a mess of the dugout. One crate contained expensive wooden boarding, he tipped this over into the little hallway created by the goods and carefully examined the contents and then he went to the next. The next crate was bolts of fabrics and twine and he sneered, shook his head.

The interloper took a moment, fell rear-first on the sacks, pulled the flashlight from his mouth and pawed across his forehead and throat; he sighed and sat quiet—in a moment, he was back at the search, more furiously. He rocked his head backward, so the parka hood fell away; sweat shined his face. There were condensed snares and jaws and there was a small crate of maple-infused wine; Juan froze when holding one of the bottles up to the higher natural light. He grimaced but set the box of bottles by the entryway, removing one which he slid into his parka. The Clarkesville Winery stamp was impressed on the metal wall of the package.

After several crates of canned goods, his movements became more sluggish and Juan came upon a crate that seemed to be more of the same, but whenever he tipped it over for the contents to spill out, a smaller, ornate wooden box fell out and he hushed, “Fuck,” while hunkering into the mess to retrieve the box. Some old master carved Laelia Orchids into the grain alongside stalkish invasive sage; the wood—Acacia—was old but well kept. The bronze hardware shone cleanly enough.

The container was no longer than his forearm and he briefly held the thing to the high-light and moved to the entrance and fell haphazardly onto the strewn and half-deflated frozen tobacco sacks.

He opened the small box’s latch and flipped it’s top open and smiled at the contents and quicky slapped the box shut.

In a flash, he unburied his snowmobile with his hands, harnessed his guitar case to its rear, then trailed through the snow gathered against the side of the cabin, using the exterior wall as support with his hand. He came to the backside of the structure, tilted his head to gaze again over at the dugout then swiveled to look at the thick metal tank buried in the ground and marked by a big hump in the snow. Juan moved to the tank, brushed off the snow with gloved hands, nodded to himself. Quickly, he returned to the tank with a hand-pick and bucket he snatched from the dugout. With a few swings, fuel spilled through the punctures he’d created; he placed the bucket beneath the handmade spigots to catch the fuel—in seconds the bucket sloshed full as he lifted it and wavered round to the front of the cabin where the door remained open.

He doused the innards of the structure with the bucket and whipped the object against the interior wall then removed the matches from the counter. Standing in the doorway, he lit the awaiting inferno; the heat explosion pushed him wobble-legged outside while he covered his face from it; he hustled to the snowmobile without looking back.

The vehicle came alive, and Juan trailed across the plane he’d used the day prior. As the snowmobile met the sparse black tree line, the flames too met the fuel tank at the back of the cabin; a heavy eruption signaled, and blackbirds cawed as they trailed across the milk-blue sky.

Among the rush of trees there was a translucent figure and Juan roundabouted the snowmobile. Upon edging to the place of the forest, still very near the trapper’s cabin, Juan caught sight of a stickman among the wide spaced trunks. The noises exhausted from its face the same as a cicada’s tymbal call. Juan killed the engine, removed his pistol, leapt from the snowmobile.

The stickman fought in the snow with something unseen, bulbous-jointed limbs erratically clawed against the ground; it seemed more crab than humanoid. Juan approached with the pistol leveled out in front of himself. The stickman, a North Country native, took up great armfuls of snow as it tumbled to the ground, slanted onto its feet, then tumbled over again. It was caught in a bear trap and as the thing fought against the jaw, its leg twisted worse and worse, and the cicada call grew more distressed. Its hollow limb, smashed and fibrous like a fresh and splintered bamboo shoot, offered no blood at the wound.

“Huh,” said Juan, lowering the gun to his side. He shook his head. The stickman called to him.

The interloper returned to his snowmobile and went west.

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Johnny Canine Who would’ve thought that I’d be the one that the town was hunting. The one who killed three people last night. I sat there against the oak tree, back torn up and sleeves ripped up. Blood strewn across my face. I suppose this deserves some backstory though, might as well. I’ve got time to kill. No pun intended. It all started one summer evening, I had came home after school. I was a loner so there was no friends to go hang with and kill time with after school. I had me, myself and I. I did have hobbies though, ones people might find… peculiar. I liked gathering together small animals and placing them in my collection. When I say small animals, I mean dead ones. Don’t ask me how they died though. These small animals made for exciting and thrilling ventures. I would line them up and use either a make shift rubber band gun or a sling shot to shoot them down like stacked bottles. It was more fun with them instead of bottles. I knew I was a weird kid, but so did everyone else. I had nothing better to do than to spend my time out in the woods. That’s all I knew. My family was barely home and my father was a deadbeat anyway.

Everyone at school called me “Johnny Canine” maybe because I resembled a disheveled dog, was pretty much a stray compared to everyone else and bore even more of a resemblance to canines than to actual humans. My teeth were unnaturally sharp, my nose was upturned like a dog’s and my hair was always unruly and matted like fur. I don’t know why I was this way, maybe it ties into what came next. Fate maybe? Who knows. Either way, what I am now is something completely different. Something not… human. I was in the forest doing my usual activities and away from society as always. As I placed my animals together in a small pile and gathered my things together, I heard a ruffle in the bushes. I turned quickly and adjusted my ears to attempt to hear better. I couldn’t detect anything, I was used to being out here in the woods.

What I heard sounded like an heavy animal. But now it was quiet as a mouse. Too quiet. No animals around, no sounds, nothing. That was a bad sign. I slowly crept forward to hide near a bush that was close by. I scanned the area to see if there was any signs of whatever made that sound. I sighed after a couple minutes and turned around, it was at that exact moment that a creature leapt forward and pinned me down. I started breathing heavily, I was scared out of my mind. This creature was heavy. Its breath was unbearably musky and I could feel its hot breath traveling down my neck. Its saliva dripped onto my face and I flinched, it crouched down further and I looked for things around me to use to maybe hit it and distract it long enough to make a run for it. I scanned the area until I found a rock I inched my hand towards it and stretched my fingers until could grasp it.

I mustered as much strength as I could and slammed the rock into the creatures skull. The creature staggered back a bit and snarled, I took the opportunity to scramble to my feet and run. I got no more than a few steps when I felt the creature pin me down by my back, it bit into my back and I screeched out in pain. I laid there, ready to be ripped to shreds and for my life to end. But, nothing. After that bite, I waited and waited and waited. Scared to open my eyes for fear of the creature thinking I was alive and coming to finish me off. After a while I realized that I wasn’t going to die at all. I stumbled up to my feet and slowly looked around.

There was no sign of anything. I wondered if I just imagined it all, maybe a hallucination. But then I checked my back and it was dripping with blood. I limped towards an old oak tree and sat against it, I didn’t have the strength in me to walk home and eventually drifted off to sleep. I awoke in terror, I had the worst nightmare. A nightmare that I was running around through the town killing people. They were people I knew but I couldn’t control myself and they screamed in terror as I mauled them. I stared down at my hands and saw a terrifying sight. My hands were covered in blood… And I don’t think it was mine, I sobbed. Heard police sirens around, I knew it was me they were searching for.

The box had the power to bring people back from the dead and it had made my dad very rich.

“This is going to be yours one day, so you need to listen and pay attention to everything I say and do.

The box was a plain maple box with no markings, but it had a smell which was hard to describe. It smelled like something from my childhood, sweet, like cotton candy or freshly made waffles.

When it comes to the death of a child, parents would empty their bank accounts for a chance to hug their child one last time.

The grief-stricken couple had traveled from the other side of the world. The pain of losing their child from a freak accident was etched into their faces.

“Did you bring what I asked you to?” my dad softly asked.

For the box to work, my dad would place a recent photo, the clothes the deceased were wearing when they died, and a precious personal Item into the box.

“This was his favorite toy, he never went anywhere without it,” explained the woman.

My dad placed all the items in the box, before ushering the couple into another room.

“What happens next?” I asked.

“We sit and wait, son.”

The smell of warm memories filled the room as the box started to shake. My dad walked over and took the lid of the box and a fresh-faced blond-haired boy was smiling up at us.

His blue eyes were bright and radiant, and he smelled like a newborn baby. “Mommy, Daddy,” beamed the young boy as his parents embraced him.

My dad kept a close eye on his watch as we sat in the next room.

“I hate this part,” said my dad with a sullen look on his face.

When we entered the room the smell of a newborn baby was replaced by the stench of rotten meat. The boy's radiant blue eyes were now black as coal and his face deathly pale.

“We explained the rules, Mrs Jefferson. It’s time,” my dad said as he quickly ushered the boy's crying parents from the room.

My dad left me alone in the room with the boy. I watched in horror as the boy screamed in immense pain as his bones contorted and snapped. I remembered the boy's parents telling us he died from multiple fractures when a bookcase in the family home fell on him.

After the parents had left my dad picked up the boy as he cried for his parents and carried him down the basement.

As we stopped at a large steel door my dad turned to me with a serious expression on his face.

“You have to promise one thing. When I die someday you will never bring me back.”

The smell of death hit me as he opened the steel door, before throwing the boy into the room. The room was filled with hundreds of moaning and wailing corpses, some calling out for their loved ones.

“It doesn't feel right to just bury them.”

Living with Graves’ disease isn’t fun. The tremors before you’ve even had your morning coffee, the stomach pains and queasiness and nausea and diarrhea, the thermogenesis making you constantly need to find the nearest fan because you’re boiling alive. The disrupted menstrual cycles and bulging, bloodshot eyes and worsened anxiety (which I already had long before my stupid thyroid decided to attack itself). I know so many people have it much, much worse than I do, and I’m lucky to live in the era of modern medicine where this condition isn’t a death sentence, but it’s hard.

My boyfriend’s family doesn’t understand why my hand shakes when I serve food on the dining room table. They mock me for how skinny I’ve gotten and call me anorexic behind my back. His horrid sister makes pointed comments about the dark circles under my eyes and how “tired” and “frail” I look. His brother snickers at them. I love food! I love to eat- this damn disease makes me eat more of it, ravenously. It also makes me throw up most mornings. My doctor said that’s an uncommon, but not unheard of, symptom of Graves’.

I was a healthy girl before this. A curvy size 12 with a big ass that my boyfriend loved, and muscular thighs from hiking. I didn’t ask for an autoimmune disease, but his family acts like I only use it as an excuse to avoid them.

I mean, I’m not gonna lie…I do want to avoid them. Who wouldn’t want to avoid a pack of snobby rich assholes that peaked during their frat and sorority days?

Thank God Eric isn’t like them. Eric, my boyfriend, truly has a heart of gold. He’s a special education teacher and fosters kittens. He keeps food and water in his car to give to homeless people. I’m not sure how someone so caring and down to earth could come from a group of vipers like them.

…

“Halina,” my mom spoke through the phone, and my blood curdled. She sounded like she’d been crying. My mom never cries.

“Mama?” My voice was small- not its usual deep, loud tone. It didn’t feel right to fill up the silence.

“It’s grandpa.”

My grandfather had been suffering for many years with polymyositis, an autoimmune condition that causes the deterioration of muscle tissue, but it wasn’t terminal. Still, by the sound of my mom’s shaking voice…

“Did he fall?” As a pharmacist, I remembered learning how dangerous that was for the elderly. My grandfather was in a wheelchair, but sometimes he tried to stand up by himself to use the restroom…

“No.” My mom wasn’t even whispering- her voice was hoarse, a croak. “No, his heart stopped.”

“Voi herra Jumala…” My grandpa, and my mom, were from Finland. It came naturally to me to express my shock in their language.

“I know, sweetheart. I know…”

“Mom…I’m so sorry…” My mom had a contentious relationship with my grandpa, but they had gotten so much closer in the past decade or so. He wasn’t all that old, even. “I wish I could have said goodbye.”

“He knows you loved him very much. He had a picture of you in your white coat on his nightstand. Halina…he would want you to be his laulaja.”

My family are from a particular ethnic group within Finland and Russia called Karelians. Traditionally, at Karelian funerals, the laulaja, or singer, leads the funeral procession. A laulaja is almost always a woman related to the dead. She sings, cries, and tears at her hair and clothes to lead the mourning. In Pagan times, this was said to call the soul bird, or sielulintu, out of the dead’s body so that they could pass on. In the Christian and modern eras, it’s a symbolic show of love and reverence for the deceased. Unlike stoic Finns, we Karelians are an emotional people. We make a big, formal ceremony of crying at important life events- especially weddings and funerals. It was both an immense honor and a small burden to be my grandfather’s laulaja. He trusted me to help his soul take flight…and the entire funeral party would watch intently while my cheeks turn blotchy and snot drip out of my nose as I wailed.

“You have the best voice in the family,” my mother tried to cajole me with praise. “I’m tone deaf, but you sing beautifully.”

“I’ll do it, mom.” I responded softly, gently. “Don’t worry.”

“Thank you.” She choked up. “I know it’s embarrassing, I know it’s hard…”

“No, no,” I tried to soothe her with my tone, even though I felt like crying from shock at the news. “I love grandpa. I want to do this for him.”

…

My grandpa was immensely proud of his Finnish culture. He lead the Finnish-American cultural society here in Los Angeles, and he founded a Finnish-interest library within it. He had several more books in the same vein in his home- tomes upon tomes of books from Finnish and Fenno-Swedish authors, collections of modern Karelian poetry from both Finns and Russians, and carefully-sourced digests on Finno-Ugric mythology. My grandfather was a comparative literature professor and adored the ancient myths. Though he was a devout Lutheran, he always forbade us from talking in the sauna (“You’re angering the löyly!” Löyly is both steam and a spirit, apparently) and always wore a talisman of Perkele, the thunder God, around his neck.

My grandfather left his library to me. He knew how much I loved the old myths, and how eagerly I questioned him about the Pagan roots of our Karelian traditions. I skimmed over the spines in one of his bookshelves, fingering the splitting paper and collected dust. A burgundy book with the title written in pen along the spine stopped my roving.

“Akki”

Now, my Finnish is nothing fluent, but I know enough to cause some trouble in a Helsinki karaoke bar (and oh, the trouble my sister and I caused…). I plucked the book from the shelf, surprised to notice that the paper stock looked to be sewn into the binding by hand. The cover was a soft, leather-like material, with the penned title scratched into it as well.

I knew that Akki was a Finno-Ugric mother goddess among certain groups in Russia. I think, in the Finnish mythos, she was Perkele’s wife at one point?

I opened the book, and a drawing stunned me. I minored in Russian literature in college (oh, was Grandpa angry…), and so what I saw was not a lithe, neoclassical Finnish goddess, but a horrific Baba Yaga of sorts. Instead of a chicken-legged hut, she seemed to reside on a storm cloud. Her face was gaunt, with her skin wasting on her bony cheeks, and her eyes were bloodshot and flashed with what I can only describe as pure rage. Her teeth were sharp and pointed, and though her thinness was emphasized, she was tearing into raw waterfowl with them, her mouth bloodied by the effort.

The picture was ridiculous, actually- like something from a caricature. I started to laugh. Her Graves’ disease features were not lost on me. Is this how I looked when I tore into a Chipotle burrito bowl after a workout?

“Babe!” I called to Eric from the other room, still chuckling. “You’ve gotta see this!”

“The fuck…?”

“Does this remind you of someone?” I smiled cheekily, and he laughed.

“A little- especially when you tear into a carton of ice cream.”

“Oooh…we should get some of that on the way home. Moose tracks ice cream!”

…

That night, I had a nightmare. Eric’s sister slapped me in it, so I scratched her face. It bled, and I laughed. I woke up short of breath, with sweat drenching my hair, and felt sick to my stomach.

I was just stressed, and I knew it. Grief always seemed to manifest as anxiety for me. I missed grandpa- that was all.

But I couldn’t go back to sleep. Eric woke when I did, hearing my gasp, and gave me a hug, but he had already fallen back asleep. Not wanting to toss and turn all night, I wandered into the kitchen for a cold La Croix. It was burning up in my room…

I spotted the Akki book in a box on one of the chairs by my kitchen table. Maybe reading something in Finnish would put me back to sleep? As it turned out, this book contained Finnish poetry. Most of the poems were incantations- prayers and ritual songs to fatten up livestock. Methods to burn down trees and enrich soil. However, the last poem left me utterly shaken:

“Akki, vengeful mistress, we offer this song for you.

Please be sated by this song, that it pleases you-

We seek out your forgiveness!

The blight on our crops grows.

The turnips are soft and mottled,

They fall apart in the copper boiling pot

And are hardly fit for a porridge.

The streams are empty of salmon and pike.

We have not even a scale to eat,

Not a shining salmon scale.

Oh Akki, please!

Are you not sated?

Karjala grows hungry and still you feast from our land.

You rob the flesh from our cows,

The fat from our swine,

Our chickens down to the feather.

Please, Akki, have you not had enough?

Akki, we tricked you.

This is not supplication.

We are not coming to beg-

How could you think this?

We, the heirs of Väinämöinen,

We know magic too!

We know how to enchant with song.

Akki, you who is fat from the meat of Karjala,

May you waste away!

Even if you eat, may you never be sated!

May your muscles waste down to the sinew,

And slack.

May your cheeks grow gaunt when they once were plump.

May you starve, and may your heirs starve!

May their eyes bulge with rage, just like yours!

May they inherit your avarice and your hunger and emptiness!

May they be as sickly as you are powerful!

We pen this to you, Akki, shamaness-

Fearsome noaidi of Räkkylä, Pohjois-Karjala.

May your every last heir remember this song!

Oh, how the flames licked your roof-

Did you know?

They are the work of our torches!

Your home is now a smoke cloud.

This is your reward for cursing our flocks and our soil

May your descendants be choked by the smoke and the heat!

You claim the curse was not your doing-

You lie!

As we turn to bones you remain the same

Plump and ruddy as a Robin.

Now your corpse will be as thin as we are.

Akki Kettunen, may you rot, may you starve,

May you waste in Hell!

We sing this song at your death

Not to call forth your spirit, but to trap it!

You who stole from the people of Räkkylä!

You who grew fat during this famine,

When mothers had to bury their own children!

May your children suffer as ours have.”

-Räkkylä Parish, 1737

My hands were shaking, and not from the Graves’. I had only ever heard of Akki as a goddess, not a noaidi, or shaman.

Kettunen was my mother’s maiden name.

The Night Blogger - Shadow Of The Zombie

September 19th: Victor Bisolglio spent most of his time either making meth or playing World of Warcraft, but his pursuit of one was always a detriment to the other. Sometimes, he missed raids because he was too busy cooking; other times, he was so fixated on his daily quests that he ended up making a useless batch.

Or two.

Or three.

He lived in a trailer on his parents' property, a weathered double-wide nestled among overgrown weeds and rusting farm equipment. They'd long ago given up on him, resigned to his presence like an irremovable stain. Victor had transformed the back corner of their once-tidy property into his own chaotic domain—a makeshift laboratory in a shoddily constructed tool shed a few yards away from his residence.

At ten o'clock in the evening, the door to that shed hung open, revealing a mad scientist's dream of tubing, containers, and smoke. A pungent stench, a cocktail of cat piss and nail polish remover, wafted from the rickety structure, carried on a faint evening breeze. Victor sat at a grimy picnic table nearby, hunched over the dim, multicolored glow of his laptop screen. Lost in the virtual world unfolding before him, he remained oblivious to the physical decay spreading around him—the scattered tools, the discarded chemical containers, the faint haze of smoke mingling with the evening mist.

Did Victor care that he was slowly turning his parents' once-pristine property into a small-scale toxic waste dump? Did it worry him that the last three batches of meth he'd delivered to Raevyn Legendre had been unsaleable garbage? Did he care that his friends, just like his family, had given up on him?

No, not in the least, not when he had reached a place where virtual achievement, where "respec," mattered far more to him than respect.

I was nearby, concealed behind one of the few trees that groundwater poisoning hadn't left leafless and bent.

A string of recent murders had unsettled Albany. Low-level dealers and cooks had been found savaged, their throats torn out, their entrails exposed to the night air, their skulls cracked open and emptied. Rumors swirled that the assailant was no mere mortal—a figure described as shambling, dead-eyed, and caked with dirt had been spotted near the crime scenes. Any mention of the 'Z word' was quickly silenced by the authorities, dismissing it as hysteria.

At a quarter to midnight, a shape emerged from the shadows, lumbering toward Victor's double-wide and the smoking toolshed. I fumbled for my iPhone, snapping pictures silently as I watched. Victor remained engrossed in his game, oblivious to the figure approaching him.

My conscience wrestled with my caution, and I shouted a warning, but Victor remained lost in the cacophony of music, sound effects, and online chatter blaring through his earbuds.

The dark figure overturned the picnic table, snapping Victor out of his virtual trance. The reality crashed down upon him as the figure swiped, narrowly missing Victor's scrambling form. It might have ended there, a tragic misunderstanding if Victor hadn't recognized his assailant.

"Earl?" Victor's voice cracked with disbelief.

Victor hadn't expected to see Earl Edmonds again, not since he'd buried him in the woods almost three weeks ago.

When the dark shape advanced again, Victor brandished what appeared to be a revolver from his jacket. He issued threats, but the figure kept coming.

I broke cover, sprinting towards them, arms waving frantically, pleading for restraint before things spiraled out of control. The shambling figure remained unresponsive, but Victor reacted.

He screamed and fired.

Not at me, thankfully, but at the man he'd once called a friend.

A bright ball of Fourth of July fireworks erupted from the barrel.

Yes, a flare gun. Victor's choice of sidearm had been a flare gun.

There was just enough time for me to think, What is this? I don't even...

Then, a sputtering ball of burning red bounced off the dark figure's chest, careened twice along the ground, and rolled into the toolshed.

Boom.

I had no idea what volatile mix of chemicals and God-knows-what-else was housed in that ramshackle building, but the blast tore through its walls and roof in an eruption of yellow and orange fire.

Victor was consumed by the explosion. Had it been a quick end, or did the pain linger long enough for him to realize what was happening? I hoped for the former.

The other figure wasn't so fortunate; engulfed in flames, it staggered and flailed. Then it screamed.

Perhaps, in those agonizing moments, Earl Edmonds realized he wasn't one of the walking dead after all...

###
...let the record show that if you are going to be an investigator in all things preternatural and uncanny, then you are going to find yourself huddling in the bushes more often than a compulsive masturbator in a nudist colony.

It was almost dawn, and I had been watching the comings and goings at the house on Lana Drive for half the day and most of the night. The air hung heavy with the musty scent of damp earth, and the distant hum of traffic occasionally pierced the quiet of the suburban night. When the owner left on an errand, I gave the place a quick once-over, something that was fifty percent reconnaissance and fifty percent breaking and entering. That done, I returned to my hiding spot in the woods. More waiting. Hours of waiting. Waiting until my knees were aching and my bladder was threatening to erupt. It wasn't until 4 a.m. that I thought the owner of the house was alone. That was when I made my move.

But not until I relieved myself on the side of a tree first. For what I was about to do, I needed to be full of less piss and more vinegar.

I made my way up the walk and knocked on the front door.

"Brian Foster," I announced.

Raevyn Legendre, half Bokor, half crime boss, didn't look at all surprised to see me. She stepped aside, her voice tinged with a community theater-level Jamaican accent, "Come in. Come in."

"Not surprised to see me?" I asked.

"I been expecting you," she said. Her skin was the color of coffee, her hair the color of bone, "They all said there was some guy in an ugly hat going around asking lots of questions."

"Well, you can't learn anything if you don't ask questions," I grinned.

We both smiled, but they were phony smiles, politicians' smiles. She led me past her parlor with all its faux Voodoo knick-knacks and a pair of very real Lorcin .380s on the center table.

It was very telling that she hadn't grabbed them; I guess she didn't see me as much of a threat. Her and everybody else in Albany.

There was a long hallway through the center of the house leading to a pair of bedrooms. My earlier snooping had revealed that Raevyn used the bedroom on the right for sleeping, and the one on the left was where she kept her ziplock bags of dried pufferfish, marine toads, and Hyla tree frogs, her Tupperware containers of Datura paste and lysergic acid diethylamide in crystal form.

I followed my host to her bare kitchen. There was a bottle of rum on the counter, her last bottle of rum, if I was correct. It was already half empty.

Raevyn Legendre, half Bokor, half crime boss, fully functioning alcoholic, poured me a glass and offered it, "Have a drink."

"I don't drink," I lied.

"Your loss," she emptied my glass, then refilled her own. "What you be wantin'?"

"I know you had Victor Bisolglio killed and a lot of other people too."

"You wearing a wire?"

I chuckled, "Why would I help the police?"

“You one of Bootsie Werdegast’s boys?”

"No, I graduated high school."

"Maybe you want to be a hero," she said.

"I just want the real story, for my dozen or so readers," I explained, "they love stories like yours. Do you know there are people out there that think you raise the dead to do your bidding?"

"Why you goin' believin' that nonsense?" Her accent slurred to an Irish brogue for a syllable or two then back again, "Everyone tells these crazy stories. I'm a drug dealer, I'm a witch, I'm an insatiable nymphomaniac..."

"Er... That last one is a bit of a surprise..." I didn't know whether to cringe or blush, so I did a little of both, "But back to the matter at hand. My sources tell me that Earl Edmonds O.D.ed at a party you held here almost a month ago. The same sources say that rather than get the authorities involved, you had some of your employees wrap him in an old rug and bury him in a shallow grave."

I paused for effect, but she just smiled.

"Now, someone dug up that grave a few days later, and I'm pretty sure that someone was you. Why did you do it? Because Earl wasn't dead. Oh, he looked dead, but he had been drugged with a little psychotropic cocktail people sometimes called," I made quotation marks in the air, "'zombie powder.'"

She raised an eyebrow and emptied her glass of rum. Then she poured herself another. The bottle was two-thirds empty now.

"This zombie powder causes a paralysis so severe that a layman might think the victim is dead. It's the stuff of Edgar Alan Poe's nightmares." I took a cautious step toward her, "And all the while, the poor bastard is in a state of living death. They're having nightmarish hallucinations. Imagine all that happening and being buried alive to boot."

She laughed at me, but I'm used to women doing that, so it's all good.

I continued, "I imagine the Earl you dug up was not the same man from just a few days before. I imagine it would have been easy to mess with his broken mind. How long did it take you to convince him he was a zombie?"

Raevyn emptied the glass again, but this time, she set it down on the counter beside her, "Why would anyone do something so... Theatrical?"

"Oh, I agree it is a very theatrical way to go about things, but then again, I'm not the failed law student from Wisconsin pretending to be a witch woman from Jamaica, so what do I know?"

That got her. She frowned and crossed her arms.

When in doubt, keep talking, so that's what I did. "Like they say on the Internet, Google is your friend. But don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

"Why-" she paused as if she was collecting her thoughts, "why would I go to all that trouble?"

"Because criminals are a cowardly superstitious lot."

I waited to see if she got the reference. She didn't, so I went on.

"You did it because you suspected there was a snitch in your organization. You used poor Earl to eliminate the usual suspects." I counted off on my hand, "They found what was left of Mordikai Aden in a dumpster. Shortly after that, a 911 call sent the police to Adrian Driscoll's apartment, but there wasn't much they could do for him. There wasn't much an undertaker could do for him either, if you get my meaning. Then there was Sandro Elsdon. He was killed alongside his girlfriend and two young kids."

"But why? Why not just put a bullet in their heads instead?"

"Because it taught your employees a very valuable lesson. Cross Raevyn Legendre and you will end up dead or worse." I took off my straw fedora and fiddled with it, "What are you going to do now that your pet zombie is really dead?"

"If what you're saying is true I would just make another. Maybe I got more waiting down in the basement. What would you do then? What if all I had to do to wake them up was just snap my fingers?" She tried to snap her fingers for emphasis, but her hand wouldn't quite obey her.

Panic settled into her eyes. Her legs failed her. All the while she slid down to the floor she kept trying to snap her fingers.

There was a handkerchief in my left pocket, I used it to pick up the bottle of rum and pour it out. I suppose you readers out there figured out what I did when I was snooping around her house.

Raevyn said, "Fa- fa-"

I'm not sure if she was trying to say my name or curse me out. I looked down at her, too disgusted with myself to gloat. My tone was almost apologetic, "You've got enough meth here to host a tweakers convention. I'm not sure if I gave you the recommended dosage of your zombie powder, so once I get a few blocks away, I'm going to make an anonymous call to 911 and let the chips fall where they may."

With that I started to leave, but I turned back and said, "I guess I got you dead to rights."

Then I left.

OK, so maybe I gloated a little...

###

...yep I just confessed to another crime on the Internet but once again my story in no way matches the way the powers that be want to portray events. If they arrest me it will raise too many questions as to what is really going on.

I did make the 911 call, just like I promised, but when the authorities got there, Raevyn Legendre was dead. They blamed the attack on pit bulls, which is an insult to all the well-behaved pit bulls out there and an insult to reality because the half-baked crime boss in question was allergic to dogs.

But something, maybe several somethings, gnawed her flesh down to the bone.

So I guess maybe she did have some spares somewhere in the basement, somewhere I didn't check. In their half-alive state, they must have heard my conversation with her.

And then? And then, sometime between me leaving and the police showing up, Raevyn managed to snap her fingers after all.

Allison Liddy frowned as she looked at the club. It leered into the night with neon gold, and pink bars. Giant letters marked out Ice Box across the front in diamond letters.

She stepped into the club, pushing past the door man. The giant nodded as he looked down on the smaller woman. He knew her from the Glass. He didn’t want to cross her.

He had seen what happened to people who had tried to get in her way. He didn’t want to be chopped into pieces.

Allison scanned the room with its lights roving the room, smearing the darkness. She frowned at the woman dancing on the central stage. She didn’t like that it was Bucky’s sister.

She didn’t see Teatime. He was the man that had what she wanted. Once she was done with him, she could go back to walking her path. Hart had to be revived.

Teatime might have the key to getting that done.

She walked to the bar. Maybe the bartender would know where Teatime was. One she had her talk, she could leave the smelly place.

Someone slapped her butt as she walked by. She paused. Then she turned on a group of men at a table. They had empty glasses in front of them.

“Why don’t you get on that stage and show us what you got?,” said one of the men. He grinned with crooked teeth. Some of the teeth came out of their sockets as red headed fury descended on him with flying fists and stomping boots.

His friends jumped up to intervene as Allison straightened up. She let the blood drip from her hands as she looked at them.

“I’ll kill all of you as soon as look at you,” said Allison. She glared at the assemblage. “I don’t work here, and you should know better. Go home before you are unable to walk out on your own.”

She wiped her hands on the shirt of the closest man before starting for the bar again. The bartender shook his head. His reflection in the mirror behind him made a what is this gesture.

“What are you doing, Alice?,” asked the bartender. He made sure to stay away from the counter so she would have to chase him if he decided to move.

“Teatime,” she said over the noise of the place. “I would like to talk to him.”

“He’s upstairs in his work place,” said the bartender. He pointed toward the ceiling.

“Tell Bucky’s sister to go home and don’t come back,” said Allison.

“Under contract,” said the bartender. He shrugged.

“Send her home,” said Allison. She didn’t say or else. They had known each other for a bit by Glass time. The bartender knew what she was capable of when she got started.

“I can’t,” said the bartender. “Teatime holds her contract.”

“I guess that is one more thing to talk to him about,” said Allison. “Be ready to send her home, Mouse.”

“Teatime is not going to give up her contract,” said Mouse.

Allison frowned, but she silently agreed. Teatime would not give up anything without some aggressive negotiation.

Luckily, that was in her wheelhouse.

She walked around the bar and entered the door behind the bar. She ignored the various dancers getting ready to wait tables, or go on the stage. She glanced at the supply room, but only racks of bottles stood her inspection. She walked a little further and found a staircase leading up. She walked up to a closed door.

She used the palm of her hand to knock on the door. She had no doubt that Teatime was watching, or Mouse had told him she was there. She would give him a reasonable amount of time before she did something.

“What do you want?,” asked Teatime through the door. She frowned as his weaselly face swam up to match his nasal voice.

“I want to talk to you, Teatime,” said Allison. “Open the door, please.”

“What do you want to talk to me about?,” asked Teatime.

“I need some supplies,” said Allison. “Open the door. If I have to cut it away, we’re going to have problems.”

The door opened to reveal the man himself. He stepped back to allow Allison to cross the threshold. He frowned at her.

“I don’t have anything you want,” said Teatime. He walked to the center of the room. He waved at the thousands of pounds of glass processing the chemicals he used for his alchemy. “Most of this is going out into the Baseline now that Glass is gone.”

Allison inspected the glass tubing, the beakers of differently colored fluids, the bunsen burners. She made sure not to sniff any of it. The wrong toxin would leave her at Teatime’s mercy.

She didn’t trust him enough for that.

“I need a vial of that cutting stuff you gave Bucky,” said Allison. “And I need you to send Marcela home, and tell her not to come back.”

“No on both counts,” said Teatime. “The acid is special purpose and I don’t have any, and Marcela is under contract. I am not letting her go until the contract runs out. She signed under her own free will.”

“Really?,” said Allison.

“You’re not unbeatable any more, Allison,” said Teatime. “Here on the Baseline, I don’t have to listen to you. Go away.”

“I am looking for a way to push the Flag back,” said Allison. “If that happens, you won’t have a place in the aftermath.”

“Why would I want a place?,” asked Teatime. He waved his arm at the chemistry set in his office. “I have everything I need right here.”

“You won’t be able to get material from Glass to make your more exotic things,” said Allison. “Once Hart is back in play, he will shut the border down, and shut you out.”

“And how is that supposed to happen?,” asked Teatime.

“All he needs is another pack of cards,” said Allison. “And Baseline has those by the dozens. The acid is for my personal use, the contract is for what is right. Are you really going to deny me this?”

“Yes,” said Teatime. “I am. You can’t take the contract from me. And I don’t have to give you anything.”

Allison grabbed his collar in a flash of movement. She jammed him against the wall. Her sword appeared in her hand. The gold light of the blade was a streak across his face.

Teatime’s reflection in the glass had a begging posture.

“You can’t do anything to me,” said Teatime. His face didn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

He grabbed her arm with both hands to try to break her grip. She slammed him against the wall to make sure he couldn’t get the leverage to actually break her grip.

“You can do what I want and live,” said Allison. “Or I will kill you and your reflection.”

“That will make you a criminal,” said Teatime. Sweat broke out on his face.

“I have to bring Hart back for that to matter,” said Allison. “The Baseline won’t care about a pile of ash. They might even scatter you so you can’t come back in Glass.”

She laid the blade against his face. His skin sizzled before she pulled the blade away.

“I will let you live if you agree to my demands,” said Allison. “I will let you fix your face.”

“All right,” said Teatime. “I will give you the contract.”

“The acid too,” said Allison. “I need it to deal with the Twins.”

“All right,” said Teatime. “I have a bottle I can give you.”

“I know you are thinking you can betray me,” said Allison. “I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you do. I will dismember you and leave you for the Flag no matter what happens. They will treat you worse than I would for me.”

Teatime rubbed the burn on his face with one hand as he flicked his other hand. A golden piece of paper fell into his fingers. He handed it over for Allison to read.

She made sure the contract was the right one before holding it over the bunsen burner and letting it burn. She dropped the burning paper to the floor. Teatime made a noise as the carpet started to burn. She waited until the paper was ash before she stamped the fire out.

“You burned my carpet,” said Teatime. He made a gesture of what was that? “Why did you burn my carpet?”

“It needed some character,” said Allison. “The acid. Then I will let you run your business in peace.”

“I never liked you,” said Teatime. He went to a hidden closet and opened it with a slap of his hand. He pulled out a bottle of glowing yellow liquid. He handed it over with a sigh.

“You know better than this,” said Allison. She waved her hand at the establishment around them. “You are putting the Baseline in hazard as well as refusing to help the Glass. The Red Queen will send her army to get you as soon as they stop Tom from patrolling his woods. Then where will you be? The only direction is down.”

Allison stowed the bottle in her jacket pocket.

“You are one step away from going south, Teatime,” said Allison. “Think about it.”

She left the office. She had to send Marcella home wherever that was, and then help Hart one last time.

Something was wrong with Isabella. Her classmates just couldn’t figure out what.

She was a shy and meek girl and all throughout kindergarten she never uttered a word. She had long dark hair and often dressed overly formal. Even when addressed directly, she wouldn’t respond; just silence. The kids all speculated that perhaps she was deaf or mute.

Once in math class, she was asked to solve an equation on the board. She just walked up to the blackboard and answered the question in chalk without saying anything. At lunch, she sat alone in solitude and no one dared to disturb her.

Because of this peculiarity, she gained the reputation of being more than a bit strange or of being the odd one out. This reputation would only grow when in first grade she finally opened her mouth and, instead of words falling out, her classmates heard the bleating of a goat.

As time went on, her proportions grew abnormally with long limbs and broad shoulders. From her head grew what at first were just small nubs that soon turned into full goat horns. Her classmates called her a freak and a weirdo. She became the school’s pariah and was looked at strangely by even the teachers and adults.

When Isabella finally finished her schooling, she purchased a small wooden cabin on the outskirts of town by the old stone wall dam. There she stayed in solitude. Any passerby could see her through the window endlessly reading her odd books by candlelight. Children would tell scary stories about her and adults would speculate about how she came to be this way or blame her for anything bad that happened to the town. When crops would die or when people would fall ill, she was suspected.

“Stay away from that cabin after dark,” said one child to another. “If she catches you, she’ll eat you alive.”

Rumor had it that she had magic powers or that her parents made a deal with a witch or sacrificed a goat to a demon for her to live. Isabella of course could make no reply to any of this and her parents had suspiciously fled town long ago. She was regarded by all as unsettling and sinister. Folks in the town never called her by her name, they only called her “The Goat Woman.”

“She’s not really a woman at all,” some remarked. “Women don’t have horns, she’s just a goat.”

The candle in the window always burned throughout the night like an eternal flame as she read. Though on one dark and gloomy night when a storm came and the rain was falling hard, folks saw her candle mysteriously go out and her door swung open. Enduring the rain, the outcast put aside her book and stepped out into the cold outside world with a newfound determination. It seemed that judgment had finally come calling for the town that had rejected her.

Lightning lit up the sky across town and rain poured down window sills that night while the town’s people lay sleeping. What they didn’t know was that now a bizarre intruder was coming for them to demand their attention and wake them from their slumber.

Knock, knock, knock.

The mayor was resting sound in his bed when suddenly in the night he heard strange bleating noises and loud knocking at his door.

He peered through the rain-streaked window to see a tall figure standing on his front step with elongated proportions and the pointed horns of a goat. She was soaked from the rain and her wet dark hair covered her face in messy strands as she knocked aggressively on the door with her fist.

Seeing that he had noticed her, the goat woman ran over to the window and began to pound on it while staring in. The mayor regarded her as a disturbing imitation approximating our species, like a grotesque abomination in the guise of humanity. He was terrified as this creature continued to beat on the outside of his house as if trying desperately to find a way inside. He grabbed his shotgun and waited nervously by the door for her to make her way in.

He feared what the goat woman could be capable of and was prepared to shoot the creature but instead of breaking the door down as he expected, the creature ran off into the night to the next house over and once again began pounding on the door and calling loudly with an awful sound. The occupant of this house simply cowered in fear until she moved on like a specter to the next one. The skies above were angry as the clouds poured down their rain. The creature walked with purpose down the cold dark street.

The goat woman stood upon the doorstep of the town’s sheriff who was asleep inside with his wife and two young girls. When she began knocking brutally on his door and making disturbing pained vocalizations, they all awoke in alarm. The goat woman grabbed the door handle and tried to twist it open violently. The sheriff was determined to protect his wife and children from whatever revenge this vile creature had come to enact on the town. He instructed them to hide in the basement. His daughters both began to cry in fear for their lives.

When the goat woman had left, the sheriff decided that their town would no longer be terrorized by this freak of nature. He assembled a group of men with weapons and torches to put a stop to this. Soon most folks from the town emerged from their doors with weapons in hand. Farmers brought their sharp farming tools for protection and the majority of the others brought rifles or shotguns.

Seeing the angry mob, the goat woman took off and ran towards her home with them following close behind. When she was in front of her cabin, she stopped and turned to face the crowd as they assembled around her. She pointed in the direction of her cabin and made another loud fearful vocalization as they closed in towards her and she cautiously stepped backwards.

“We’re not just gonna let you go home now! We’ve had it with you terrorizing us and we’re not gonna tolerate your wicked existence any longer!” shouted a man from the crowd. “You’ve cursed our town for years now. We refuse to live in fear of what you’ll do next. It’s time for this monster to die!”

The rest cheered in agreement.

The crowd descended upon the goat woman. They grabbed her and tied her to a nearby lamppost with ropes so that she couldn’t fight back. The crowd all gathered around, many with guns drawn and aimed at the creature.

"Give this damnable creature none of your sympathy!" yelled out a woman from the crowd. "Demons are made to be cast out."

A farmer in the crowd pulled out a metal blade and without warning began to cut into one of the goat woman’s horns. She vocalized in agony as the horns grown from her skull were brutally hacked away at until they were cut off entirely. Blood poured from her head and ran down her face in a gruesome display. People in the crowd picked up the two discarded horns from the street as if they were souvenirs.

“She almost looks normal now!” jeered an anonymous member of the crowd with a laugh.

As the rain continued to come down, the goat woman thrashed about wildly and managed to free a single arm from her rope bonds. In her eyes, they could see the same frightened girl from the playground. Reacting quickly, the town’s sheriff shot at the goat woman, hitting her directly in the chest.

Before the light drained fully from her eyes, she extended a weak and weary hand once more pointing in the direction of her old wooden cabin.

Only then did the townsfolk notice the cracks in the large wall of the nearby stone dam straining under the pressure of the rising water.

They barely had time to react before a wall of rushing water consumed them and poured out violently into the town, wiping away the houses they once lived in. Bits of stone debris flew out with great force as the dam broke and the fast-moving water rose up to the peaks of the tallest buildings.

They were all too late to save themselves or to heed the warning that had been given to them. Their doomed outcast had seen the danger from her cabin view. With heart racing in panic, she had attempted in vain to alert everyone to evacuate. That fateful rainy night was the end for their town, and for Isabella, the woman who tried to save it.

Beginning -- Previous Part

XXXXX

Observation Notes: Thirty minutes into the interview, S requested additional water due to dryness in her mouth from extended speaking. A bottle of water was provided, as she strongly preferred it over water served in a paper cup. While outwardly appearing calm, she displayed subtle signs of anxiety by squeezing the bottle with one hand, picking on the plastic name band around the bottle with the fingernail of her thumb, and pressing her lips into a thin line and biting the lower lip.

XXXXX

How old were you when you left Mama Pussett’s home?

How old was I?

Yeah, that's what I'm asking. At what age did you leave the nest? I'm guessing it was at 18, which is when most people leave institutions, like your orphanage, and start their own lives.

I don't know. I guess I was 18, like you said.

But you're not sure? How old are you right now?

I don't know.

How do you not know? Do you even know your birthday?

Birthday?

Yes, the day you were born.

There's a special day that my sisters and I share. We celebrate it once a year.

What day is that?

March 1st. The beginning of spring. That was always a very special day for us. We got to have lemon cake after lunch. Afternoon classes were canceled. Instead, we were led to the front yard to welcome the new "seeds.”

Excuse me, “seeds”?

That's what we called the babies. Then when they grow a bit more, they become little buds, and the older girls become flowers, or as Mama Pussett would say that they’re “in bloom.” On our special day, not only do we celebrate our birthday, but we also welcome the new arrival of seeds.

We all lined up in our white dresses and lace gloves and black buckled shoes, and waited for the black vans to arrive. When the vans arrived, the matrons went in and brought out the seeds, each one bundled up in white blankets. Me and my sisters gathered around the seeds and took a peek. They were ugly little creatures, kind of like wrinkled hairless kittens, mewing and spitting like demons. But they were adorable in a way.

Seeds, buds and flowers. Sounds like what Mama Pussett ran was a floral nursery. Why were they calling you ‘flowers, buds, and uh, seeds’? It’s strange, don't you think?

The matrons told us we were like flowers, making the world smell nice and look beautiful. They said that one day, when we fully bloomed, someone would come and pick us. They would take us to make their world more beautiful.

So, we didn’t choose to leave Mama Pussett. We were plucked. If I had a choice, I wouldn't have left at all. I'd rather stay in that big house in the countryside, taking care of the seeds, reading stories to the buds, and knitting and gardening with the other girls. I guess I should have been a matron and I should've begged Mama Pussett to let me stay and train to become one.

I could try to find out the contact information for the orphanage. How do you spell Mama Pussett's name? P–U–S–S–

Don't bother.

We have to try. She’s probably the only person who could help you right now.

I said don't bother. No one can help me. Not even her or the matrons can help me.

And why's that?

Just don't! She won't take me back.

If you explain your situation to her, I'm sure she'd be understanding. Also, it'd be a happy reunion for you. Like you said yourself, you had liked living out there, and if you had the choice, you would've stayed there and taken care of the girls.

It wouldn’t be a happy reunion, and she wouldn’t be understanding either. Once we step foot out of Mama Pussett’s house, we aren’t allowed to return.

I don't understand. Why wouldn't she help you or take you back?

Plucked flowers don't go back to the nursery, Officer.

Who was it that plucked you?

We called her Lady Venus. Whenever Mama Pussett let her know when the flowers were ready to be plucked, Lady Venus journeyed from the city to our house. Of course, she only picked the ones who've been “in bloom.”

How would you know if you're “in bloom”?

First, we get our rose petals.

You mean, you pick off the petals from roses?

No, that's not it.

Then, how did you get your rose petals?

[Inaudible]

Sorry, I didn't hear you. What is it?

We make them.

You make them? What do you mean? How?

It's kind of, uh, an embarrassing story.

You said that you wanted to tell your story. This is your chance to say everything and anything.

It happened one afternoon. I was outside with my sisters working in the garden. I worked up quite a sweat, all over, even on my legs. Whenever I moved around, I felt sweaty down there, but it wasn't sweat dripping from between my thighs.

After we went inside and got ready for dinner in the washroom, I noticed my panties were soaked with red, and there was a big dark red blot on my dress. The toilet water had turned red, too. Saying I was scared is an understatement—I thought I might be dying. I just sat on the toilet for what felt like forever, staring at the blood on my hands and in my underwear.

I don't know how long I was in the stall, but I was shaken out of my shock when Mama Pussett banged on the door.

“What's taking you so long, child?” she demanded. “What are you doing in there? Are you feeling sick?”

I didn't know what to say, so I started crying.

“Open the door right this instant!” she said, raising her voice.

At first, I refused and kept crying, so she got a bit angry and raised her voice, saying if I didn't open up, she'd break it down and I'd be in big trouble for disobeying her. I didn't want to get cropped, so I opened the door.

Her eyes quickly went to my bloody hands, then to the blood-stained underwear around my ankles. The anger on her face disappeared, replaced by a big smile spreading across her lips as she laughed.

She laughed at you because you had your first rose petals?

She wasn't mocking me; she sounded happy. She laughed, clapped her hands, and said, “Oh, little bud, you’ve got your rose petals! Soon you'll be in full bloom.”

The other younger girls were curious and asked what happened. Some of them were worried because they had seen the red petals. But Mama Pussett assured them that I was fine and what was happening to me was like spring in heaven. A blooming.

She helped me clean up in the bathtub, then guided me to squat over an empty chamber pot to collect rose petals. I stayed in that position for what felt like hours, and in the end, there was just enough to fill a shot glass. When I asked her what it was for, she explained that a flower's first petals are considered a delicacy for the angels.

Near the end of each month, the girls who could shed petals had to squat over the chamber pots and fill up shot glasses. The first two days were the best because the petals came out faster and filled the glasses quickly. The matrons then poured the petals into a bottle and kept it chilled in the freezer until the angels arrived on Christmas.

I overheard the matrons mention that they didn’t mind collecting the rose petals, that was the least disgusting part. However, they hated watching the angels drink the petals and nibble on the gelatinous bits. It sickened them to witness such a thing. It was deeply unsettling.

Well, fuck, it would sicken me too.

The angels weren't like normal people.

I'd say…

A lot of my sisters speculated that they weren't from our world but another world.

Like the island you mentioned earlier.

Yes, like the island. I don't think the angels were human. No one in their right mind would drink…rose petals…like they were wine.

If they weren't human, then what do you think they were?

Demons.

Demons, alright if you think so…

Yeah, what else could they be?

I think they are just some sick, wealthy perverts–deranged and twisted. You'd be surprised at the kind of depraved individuals in the streets.

If they were truly wealthy, you wouldn't see them walking with an ordinary crowd in the streets. They'd be in their palaces, in those grand houses located in Golden Bay, the City of Lights and Love.

That year, after I had my first rose petals, I hoped I’d be one of the girls Lady Venus would choose. If you got picked, it meant you got to live at her house in the city.

Life there was–so I've been told–more exciting than at Mama Pussett’s house. There would be more to see than just trees and grass, and we’d get to eat different food instead of porridge, eggs, and dry, tasteless meat. Lady Venus had told us about the dinner parties she hosted and all the friends she had in the city. The wealthiest and most influential friends. And she promised that when we got older and ready to be plucked up, she would introduce us to them. She said we'd get to meet our angels.

Golden Bay is a far cry from being the City of Lights and Love. But I can see why it would be exciting for you. So, after you got your “rose petals” were you sent off to the city right away?

No, not until a few years later, when I got a little taller and my bosoms a little fuller, that I was finally "in bloom.” Lady Venus’ arrival was always a big event. Weeks before her arrival, we prepared a song and dance. Each girl also worked on something she was talented in to show off her skills. Mine was making crown wreaths out of the grass and flowers from the garden. I know it sounds silly, but it was the only thing I felt halfway decent at.

When I saw her step out of the black car in her ermine coat, holding a dainty purse, I got so nervous it felt like worms were writhing in my stomach.

She was different from Mama Pussett. She was graceful and seemed to glide on light feet instead of just walking. Her face was round and cheerful, and her eyes sparkled with life, making you feel comfortable and warm like she could be your only true friend. She was like an older sister you looked up to and wanted to be in every way—from the way she spoke and carried herself to the way she dressed and moved so effortlessly.

I had to impress her. I wanted to go to the City of Lights and Love so badly that I felt like my life would end if she didn't pick me.

I thought I had ruined my chances when I forgot to curtsey as she entered the foyer. All the girls, the matrons, and Mama Pussett were there to welcome her. Someone elbowed me in the ribs, and I remembered to bow. She noticed. Our eyes met for just a moment. I thought that was it. I had already made a mistake, and everyone knew that Lady Venus only picked the perfect flowers for her house.

After the welcoming, lunch was served, and we were all excited because it was the only time we got to have a feast. There was turkey, buttery salt bread, and sautéed vegetables. We, the flowers, got to have a glass of red wine. Just one glass. I didn't like it. It tasted bitter and sharp on my tongue, and it turned sour when I tried to wash it down with water. But I didn't want to look ungrateful or silly in front of Lady Venus. She liked red wine and seemed to enjoy its taste, so I did my best to look as if I did too.

During the feast, Lady Venus gave her usual speech. She said Mama Pussett and the matrons were doing a great job raising us because the world was cruel. She would only pick the girls she thought were worthy of making the world less terrible and more beautiful. That was our duty: to make the world a better place. A heavenly place. I was proud and set on becoming that kind of flower.

After the feast, the matrons took the buds and seeds outside to play, while the rest of us lined up outside our classrooms on the second floor. We were called in one at a time. When it was my turn, I was almost shaking, and my stomach felt like it was twisting into knots. I did my song and dance. I sang a hymn because we only listened to hymns and some silly songs like I'm a Little Teapot or Do-Re-Mi. The dancing was simple, just twirling around the room on tiptoes and moving my arms up and down like a ballerina.

Then, I gave Lady Venus the crown wreaths I made just for her, and she seemed to like them. Her eyes lit up, and she took one of the crowns, put it on her head, and looked at herself in the mirror. She told me that my crown wreaths were beautiful. I felt a bit embarrassed because I wasn't used to getting compliments. I had only used lilies and daisies to make them, so I was worried she'd think they were too plain and not special.

She must've sensed what I was thinking because she said, “You're meant to be closer to the sun, Sunflower.”

Your name!

Sunflower?

Yes, you said your name began with an S, right? Sunflower starts with an S.

Yes, but it doesn't feel right to me.

Why else would she call you Sunflower and how else would you remember that your name began with an S?

It's not my name.

Come on, you've got to remember your name. You seem to have remembered a lot of things from your past except your name.

I know that it starts with an S, but I'm very sure that it's not Sunflower. Why are you writing it down when I just told you that it's not my name?

I'm just writing it down as a possibility. What did she mean by “you're meant to be closer to the sun”?

Isn't it obvious? She picked me. I was so happy and excited when she said I'd been chosen that I rushed up to her and hugged her without thinking. She was surprised, but she hugged me back. Mama Pussett, of course, thought my behavior was inappropriate. She gave me a stern look, narrowing her eyes. But I wasn't as scared as before because I knew I'd be with Lady Venus.

Were other girls also chosen?

Yes, seven of us would be going with Lady Venus that same day. We got to ride in the shiny black cars all the way to the city.

What happened to the ones who weren't chosen?

Some of them get to stay with Mama Pussett to train to become matrons. Others are sent somewhere else. They don't ride in the black cars; instead, a white bus comes to pick them up.

Why weren't those girls chosen?

I don't know. Just unlucky…well, maybe less unlucky.

What do you mean by that?

What I've been through, you'd think I was the unlucky one.

Do you know where they were taken to?

I don't know where, just somewhere. That's what one of the matrons told us. If we asked more questions, they would make us put a bar of soap in our mouths.

That's an old-school punishment used on kids with a foul mouth.

They didn't like it when we asked too many questions. They said, “It was not for you to know times or seasons that the Father has fixed by his own authority.” They also didn't like it when we talked too much. If Mama Pussett heard me telling you all this, she'd shove a bar of soap right down my throat.

You think she'd really do that to you now? You're not a kid anymore.

No, but it doesn't matter. I wouldn't be welcomed back at the house anyway. Plucked flowers don't go back to the nursery.

What about Lady Venus? Did you trust her?

I did.

Do you still do?

[No answer]

Your silence tells me what I need to know. I'll take note of that.

I'm feeling kind of tired. Mind if I put my head down? I want to close my eyes for just a moment.

Alright, I could also use a few minutes break.