The scars have faded with the passage of years and clever plastic surgery. With proper make-up and lighting, you can barely tell they’re there.  

But in the full direct light of my bedroom, I can see them clearly in the mirror, spread across my face and body, bumpy and crimson and just plain weird.  

I am the lucky one who survived that horrific school fire. Or maybe the creature remembered that it was I, after all, who saved it from the nasty muddy wetness that was dragging it down, and a possible horrible death from being stomped by some random kid, and somehow engineered my escape. I don’t know- I was unconscious from the smoke at the time. Oh yes, I still have permanent lung damage, wheezing like an eighty-year old if I even slightly exert myself.  

Let me tell you the story from the beginning, and you can decide. 

It began on a gleaming wet fall morning, over twenty years ago, as I walked miserably to school.  

There was no real reason I was miserable. I hated school with a passion that made my heart ache- but there was no reason. I wasn’t bullied, I had some friends, my grades were fine. I didn’t have the words to explain the loathing I felt for the building, the smell, the sounds, the actions, and so I didn’t try.  

Everyone else seemed cheerful enough. It had rained heavily overnight, but now the sun was shining, making the puddles gorgeously dazzle. Kids jumped noisily into the puddles, shrieking with excitement. I skirted them carefully.  

And that’s when I saw it, almost completely buried in a pile of soggy leaves, tinted all the hues of late autumn. Only its head was poking out, its eyes shining right at me, a damp puff of smoke hanging around its delicate snout.   

Instinctively, I knelt and scooped it up in my arms. It was as big as a pigeon.  

It flapped its wings irritably. Its mouth opened and I heard it right in my brain, very clearly.  

“I did not give you permission to pick me up.” 

I was not in the mood to take shit from a telepathic pigeon-sized creature. A gaggle of loud smaller children passed by, hooting, stomping around in big rubbery gleaming wellies, and jumping aggressively in the puddles and the pile of leaves, scattering them everywhere. 

I said “Would you like me to put you back down on the pavement?” 

The wet Creature clearly couldn’t fly, nor could it breathe fire. It contented itself by glaring angrily at me from its orange-red eyes. 

I said, ”Why don’t you spend the day at our place, I’ll keep you safe. Once you are dry, you can fly off. I’m not going to try and imprison you.” 

It thought a moment. “And what do you want in return?” 

The words came out by themselves- I swear I have no conscious recollection of forming them. 

“Burn the school down. Please.” 

It nodded solemnly. 

I ran home, and carefully laid the Creature on my bed, where I knew it would be undisturbed for the rest of the day. 

I still blame myself for not specifying the time it should burn the school down. But then, how could I have predicted the exact moment that it would be ready to breathe flames and fly? I had left it that next morning looking still quite miserable and ill, with no apparent desire to leave my room. How could I have known that around 10am, it would take wing and soar out of my room? 

The first I heard of it was during the second period. Kaylee pointed out of the window and exclaimed "Fire bird! Dragon!"

I turned to look, and glimpsed the Creature swooping around the building, followed by a plume of silvery-grey smoke. I still had no idea what it was planning to do then.

Poor Kaylee. She was a "special needs" kid. I still see her curious round blue eyes, wondering at the universe, chewing her hair, in my dreams- my nightmares.

The teacher said "Eyes ahead everyone".

Those were the last normal words I heard.

The fire alarms went off almost as the same tie I saw the flames and heard heard the crackles.

And then the screaming began and and the heat slammed into me. 

I had had no idea how thoroughly such a Creature, even a small one the size of pigeon, could burn things. 

I remember the smoke, the crashes and the screams. And then, almost before the time I had time to feel fully afraid, I passed out.  

I revived in hospital, with third degree burns down my face and body. I was so lucky, I was told solemnly, the only survivor of that horrific school fire which no-one ever figured out how it got started.  

Except me.  

My father grew up in small house in the Italian mountains in the 60s / early 70s. He never talks about his childhood or that period of his life at all.

Recently I found out him and his brother had been plagued by a violent poltergeist that tormented them for years. It started with common small things like lights flickering and stuff falling, but rapidly worsened once they started acknowledging it.

My dad said at night he would hear “a pitbull breathing” at the foot of his bed, they had no dog. Him and my uncle would wake up with tufts of hair missing & scattered over the bed and floors. He couldn’t even finish telling me a specific story about how one day he woke up “choking and floating for a whole minute” without tearing up. I could tell this affected him. My grandparents (his parents) never believed a word when he would try to tell them anything and instead get punished for having scratch marks on his skin and missing hair

Sounds hard to believe even for me and I know he had no reason to lie about any of this, it pained him to even tell me. He said it stopped when he came to America as a teenager.

Anyone else have poltergeist experience this bad? What did you do about it ?

Some Context:

This symbolizes... I let you figure that out.

I am not a writer, yet I felt compelled to share this piece with you. There are many issues with this story and areas for improvement, but it’s good enough (for my low standards) to post on Reddit. Feedback is much appreciated. The majority of it was crammed into two days. Thank you, and enjoy (hopefully).

Actual Story:

Life Review

I wake to ear-piercing silence. The distinct silence you only hear when you’re alone. Ears ringing, I plant my arm on my knee and push myself upright. As my eyes dance frantically around my surroundings, surveying anything of familiarity, I am trampled with a heavy sense of dread and anxiety, like sandbags on my shoulders. I can see absolutely nothing amidst the thick darkness. A thin film of water covers the ground. The air is filled with a putrid stench, masked with an antiseptic fragrance. I walk west from where I initially woke, extending my hands forward, feeling for a wall. I continually embrace for impact, trying to manifest a wall into existence, but there is nothing. My stride is interrupted by a small, raised portion of the ground. Feeling with my hands, I find another, set back and raised slightly. They are stairs. I am met by something rather unusual as I reach the uppermost part of the stairs.

Ethereal rays of amber light spotlight a large marble plateau. Two rows of Romanesque pillars line the edges of the platform, each adorned with an individual painting. I cautiously walk forward. 

In my worried march, I am horrified by the contents of the paintings; they are of me. 

I was joyously playing fetch with my childhood dog, Charlie, a cocker spaniel whose silky golden coat failed to catch my attention, for something else did, far off in the distance. Away from the main subjects, only barely peeking over the horizon, stands an obscure, unnatural shadow that plastered its large, ugly body along the trees. It stands there dauntingly, biding its time. The small silver placard beneath the painting inscribes “1948: START” in large, ceremonious lettering.

I timidly walk to the next painting. It’s me, around 11 or 12, reclining in my school chair, likely daydreaming about kickball. My breath quickens as my eyes wander through the window amongst the trees. The uncanny shadow still lingers. “1955: LEARN.”

“1965: LABOR.” I rejoice to see a familiar face amidst the bleakness of my surroundings. It’s Douglas and Andrew, still gleeful as ever. I recall their witty remarks, which used to fill the conference room with a cheerful spirit. This nostalgic memory fades away as my eyes fixate on the peculiar figure seated with us, dressed in the same cotton suits and dresses as my co-workers—its face unrecognizable. 

“1970: UNION.” A bustling crowd anticipates the awaited bouquet toss. The crowd erupts as the bouquet is thrown and caught. As I recall the euphoric day, a joyful tear follows the contour of my face and down my neck. Despite my tearful recollection, the painting looks bleak and dreary. The colors remain muted, muddied versions of their real-life counterparts. The darkened figure still lurks. Standing apprehensively in the corner, holding wilted flowers.

“1980: PLAY.” I remember this painting and its occasion fondly. I sat comfortably at a park bench, with my daughter standing at the top of a cathedral wooden playground, happily declaring herself  “Queen of the Mud Pies” in a grand and uplifting tone. I let out a soft chuckle as the memories of the occasion flood my mind. I am evicted from this happy memory as my eyes contour my daughter’s silhouette. A dark, looming shadow creeps over her, staring at me, taunting me.

“2004: FAREWELL.” Stringed-together inflatable word balloons read “RETIREMENT PARTY 2004” in optimistic lettering. Engulfed in laughter and chatter, I stand in the middle with my wife, dancing to the Righteous Brothers’ beautiful tunes. I stand hunched over this decrepit painting, scanning its intricate details to find it, to find them. In the open door, it stands underneath the balloons—no longer hiding.

“2023: SOLITUDE.” I sit in the center of a dimly lit room. It is barren and bleak, devoid of any positive inclination. The painting’s colors are heavily depressed and muted, bearing no resemblance to the bright and vivid colors of the previous painting, mere decades before. In the painting, I am oblivious to the lengthy hand reaching out, whose owner is a grotesque and monstrous body emerging from nowhere. 

I shudder. I can not bear to look at the final installment of this collection. I walk towards the final painting. Eyes shut, I reach out, grasping both sides of the frame. I open my eyes. “Present: END” is inscribed on the placard. This painting is like no other, for it moves. It is not of a faint, distant memory, only coming into mind after encouragement—but instead, now. No longer is it an abstract expression or uncanny shadow but a physical embodiment. 

The painting depicts my very self, staring into the same boundless painting. The background fades into nothingness as the ominous figure rests its hands on my shoulder. The figure’s face is indescribable—barren yet sentient. In a moment of resolution, I feel their bony fingers pull closer.

Part I: https://www.reddit.com/r/scarystories/comments/1gga4yr/the_volkovs_part_i/

As I settled into my new life at Avalon, Emily lectured me further on the history of the town. About how the Celtic settlement was destroyed and rebuilt by Slavs and then taken over by the Bavarians a century later. It fell under the reign of various dukes and lords, though most of the time Avalon was too isolated and difficult to reach to be of much interest to the local rulers. Furthermore, it was considered by outsiders to be a ‘cursed’ area as a result of the deaths and misfortunes frequently befalling inhabitants of the place.  

‘Some people still believe that, I think,’ Emily admitted. ‘People living here are superstitious to say the least.’ 

She wrapped her trench coat more tightly around herself and readjusted her grip on the steaming Cappuccino in her hand.

‘You can’t talk about the history of the town and not mention the Volkovs. They’ve been presiding over the town for as long as anyone can remember. They claim to have lived here for over a thousand years. I believe it actually might be true, too.’ 

She paused. ‘I’m sure you must have heard of them by now?’ 

She looked sideways.

Desdemona. And Eldid. And Dionysia. 

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have.’ 

Noticing she’d caught my attention, Emily launched into a lecture about Volkov family politics. 

‘There are three main factions in the family, corresponding to the three children of the Patriarch, Leofric. Esther, Normann, and Roman. Each of them control a sizable portion of town. Normann is the owner of the Italian Plaza and all of its five star restaurants, Esther owns the shopping mall and most of the street it’s on, and Roman presides over the really big old catholic Church, who he’s the minister of. He also runs some smaller places like the gun shop, the legal firm and the funeral home.’

‘Whenever a business becomes successful in Avalon, one of the three are quick to gain ownership of it or build a friendship with the current owners. In time, the family gets whatever they want in Avalon.’ 

‘They seem pretty influential,’ I observed. 

‘Yes, they are,’ Emily agreed. She sounded almost unsettled. ‘Weirdly so. They behave like they’re royalty or something.’ She laughed a little.

‘You wouldn’t believe how much trouble they get themselves into,’ she continued after she’d collected her thoughts. ‘Like there’s a long list of criminal cases relating back to them. Missing persons cases involving people they’re somehow connected to. Plus lots of legal disputes between them because of land or wealth they’re fighting over.’

‘How do you know all this?’ I asked curiously.

‘I went through some public records at the library,’ she said. 

She turned her head, saw my expression, and huffed. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all. Don’t worry about it.’ 

A week following Emily introduced me to another topic of fascination for her. 

‘Seven months ago a girl disappeared in this town,’ she informed me. ‘Her name was Anne Aevery. She caused a bit of a stir when she got caught snooping around the Volkov family residence shortly prior to her disappearance. I’ve done some reading up on the case. It’s a fascinating mystery, I’ll tell you. I’ve got some people on a list to interview who knew her.’ 

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What do you hope to get out of it exactly?’

‘I… Want to make a documentary. I’ve been waiting for some kind of inspiration to film, and I feel like this is it.’ 

‘Do you really think it’s the best idea to try the sleuth thing again?’ I asked her. 

‘That’s not what this is,’ she said quickly. ‘I meant it.’ 

I would like to have said she looked earnest, but her expression was inscrutable.

‘Well, don’t get too caught up with it, alright? Don’t get yourself into trouble.’ 

I felt like what Emily was planning was a bad idea. I didn’t say so, but I think she knew it, too. 

The Saturday I had my date with Desdemona couldn’t come quickly enough. I spent the preceding day wondering what to wear and how to act around her. Confident? Aloof? I was used to being whatever I thought a particular girl would like, but she was different. 

I decided it would be better to be myself. I think it was what she would have expected from me. Being myself felt inadequate, but it had worked out so far, so why not? 

‘I’ve been curious as to what you've heard about my family,’ Desdemona commented as we were moving through the masses of people with plum cake slices in our hands. 

We walked past a pair of food stalls, moving to the side for a cluster of parents as they rushed after two laughing kids. One of her hands brushed up against mine. The jolt it sent through me was so distracting my mind blanked for a second. 

‘They’re powerful, elite and like, very wealthy right?’ 

‘Undoubtedly,’ she agreed. ‘What else have you heard?’ 

I summarized most of what Emily had said. Desdemona seemed amused but didn't comment. I’d been hoping to hear more about them from her. For now I was disappointed. She wanted to learn more about me instead.

Later though, after we began trading stories about how crappy our childhoods had been, she became more open about it. 

‘The problem with my mother’, she told me, ‘is how strict she is. With me in particular, though my siblings also.’ 

‘She’s crazy strict about what we wear and how we conduct ourselves when we’re in public, particularly during special events the family hosts. It's insane how far my family will go with etiquette. You have to bow or curtsey before the certain people, women are expected to wear gowns and do their hair elaborately, while men will spend fortunes on suits. Also there is absolutely no swearing, not even uttering things like ‘damn, or god.’ Thank god we don’t have to act that way all the time. If I did, I do think I’d go mad.’

She continued, ‘plus, there’s an endless supply of family drama. People are constantly fighting, members of the family are always getting into spats and disputes. Anything of any value is fought over and any position of influence in the town is contested. Sometimes disputes will last whole freaking generations. A Volkov never forgets a vendetta, mother always tells me.’

‘The worst of the fighting is between my mom and my two uncles: Esther, Normann and Roman. Things are particularly tense right now because rumors have been circulating that Leofric - who is the de facto ruler of the family - is about to elect a successor.’  

‘My family influences everything and everyone who’s important around here,’ Desdemona explained. ‘The police chief, the dean of Samara university, and the mayor are all friends of one of them. Nothing important ever happens without their approval.’ 

She waved her hands in the air, looking to either side of her. ‘Do you know they sponsored this whole event?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ I admitted. ‘Really?’ 

‘Yeah! Esther personally donated like ten thousand dollars to fund the setup expenses and hiring of staff and stuff. She does it every year. My family can be very generous when they feel like it.’ 

I had a lot of fun learning about her. By the end of the day I had a hundred more questions about her family and the expensive and otherworldly life they led.

Desdemona herself seemed inexplicably fascinated by me, despite how mundane and boring my life was in comparison to hers. 

My first encounter with Desdemona’s family was at the weekend markets. One of Desdemona’s friends who’d warmed up to me let me know Desdemona was doing some volunteering there for a couple weeks. 

They were in the last steps of setting up a stall when I found them. The merchandise showcased included an array of plush toy animals, key rings, and other similarly themed souvenirs. 

As I came closer, I noticed small, glazed statues of various birds and wolves on display. Each one was painted in exceptional beauty and detail.  

When she saw me, Desdemona gave me a bright smile and waved enthusiastically. 

‘All the profits go to wildlife preservation. We’re raising money for endangered birds, ’ Desdemona explained as I came over to look.

She pointed to pictures of a couple of the birds posted up on the back canvas of the stall, naming each one in turn. ‘The Stalker Falcon, the Greater Spotted Eagle, the Snowy Owl.’ She grinned. ‘The Atlantic Puffin. Cute, isn’t it?’ 

‘Who is this?’ Another voice cut in. Desdemona jumped a bit and turned around. I looked up, too. 

‘Mother’ she said, in a voice full of an uncharacteristic awkwardness. ‘I’m sorry, this is Tristian. A - friend from school. We share a couple of classes together.’ 

Esther was the mother of Desdemona, Dionysia, and Eldid, along with a pair of other much younger siblings. She certainly shared in the startling beauty of her children. She possessed the same lustrous, curly hair, sharp eyes, and impeccably smooth skin. Her hair was long and elegantly braided. She also appeared somewhat ageless - I couldn’t guess if she was thirty or fifty. She was wearing a fluttering, dark blue dress which rose up to her shoulders with long, elegantly rimmed sleeves. 

Esther seemed quite indifferent to the cold which everyone else was bundled up against. Like Desdemona, she stubbornly refused to dress for the weather. 

It was clear from the outset we were to be quiet about our relationship with Desdemona’s mother, and though she was friendly, I couldn’t help feeling her gaze digging into me as we talked. 

I pointed to the painted clay figures of Authrurian characters, horses, and mythical creatures. 

‘Did you make these?’ I asked. ‘They’re beautiful.’ 

‘My aunt does,’ Esther said with a warm smile. ‘She spends most of her time indoors but likes to find a way to contribute to these events like she used to.’

‘Maybe we can meet later, go pick up something for lunch?’ Desdemona piped up. 

She looked between me and her mother.

‘Of course dear,’ she said, rubbing her daughter’s shoulder. ‘You’ve been great these past few days.’ 

Desdemona practically glowed at the praise. 

The two of us agreed on a time. Then I bought one of the medium sized plushies and thanked both of them. 

Desdemona had described Esther to a tee. She was impeccably polite, but had a sharp edge to her which made me sure I would not want to be on her bad side. 

When we met later that afternoon, Dedemona was looking slightly flustered. 

‘She knows about us, I think,’ she told me. ‘It’s okay. She was going to find out eventually. Though I haven’t figured out what she thinks of our relationship yet.’ 

Our relationship, I repeated silently. That’s what we are now. I’d never been so happy to be going steady with someone before. 

‘She was very nice.’ Such a description sounded inadequate, but it was all I could think of to say about Esther.

A couple of weeks later Emily again brought up her fascination with the mysteries surrounding Avalon.

‘This lore on this town is like a rabbit hole,’ she admitted. You keep discovering more strange things the deeper you dive into its history.’ 

‘You know something?’ She continued without waiting for a reply. ‘The number of people who have gone missing in Avalon is ridiculous! At least twelve individuals during the last three years. And literally no one talks about it. The cases are all glossed over by the local media. Families move on with their lives and act like nothing ever happened. I tried to talk with Anne’s family, but when I brought up any questions relating to her disappearance they just kind of shut down and gave responses which sounded rehearsed.’ 

She picked out her camera from her bag fiddled with the lens with restless fingers. ‘I got called privately by one of Anne’s relatives who isn’t living here at the moment. They agreed to answer some questions anonymously. They seemed paranoid. It was weird. Like what are they so afraid of?’

So this happened a long time ago when I was still pretty young I’d say around 2010 to 2012 maybe. My family & I went to go visit some family out in a more rural part of my city it was pretty much the outskirts where it was still a lot of bush. My parents would often go there to drinks on the weekends while I hung out with my cousins & considering that fact we always slept over.

Before I go on let me paint the picture of the situation. Basically they had a very long yard in length that was surrounded by fence with a deck in the back that stretched out long enough to see the main road out front. It had a small shed in the front the yard & behind the shed was their trampoline. I should add that this shed was very small that you could look over it and see the main road. Out on the main road was just a bunch of trailer homes lined up on a road that just went straight for maybe a few kilometres.

Anyway, it was about midnight & my cousin and I were on the trampoline just being kids. Probably playing some made up game. My uncles and parents would often go out to the back deck to have a smoke, so as usual we hear them all come out and they’re laughing being distracted by whatever they’re talking about. My uncle hears us being a little loud and was ready to come tell us to be quiet but before he could tell us to stop he just goes “what the fuck”. My cousin and I thought we were in trouble so we immediately look over to him. He continues to say “who the hell is that? Pat (my dad) come look at this”. As we’re staring at him we realize he wasn’t looking at us, he was looking off to the main road in the front. My cousin and I being curious we look over to the main road as my dad walks over to my uncle. There was a very old lady with short grey hair, what looked to be a hospital gown, and blue slippers. She was quite literally just standing there watching my cousin and I play. Since we were so distracted we never even noticed her so I can’t say how long she had been standing there. My dad yells “Who are you” with my mom and other uncles also coming to look. With that she began to slowly walk away and I mean slow. My uncle tells us to go inside as they start walking towards the gate at the front of the yard to confront her. My cousin and I being little shits got off the trampoline but stayed to see the commotion. My uncle and dad walk out to the main road to find that she had disappeared. They both say “Wait where did she just go?”. Me being confused I also walk out the gate to see it for myself and to my surprise she was no where to be seen. And like I said earlier this road was just straight and pretty long so their guess was that she snuck into somebodies yard but with her being that slow and old it was hard to make sense of it because all these trailer homes had decently tall fences and that was the only way to enter. My dad calls out “Is anyone there?” and nobody answers. They begin to get creeped out and at that point I was pretty scared.

My dad and uncle take us inside and begin trying to make sense of what just happened. My uncle who lived there said he didn’t recognize her and has never seen her come around before. They ask us if we saw her there before and we say no but I explained that she was wearing a hospital gown with slippers. We all thought how odd for an old lady in slippers to be walking around so late at night in a rural area where a lot of coyotes come in and out of. Surely she’d be asleep in her home or if she wanted some fresh air she’d stay on her deck? There was really no making sense of the situation until my uncle said that the Mental Hospital was not far but far enough for it to be quite a walk especially for an older lady. They started speculating that she might’ve escaped hence why she had a hospital gown on. I mean maybe she did live in the area but had dementia? With all of that it still didn’t make sense that she had just disappeared after not even 60 seconds had gone by. And I do find it a little hard to believe that we all saw the same spirit. It really creeped my cousin and I out and we never went out there that late at night again nor did we ever see her again. Everyone I tell this story to also have a hard time making sense of it. If anyone has possibly gone through a similar experience please let me know because I often think about it.

The house was quiet as they all listened intently for the entity. The silence was just as deafening as the horrific shrieking of the many voices. 10 seconds passed by, then 15, then 20, still nothing. 25 seconds passed by and they all slowly dropped their hands from their ears and looked around at one another. 30 seconds, just the sound of their breathing and their own heartbeats.

"I...I think it's over..." Eric said softly.

Suddenly, the front door and kitchen doors started to shake violently. They all screamed in unison and so did the entity, mimicking their cries. Daniel ran away from the kitchen into the living room breathing heavily. The shaking ended as quickly as it started and they were met with silence once more. Jeanette fought back the desire to cry as she comforted the children. Sophia continued to rock anxiously on the sofa, while Eric digged into his pants nervously with his nails, making light scraping sounds across his khakis. Daniel stood silently in the middle of the living room staring at the small window at the top of the front door. The entity swayed back and forth there before slowly retreating out of his view.

Daniel walked to the door slowly with shaky legs and sweaty palms. He carefully peeked out of the small window in the door but couldn't see anything. He moved to the right of the door and slightly pulled back the curtain to a large window and peeked out carefully. The entity was slowly retreating away from the house, into the darkness, dragging with it the remaining pieces of Melissa and what he assumed was Jake. He could see the glimmer of blood splattered across the gray walkway and suddenly felt queasy as he remembered what he had witnessed earlier. He closed the curtain back and turned around.

"It's leaving...for now." Daniel said holding back the desire to throw up.

"Are you sure?" Jeanette asked calmly, fear and worry etched into her beautiful face.

Daniel shook his head yes. They all remained still and quiet for a while and just listened. Alana silently cried herself to sleep on Alexis's shoulder. The camera monitor suddenly displayed the front porch again and the static on the television cleared as a cartoon suddenly and loudly played causing everyone to jump in fear. Alexis jumped hard waking Alana who looked around in terror. Alexis felt around nervously on the sofa between her and Jeremy until she found the remote where she swiftly cut off the television. They all sat in silence again, listening.

"We should leave while it's gone!" Jeremy proclaimed.

"No! We're not opening the door...at all!" Daniel said looking at his son.

"Mommy I want to go home." Alana said sadly looking at Jeanette.

"We are home baby..." She replied softly.

"No, to our other home. The one with no monster." Alana replied, her small bottom lip quivering.

Daniel ran over and lifted her from Alexis's lap and hugged her. Jeanette wiped the tears from Alexis's cheeks and reached over to grab Jeremy's hand. She paused before doing so remembering he didn't care for her touching him too much. To her surprise he grabbed her hand instead and held it tight. Tears streamed down his face. Jeanette switched places with Alexis and slowly reached over to hug him. Jeremy melted into her shoulder and wept there for a few seconds before pulling away gently.

"Are you okay?" Jeanette asked.

"Yeah, I'm okay...thanks. I want to go back home too." Jeremy replied staring angrily at his father.

"What should we do now?" Asked Sophia

"We keep the doors closed until Monday. That's what we were told. That's what we'll do." Jeanette responded swiping tears from her own face.

The night was still early but everyone felt exhausted. Jeanette offered Sophia and Eric some food. They declined but she made them eat the remaining soup that was still on the stove top. She rewarmed the unfinished bowls of soup in the microwave and they all finished their meal at the dining table in awkward and fearful silence. Jeremy continued to throw daggers at Daniel with his eyes. Ignoring his attitude, Daniel refused to make eye contact with his son. Alexis checked her phone,

"Still no service..." She announced in a hoarse voice.

"We should all get some rest..." Jeanette said looking at the time on the wall. It read "9:32 p.m."

"Where do we sleep?...I mean anywhere is fine." Sophia asked awkwardly while Eric nodded in agreement.

"Our daughter will be with us tonight so you can sleep in her room...She has bunk beds. They're princess themed, hope you don't mind?" Jeanette said directing her question to Eric.

"No, I don't...thank you." Eric replied.

"Can I sleep in the room with you too?!" Alexis asked Jeanette nervously.

"Um...me too, please." Jeremy said looking embarrassed.

"Of course, right honey?" Jeanette said looking at Daniel.

"Yes, of course. Go and get your sleeping bags. They should be in your closets." He responded.

Alexis and Jeremy got up from the table and went upstairs together carefully. They looked around as if they expected the entity to somehow be up there waiting. They gathered their sleeping bags and phone chargers swiftly while Jeanette prepared clean towels, toothbrushes and clothes for Sophia and Eric. Everyone cleaned themselves in the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms and retired to their respective sleeping areas.

The balcony doors in the master bedroom came with a privacy blinds that Daniel had already closed. The doors were locked though Daniel tied a cord around the handles for extra security. Alana laid exhaustedly between Jeanette and Daniel as Jeanette stroked her back and head, she soon fell asleep. Alexis and Jeremy laid their sleeping bags next to one another beside the hallway door, away from the balcony doors. Despite still being afraid they soon fell asleep as well. Only the soft sobs of Sophia across the hall could be heard and then nothing. The whole house was quiet as they all succumbed to their weariness.

The night turned into day and then Saturday arrived...

Don't Open the Door Pt. 4 By: L.L. Morris

Taylor is furious at his manager for paying him lots of money for the simple job that he does as a cashier within the supermarket. Taylor was livid and when his manager told him that he was going to be paying him a super large salary for a simple job as cashier, his dreams had crashed down all around him. Taylor's manager smiled at him but he knew that his managers smile had a sinister plot behind it. Taylor started shouting at his manager for doing such an act and he knew why he had raised his salary by so much.

The manager didn't care for the job or for the employee Taylor, bit rather the manager didn't want his shadow to be pink anymore. The manager has been getting harrassed by the public for having a pink shadow. So now to change his colour on the shadow, he must do things like unreasonable raising a workers salary to unreasonable amounts. There is also another reason why the manager had raised Taylor's salary. Taylor is at university and he has to do a thesis on the positives of having a miserable life. This thesis is important and Taylor wants to pass it.

Taylor thought that he could write such a thesis because his life was depressing, and so he could try to find some positives from a depressing life and write a great thesis and then this will open doors for him. His manager knew what he was doing at university and by increasing his salary by loads of money, he will not have such a miserable life. Taylor shouted at his manager to lower his salary to even lower standards to what he was paying before. The manager said no and Taylor knew it was because his manager didn't want him to succeed at university.

At the same his manager tried everything to change the colour on his shadow to anything else other than pink. At times the colour changed but it then went back to pink. Then as Taylor argued with his manager about his large salary, Taylor grew angrier. Taylor was earning so much money that his miserable life wasn't miserable anymore, and his manager was actually getting in trouble himself for paying taylor that much from his managers, and also suffering bullying from the public for his pink shadow.

Taylor was earning so much money that he didn't know anymore about the positives of having a miserable life. Because taylors manager knew that Taylor had saved so much money after a year, the manager offered taylor to write his thesis for him on the positives of a miserable life. Taylor's manager was having a miserable life himself and Taylor gave all his saved up money to his manager.

Then when Taylor's manager wrote the positives of a miserable life as a ghost writer for Taylor, and Taylor's thesis was accepted, Taylor's managers shadow finally changed colour.

Then one day Taylor found that his manager was now his shadow, and will be with him for the rest of his life. His manager will get to enjoy the success Taylor will get.

The air in the control room felt heavy, laden with the finality of our mission. The crew was silent, each one of us locked in our thoughts, reviewing data logs and archived footage from every drone lost aboard the Enterprise. Every sign, every message, every disembodied warning pointed to one conclusion we could no longer ignore: the figure in the NASA uniform—the one with Rick’s face, the ones who had been us—was no anomaly. It was the inevitable outcome of something catastrophic. Something cosmic. And it was waiting for us to understand.

But we couldn’t turn back now. Command was insistent: complete the mission, retrieve what we could, and, if possible, establish direct contact. The choice was no longer ours.

As I loaded up the final diagnostics on the Apollo-X13, the strongest and most advanced drone in our fleet, a strange calm washed over me. It felt as though we were crossing an invisible line, moving from explorers to something much darker. I looked to Rick, his face unreadable as he gazed at the screen, still haunted by the face he’d seen looking back at him.

“Let’s finish this,” he said quietly.

The Apollo-X13 initiated its entry into the Enterprise, and we monitored the feed with a silent intensity that only grew with each silent hallway, each dust-laden console. For a while, everything appeared the same as it had before: corridors of shimmering crystalline webs, empty rooms frozen in time, and the pulsing hum that seemed to resonate from the very bones of the ship.

As it approached the bridge, the drone’s camera feed started to flicker. The static was less frequent, though, and we could make out more details: the floor strewn with debris, the consoles dead and dark, and then—the figure.

It stood at the center of the bridge, still and expressionless. The NASA logo on its chest seemed to pulse in the dim light, as if responding to the presence of the drone. This time, the face was even clearer. It was Rick’s face, but it looked wrong. Hollow. Detached.

“Try to communicate,” Rick whispered, his voice shaking. He leaned closer to the monitor. “Identify yourself,” he said, directing the words toward the drone’s audio transmitter.

The figure’s eyes moved. Slowly, they focused on the camera, and in that gaze, there was a glimmer of recognition. The lips parted, the face contorted, and then a voice—Rick’s own voice, twisted, distorted, layered over with static—echoed through the control room.

“You should not have come here.”

My pulse pounded in my ears. Rick’s face drained of color, but he stood firm, his gaze locked on the screen. “Why are you here?” he asked, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “What are you?”

The figure tilted its head, as if contemplating the question. And then it spoke again, its words thick with dread and finality. “I am you.”

The screen flared, and suddenly the feed cut out, replaced by a series of distorted images that blurred in rapid succession. In those images, we saw flashes of figures—shadowed silhouettes dressed in NASA uniforms, rows upon rows of stasis pods, faces that were disturbingly familiar, yet subtly wrong. They were us. We were them. The cycle stretched endlessly back in time, looping, repeating, as if the Enterprise were a trap set to lure us, to replicate us, to make us part of whatever nightmare existed beyond Saturn’s shadow.

The feed returned to normal, and the figure in the NASA uniform was gone. In its place, we saw a crystalline growth—a large, jagged structure embedded in the center of the bridge, pulsing with a cold, otherworldly light. The Apollo-X13’s sensors struggled to analyze it, but it was unlike anything we’d ever seen. Its crystalline formations seemed to emit an energy that defied the laws of physics, bending light, distorting time.

“I… I think that’s the core,” Paul murmured. “That’s what’s powering this ship… or trapping it.”

Rick’s expression hardened. “If we destroy it, we might be able to end this.”

I hesitated. “We don’t even know what it is. It could destroy everything on board—including the evidence, the logs, any clue of what really happened.”

Rick looked at me, a flicker of desperation in his eyes. “If we leave it, we risk the same fate as them.” He gestured toward the monitor. “We’ve seen what happens to anyone who gets too close to this thing. We can’t let it continue.”

I knew he was right. But there was something about the crystalline core, the way it pulsed and resonated, that felt alive, almost sentient. Destroying it seemed like a mistake, a violation of something far beyond our understanding. And yet, we had no choice.

The Apollo-X13 maneuvered closer to the core, preparing a directed EMP blast that would, in theory, disrupt its energy field and render it inert. But as it approached, the crystalline structure seemed to react. It pulsed faster, brighter, the hum intensifying until it became a scream that filled the control room with a high-pitched whine.

“Shut it down!” Rick shouted, covering his ears. But it was too late.

The drone emitted the EMP blast, and the screen went dark. For several agonizing seconds, the control room was silent, save for the crackle of static. And then, the screen came back online.

What we saw was something none of us could have expected.

The bridge of the Enterprise was no longer empty. Figures stood in every corner, crowding the consoles, filling the hallways, their faces expressionless, their bodies rigid. They were us—copies of our crew, dressed in NASA uniforms, eyes devoid of life.

And then the feed cut out completely.

In the stunned silence that followed, we stared at the blank screen, our minds racing to comprehend what had happened. Rick spoke first, his voice hollow. “We… we didn’t destroy it. We activated it.”

I felt a shiver crawl down my spine as the implications sank in. The crystal core wasn’t a power source—it was a transmitter, a beacon, designed to lure us in, to replicate us, to trap us in an endless cycle. We were never meant to understand it. We were meant to become part of it.

The realization hit like a punch to the gut. The Enterprise was a trap, an ancient, cosmic machine built to ensnare anyone who dared to venture too close. And now, it had us.

Before anyone could react, a new signal appeared on the monitor. It was faint, barely readable, but unmistakable. It was a transmission—from the Enterprise.

The message was simple, chilling in its clarity:

“We are coming.”

The control room fell into chaos. Commands were issued, emergency protocols enacted, but nothing could shake the gnawing fear that we were too late. The Enterprise was on a trajectory toward Earth, and whatever force controlled it had no intention of stopping.

As we scrambled to prepare, Rick turned to me, a resigned look in his eyes. “If we can’t stop it, we have to contain it. We need to warn the world.”

I nodded, understanding the weight of what he was saying. The Enterprise was no longer just a mystery—it was a threat, a cosmic virus poised to infect everything it touched. And unless we could stop it, humanity would be its next victim.

In the days that followed, NASA, in collaboration with every major space agency on Earth, began preparations to intercept the Enterprise. Plans were made, contingencies set, but deep down, we all knew the truth. The Enterprise was beyond our understanding, a force of nature that defied every law of science. And as it drifted closer, we felt the pull of its influence, a call that resonated in the darkest corners of our minds.

And so, we wait, knowing that our time is running out, that the Enterprise is coming, and that we are powerless to stop it.

But there is one thing we know for certain, one truth that haunts us in the quiet hours of the night:

The Enterprise was not lost. It was found.

And now, it has found us.

[[Originally written in 2013: Open to critique, suggestions and a better title]]

He peered out from beneath his covers, just enough to get a fuzzy look at the cold floorboards and into the dark hallway through his gaping, ravaged door. His heartbeat pounded like bongoes in his ear. Each throb of his heart made him tense with fear, certain it could be heard throughout the darkened home. Try as he might, he couldn't stifle his ragged breathing. He could hold it in no longer than a few seconds before his panicked body demanded more. Fat teardrops slid down his already sticky cheeks. He could hear nothing over the sound of his terror echoing in his head.

Minutes oozed by, the house frozen and waiting for the aftershock. Pieces of his door cast ghostly reflections on the dark, polished hardwood and seemed to wriggle with each futile blink. His thick curtains billowed as the wind gusted but nothing entered. No sound. The crickets had become silent and even the neighborhood dogs had fallen voiceless, knowing. Only the trees rustled as if shivering with anticipation.

He listened. His breathing slowed but only slightly. He strained his ears for any sound that would assure him that it was all over. His breath hitched upon catching the faint creaking of the stairwell. He slid beneath his bed and clutched the covers with his eyes clenched shut tightly. The sound became louder and louder, closer and closer. The floorboards whined with the weight of the intruder even though the house was built no sooner than 2008. Another sound accompanied the creaking, one he couldn't quite figure out the origins of. It was as though a bundle of nails were being dragged along the floor, or even the railing that separated the hall from the 12 feet of nothing and the ground floor.
The sound stopped.

He held his breath, listening.
Even the air has stilled.

All at once, the house jolted. Furniture and objects were flung and suspended in the air. The windows burst inward, and lightbulbs shattered. From everywhere and nowhere came a deafening howling as if the house were being hurled from the stratosphere back down to earth into a cyclone. He became weightless but he felt as though his stomach were a 50-pound weight anchoring him to the floor.

He heard a scream, his mother's scream, and everything fell back to the floor, toppling over, breaking. His head fell to the ground, followed by his body. White flashed behind his eyelids for a moment then a skull-splitting pain shot from his forehead and branched down to the base of his skull. He ignored this and scrambled to his feet.

"Mom!" he called, nearly tripping several times over fallen pieces of furniture and slicing his feet on bits of glass and ceramic. He was forced to hobble on the un-sliced portion of his feet to where he heard the scream. His parent's bedroom door was nothing but scraps reaching out to gore him from their hinges. He inched around them stuck himself to the wall and searched frantically. Their room too was in ruin. Their ceiling had collapsed revealing the dark space above where the attic was supposed to be.

"Mom!" he called again and pieced his way through the wreckage. He climbed over the fallen bathroom door, soaked by the spout of water shooting out of the stub that was once a toilet, and slipped slowly into the adjoining office. Suddenly he felt 100 pounds heavier, nausea washed over him and forced him to double over, retching. The sudden weight made his head pound with white-pain. When he opened his eyes he could see droplets of blood. He reached up to where he had landed on his head but it was dry. Searing hot pain beneath his nose brought him to the realization that he was leaking profusely from it. Plump tears welled up and dribbled down his cheeks.

"Momma!" he bawled, looking up from his bloodied hand.

"Jeremy!" she called.
Jeremy looked up to where her voice was coming from and immediately voided his bladder, the fluid nearly as hot as the blood still trickling from his nose.

"Jeremy!" his mother pleaded, hand outstretched to him.

His brain said to go, to run to her and save her, but nothing moved. Not even a twitch.

On the opposite side of the room which went in and out of focus, a roar like fire booming in his ears, a darkened figure clutched his mother. Yellow-orange eyes stared back at him with beady pupils that stared from darkened sockets. Its mouth opened to reveal sharp, gleaming teeth. He wasn't sure if the thing was laughing or if it was the roaring. It stepped closer on enormous cloven hooves and slid its hand over his mother's screaming mouth, long black nails, or more like claws, dug into her skin.

"The Devil." Jeremy found himself whispering, his gaze locked into the things.

"No," it said suddenly, its voice deep and gravely. "Samael"

Jeremy's eyes widened, his lungs spasmed, suddenly unsure of how to function in its struggle for air to supply his rapidly throbbing heart which felt as though it were being constricted by a thick length of burning twine. He opened his mouth and emitted a screech as the thing, Samael, backed away and faded into the shadows, only his eyes lingering even after the room brightened with the approach of dawn and after the roaring and his mother's helpless screeching faded.

Police later found him standing exactly where Samael had left him 14 hours later staring at two still smoldering holes in the wall muttering over and over again,

"Samael"

I’m laying in bed right now when I just remembered that time I almost got kidnapped when I was a kid. I’m 28 now and this memory is not supernatural or anything but just a bit scary. So way back in the early 2000s my siblings and mom went to live with our dad in Brooklyn because we got kicked out by a friend who didn’t want us anymore(understandably).

During that time we were living with my dad there was a event at prospect park during that time and since we only lived 2-4 blocks away from the park my mom decided to stay there for a while with us for some family relief and fun. My siblings stayed with my mom at this pagoda thing or that place where people play music at( I can’t remember).

I told my mom I was going in the dog park to play with the random dogs😂. I played with a couple for some time until a slobbery ball dropped by me with a beautiful golden retriever panting at me. A tall overweight guy in sunglasses and a baseball cap came over and said “it’s ok you can play with her if you like”. I played fetch with her for like 5-10 mins until the guy told me. “I know a place where we can play with more space”.

It was strange but I started following him to a more bushy and less populated area. As I’m following him I just felt a strange feeling in my gut, but I kept going. Then his dog started barking at me like crazy she jumped in front of me and repeatedly kept pushing me back the opposite direction by jumping on her hind legs and pushing with her front paws.

At this point I I felt scared I said “my mom wants me back” and just started running away. I got lost looking for my mom and started crying and panicking asking random people where she is(😂) but I eventually found her and she just gave me a very bewildered look. As if to say “where the hell were you?” lol. Strangely, I never told her what had happened to this day. Only my siblings. I honestly don’t know why I still haven’t told her.

I am 19 years old and I've recently moved into a cabin in the middle of the woods. Being a teenager that worked a full-time job and on top of that just graduated high school, I decided it was time to start looking for my own place. Mostly so I could have my own independence and partially because I wanted to start drinking cold beer instead of the lukewarm Pabst box under my bed. Anyways, the place I found was about an hour away from my parents and very low rent which is exactly what I was looking for. After talking to the landlord through text, me and my girlfriend decided to go check it out. The cabin ended up being on the guy's property. It just wasn't in use so he decided he was going to start renting it to folk to pay for the property tax. The cabin was probably half acre away from his house so we wouldn't be in much contact which I took as a plus. The next week we decided the deal was too good to pass up on. Both of our parents reacted very excited to the news and helped us move in.

At this time, I think it would be important to explain the layout of this cabin. The entrance to the cabin was off of a random left turn from a county road. Without knowing there was a turn you would have just thought the road was a straight drive until you got to the next stop sign. It's about a 5 minute drive into this thickly wooded path and then there was a cabin. The only door inside of the cabin was the front door. Everything else it's just an open continuous path from room to room until you reach the spiral staircase that leads to the basement. Anyways, what I'm trying to get at is that it's very far away from anywhere else and anyone else. It's been about 2 months since we've moved in and almost every single night I hear knocking at the door. My girlfriend rarely hears it which is crazy to me because the knocking has been driving me insane ever since we moved here. It's gotten so bad that I suggested we get a cat just so I can use the cat as an excuse for the weird noises I hear (which we ended up doing, my girlfriend has no idea that's why I wanted one) . After weeks of trying to convince my girlfriend that the knocking I was hearing wasn't just in my head. She finally took my side and we decided to tell the landlord to see if he had any solutions or answers. We drove down to his house and knocked on his front door. We explained the situation and he told us that

“there was nothing in those damn woods and you kids need to stop watching horror movies. Unless you're coming here to give me the rent I suggest you leave my porch and don't come back with any of those silly ideas, you understand?””

Then he slammed the door.

Taken aback by the tone he was projecting, I went to go knock on the door again for an explanation of his behavior. As soon as I lifted my arm, my girlfriend stopped me, and told me it was obvious he wasn't in the mood for talking, and convinced me to drive us back. I feel like I was justified in being mad or at least entitled to an apology. I guess I was the only one that felt like that. Ever since that moment something felt off to me about the landlord. What in Sam Hill did I do to piss off this guy so badly and what kind of answer is “there's nothing in those damn woods.” I have no idea. All I did know is that it sure as hell felt like there was something in those woods and I'm the only person who's hearing, let alone acknowledging the damn thing.

Despite being stressed out all the time because of this knocking situation, I managed to still get good sleep and maintain my job. Which is a blessing. Sometimes I feel like my job is the only way I can escape the constant knocking and humming I hear all day. Like I said earlier, I live an hour away from my job so closing on Fridays is always the worst. I don't get out until at least 12:30 and by that time all the fog that dissipates in the early morning starts to form on my hour drive home. The worst part about the drive home is that it's a single straight road with no turns or deviations, except for that one time there was a bomb threat. Besides that, it is a single straight shot state road that leads almost directly to my house until you have to turn to go into the woods. I wish there was some sort of left or right turn so I could make it a landmark on my late night drives. Instead, the road leads directly through a seemingly endless wall of cornfield. Not an unusual sight living in the Midwest, but I'll tell you after a 10-hour shift the Sea of Corn is mesmerizing in the worst way. The only switching of scenery is a single gas station run by some Indian family that's open 24 hours.

At some point in the past week or maybe two I'm not quite sure, I've been getting home without remembering any part of my drive. Usually when I'm driving home I listen to a podcast or some music, maybe an episode of South Park (I know it's ridiculous and distracted driving but mind your own business.) but I don't remember doing any of that. I look through my Spotify no recent music has been queued up or played, none of the new episodes on my podcast were listen to, and I sure as hell don't remember what episode if any I was watching of South Park. After I realized this the next time I worked I was going to make sure I focused on what was going on. My fear is that I've started to sleep drive.

Sleepwalking has always been a problem for me. I was told that when I was a little kid living with my grandparents I was a big sleepwalker. I remember them putting extra locks on the door so I wouldn't get out but I would always find a way. I remember them telling me whenever they would check up on me at night and I wasn't on the couch I was probably out by the pond. For whatever reason 8-year-old me would walk out of the house, close the door and walk down to my grandparents pond. I never remembered this because I was obviously asleep. They would always bring it up at dinner whenever my mother came over to visit. I would always get embarrassed. I don't know why this feeling came over me. I just knew I was doing something wrong but I didn't know what. Apparently I never grew out of the whole sleepwalking thing. It's definitely tamed down. Now I just turn on the light, turn it back off and go to bed according to my girlfriend. The idea of being in that state while driving terrified me. Anyways the next day came, the shift ended and it was time for my drive home. I turned on my ignition and I woke up at the gas station.

Realizing that I'm 30 minutes into my drive and I don't even remember leaving the parking lot I start panicking. How the hell did I get here? Deciding I definitely needed a coffee and a splash of water in my face I took the keys out, shut my door and went inside. I got myself a 99 cent cup of coffee with one sugar and no creamer. I grabbed a Payday because it's the best candy bar of all time. I went up to the counter and nobody was there. Literally no one was inside the entire gas station. The office was right next to the entrance so I peeked over and the door was wide open, the computer unlocked with the seat completely empty. Realistically they were probably having a smoke break somewhere around the building but me being already on edge this definitely did not help. I just placed a $5 bill on the counter and walked out to my car. I mean I already poured the coffee. What else was I going to do? I threw the coffee down the hatch and the payday followed quickly after. After calming myself and letting the payday settle I continued on my drive and half an hour later I was home.

I came to the conclusion that I was definitely sleep driving and needed to find a way to prevent this from happening. The next day I decided to bring an energy drink to work and crack it an hour before my shift ended. My hope was that I would be wired enough that I couldn't fall asleep. I clocked out and went to my car determined to not fall asleep this time. I put on Highway 61 revisited and left for the road. The energy drink plus a relatively slow day at work had me rejuvenated for most of the drive. Everything was going fine until about 45 minutes in, the album looped to the first song and then I saw a deer. After seeing its eyes reflect back to me I remembered to turn on my brights. My headlights lit up the infinite road ahead of me, the deer caught my attention again. The deer was eating some sort of roadkill. Its face was covered in blood with patches of fur hanging out of its mouth. For some reason, I slammed my brakes not sure if it was instinctively or if subconsciously I just wanted to get a better look. The second my brakes squealed against the road, the deer picked up its food and ran into the woods. I had no idea what to make of this. I could have sworn deer were herbivores or whatever the hell they're called. I mean, I guess I could have been wrong but something about that made me uneasy. Not knowing what else to do, I started up my car and started driving.

The fear I swallowed in that moment must have made it to my gut. I was sick to my stomach the whole drive home. The second I got inside, I hit my mattress hoping that I would forget it the next day. I didn't. I felt like I was going insane if I decided to stay awake for my drive, I was in fear of what the road would show me. If I did fall asleep, the fate of me and the other drivers was determined on my muscle memory alone. I felt trapped. I couldn't stand being in that crazy house of a cabin where the knocking took over my surround sound. My only escape being an end of shift horror show I either couldn't or wish I couldn't remember. It was driving me mad. The fear consumed everything in my life. I couldn't go a second without wondering about the knocking. I told my girlfriend that the next night I worked, I was going to stay at my parents house because there was supposed to be fog that night and I didn't feel comfortable driving. Which was a total lie, but if I saw one more thing out of place, I was going to snap. My parents only lived 5 minutes away from my job, so making it there compared to my regular drive was nothing. My parents had a guest bedroom set up, cooked me some dinner and I went to bed. The next day I woke up at the cabin. My car wasn't in the driveway but at least the knocking stopped.

My boyfriend has gone missing. This is the entirety of the journal he left on the kitchen table. Ever since we moved into the cabin, my boyfriend has been sleepwalking and I'm worried that last night he left the house. I'm posting this on here searching for suggestions or honestly anything. I'm not sure what to do, our living situation is illegal. For that reason, I don't want to call the cops yet I'll be posting my side of the story soon. Jacob if you end up finding this before I find you just come back, we can deal with this together. Me and Norman miss you. I was just scared. I love you.

Picture this scene: the room is ultra-dark, you’re pressed against the sofa cushions by a strong man with his wet tongue stroking your neck, the sofa and cushions are not that soft, and your head is turned, stretched even, facing just the right angle to stare out the window and into the neighbor’s lit-up attic, where a shimmering light glows up the face of a doll and it is so far away you can’t make out any of its expression. It becomes a game for you to make out what its face is telling, but no matter how many times you get pinned against that sofa, you never figure out what it tries to tell you.

It has been 11 years. I am now 21 years old, an outsider trans girl turned barista for a company that sells primarily to white cis mall babes, and I have been planning on re-taking my rightful first steps into adulthood with my best and only childhood friend, Kyle. (Yeah, he lives every bit up to his name—a hype-beast who peaked during his High School football years and DJs for a trashy nightclub, who acts unrestingly like he has been force-fed Monster Energy drinks since he was an infant when really, it’s probably ADHD.) His dad, Bob, loyally has promised to pick us up from the nightclub at midnight when Kyle’s playtime is over—for our safety. Bob’s a “Bob” the same way Kyle’s a “Kyle”, a man who could be anyone so his friends, colleagues, and family had to nickname him “Bob the Builder”, which clarifies him… He works construction, and I guess people have always thought of him as stereotypically kind and normal. My parents have heritage in the Middle East; they fight loudly, and regularly and are not well-liked around our block (luckily my younger and older siblings have turned out better people so far), so we automatically stick out, and since tonight is my first time going out, I’ve had to keep it a secret from them.

I hang out with Kyle after my shift has ended, going to random local thrift stores, and we’re about to exit the most moldy-smelling one when a fat doll pops up out of nowhere. It looks like it has been sitting there collecting dust for the past 11 years. I know it is the right one, the one from the attic. Even though I was never able to read its expression, its hair, clothes and shape are too recognizable for it to be any other. Finally seeing its expression up close feels like a sudden anticlimax. It has gone from a hazy mystery to an average-looking vintage doll staring right back at me.

Without letting Kyle know why, I buy it. Perhaps I don’t know the reason myself, why I feel like I should own it (where would I even put it? I still live at my parent’s). We don’t have time to go back to my place, so we head straight to the nightclub where Kyle will be practicing since he’s still new, and we have a couple of mutual friends there who co-own it.

“What the fuck is that?” is the question of the night, referring to the 3-pound heavy baby I’m carrying around awkwardly. “Sorry, that’s our new friend, I forgot to introduce you,” I say. “Who the fuck brings a doll to a nightclub anyways?” Kyle is not happy about it, being my opposite in many ways, as straight and masculine as a hammer or spanner.

When they start with the drinks, I am sober in the most “epiphany” kind of way—that is, I simultaneously care less and less about how I stick out and feel like I don’t belong here, and really am glad that I don’t get hammered by alcohol the way that they do. My fat doll becomes attractive to their drunk minds, a genuinely amusing play tool that gets passed around in a circle used mockingly as a Lolita and less offensively as a hostage to their strong and sour alcoholic breaths. I give in to their caricatured selves, the tension around my neck loosens up, and I too engage in their mockery and silly dancing.

At some point, I forget keeping track of time and checking my phone for new messages and notifications. People stream in like silverfish on a bathroom floor until the club is filled with people in slick and shiny clothes. The pumping loud music is making me feel dizzy even though I’ve had nothing but free tap water all night. Kyle introduces me to a girl friend of his I’ve never met, she’s cool, goth and her eyes pierce deep into my soul as she pulls me onto the dance floor, leaving my doll in Kyle’s lap as he tells me that he has to go take a piss and I answer: “well, bring the doll and just don’t take a piss on it then, Kyle,” and he smirks.

The night is gone like that. Any frustration, any concern evaporates into the thin oozing smoke penetrated by colorful laser beams, a hard pounding in my chest, a gleeful smile in front of me and my matching rhythmic dance moves to those of a new friend.

And then the screams. The kind that doesn’t belong here: guttural, panicked, “someone just fucking died” kind of screams.

Reality hits me like a bowl of ice water, groups of people push to the exit, I have no idea wherefrom the panic arose but I know I have to follow people outside. I’m pushing past them aggressively; Kyle’s friend is gone. I throw my elbows to rush faster and make space, I check my phone, it is midnight, it is midnight, where did I leave Kyle?

Where did Kyle go? People exit in different directions, but I know where to go because Kyle’s dad should have been here now, so I go to where we had arranged for him to pick us up. To the side of the club, a small parking area lit by flickering streetlights, people are running away from there, leaving a body behind on the asphalt with a man kneeling screaming his name: “Kyle, no, no, no, my son,” no, no, no. I run to them unaware of any danger or sensation other than that my heart is in my throat, electricity shoots bolts through my body. He’s dead. He has no face. It’s replaced by mossy red matter. They’re soaked in a pool of blood; his dad doesn’t even notice me.

“I am so, so sorry,” I say as if it’s my fault that Kyle is the one who is dead. Bob still doesn’t hear me, other people come and try to pull him away from the body, and sirens ring discordantly. I go to the shadowed wall of the nightclub, throw up water and turn around to see once again, just far enough out there in the distance, my doll lays with its face turned towards me, hollow in its expression. Almost menacingly.

I wish I could say my story ends there. Alongside Kyle’s. But it doesn’t.

Three hooded men wearing masks were spotted running away from the crime scene after having beaten and kicked my best, and only, friend to death outside his workplace. No one got caught. No one got punished.

It has been six years.

I used to scuff at movies featuring creepy killer dolls because it always felt like mine saved me, but now I believe it. This doll of mine was there with him, stained with a single drop of blood on its cheek, a testimony to what it witnessed. It was my fault, it said, and then I slowly walked past the small crowd taking care of the body and the body’s father and I picked it up from the ground and thought, this is my fault, I am going to take that home with me, all the blame. I see it now: This is my fault.

On the sixth anniversary of his death, I make a quick call to my parents and siblings to let them know that I care for them and appreciate them, for having respectfully supported me and letting me live with them up until I got my own apartment (which is a month ago). I quit my low-pay job, and I turn on the gas oven and open it, ready to put my head inside of it.

I have thought about it a lot so that I don’t mess it up. There is something so poetic about dying like Sylvia Plath, a woman whose soul was haunted despite the love she also received during her life. I am reminded then in that moment, of the backstreet cat that has peered through the window since the first night I moved in, which I reluctantly opened the window for and let into my apartment for a cup of almond milk. If I am to end what I have here to get a sense of peace, to bury the endless black noise that has occupied my brain since Kyle’s death, I am not taking an innocent cat with me.

So, I go into the living room, blow out a candle and close the window to the streets where a strong wind is whooshing. As I do it, I hear the sound of the door to the kitchen slamming behind me, the air cracks and I hear a low rumbling as something erupts behind me, tree and glass splints and a wave of heat hits my back. I am knocked over; my head hits the ground with a loud thump.

I wake up in the hospital to my dad sitting next to me. He is eating shawarma (probably from his place downtown), which makes the whole room smell strongly of homely spices. I feel nauseous but mostly because I realize my demise; that my demise was not the one I had hoped for. How does one go about explaining what I had tried to do, excuse it? There is no way to do that. Instead, I stare at the doll placed on the cupboard in front of me, parts of its face are burned but the body is very much intact and the same. “Oh,” my dad says as he notices the subject of my attention, “they did not manage to save much from the fire but that. It’s so ugly, they should’ve left it.” It is an ugly doll, for sure. That thing is haunted. Maybe it never saved me, maybe it has been there at every bad moment of my life because it was the reason for them, it is the cause of bad things happening around it.

I want to get rid of it, and I know I can’t. If it could die, I know it would’ve died in that fire.

You would think things could only go downhill from here: at the hospital after a failed suicide attempt with basically no income, no place to live, having to move back to my parents, having to experience my family silently judging me at the peak of the aftershock? Yeah, I don’t think so. I am spending the next few months facing my new realities, such as that due to the fire, most of my back is scarred including the backside of my head, where my long beautiful hair will never be able to grow back. Some of my chin is scarred, my neck is scarred, and a lot of my arms and legs. I look like someone’s nightmare, and I don’t know how any wig or makeup could ever save this.

I get rejected at every job interview, getting embarrassed and spooked looks from the interviewers and the people in the streets. Even after having spent hours in front of the mirror trying to piece my skin and body back together into something recognizably human. The doll turned out better than you, I think.

I guess that is when I decide to make a change, and instead of reversing my life into societal norms, I am going to completely destroy any sign of them. I am tired of this body and this mind, there are only a few things I have been definitively good at anyway, and if I stay, I want to fulfil the revenge I sought out in the first place.

My only, and depressing, regret, is that I got the wrong person killed. Technically, the beating was only supposed to land Bob, Kyle’s dad, in the hospital. I was too much of a coward to ask the small group of white druggies from the edge of our suburb to finish the deed after I paid cash—naturally, I had saved up and withdrawn money from the bank ever since I started working my first job at 16. I just guess they took it too far and got scared when they realized they jumped the wrong family member; Bob and Kyle do look somewhat alike, as fathers and sons typically do. I haven’t heard or seen them since, and I don’t care to because I don’t blame them. It is me who was responsible for looking out for Kyle, me, who hired them knowing their history and not at all caring if it would’ve turned out the same for Bob, splashed out on the street for all to see.

Maybe I sound insane but that is what he made me feel: Wrong and worthy of destruction for the reason of existing. For years, I would escape my parents’ fights by going to Kyle’s and finding comfort in how much more average-looking, “ideal” his home life appeared. We played games on his PlayStation, Kyle even got me to play ball games with him, and we chatted about life and everything cool and not-cool, deep and not-that-deep.

Kyle’s parents were happily divorced, and since his mom was a career-lady, Kyle naturally favored staying with his dad. I never saw Bob around much because he, too, would work pretty late, but when I came over at night because of my parents, things started to change. He would never leave me and Kyle alone, out of sight, except to bring us ice cream from the fridge and soda. He seemed like a perfect dad, probably too perfect, and then one day, it was like he flipped the switch. His face grew more serious as he asked first Kyle, and then me, to undress.

Kyle’s face blushed with redness, I couldn’t stand looking at him, he tried to ask his father if they could do it later, alone, privately. I both understood what was about to go down and had no clue what it meant. He didn’t seem to force Kyle to do anything, Kyle appeared as if he went along with it, while I stood there frozen. “You too,” Bob would say, sneeringly. Petrified I removed my clothes like he told me to, and I felt myself distancing from my body which was wrapped in cold air and goosebumps.

Sometimes he did both Kyle and I, sometimes he did only me and made Kyle watch. I still couldn’t stand looking at Kyle, so there I stretched my neck, looking out of the window into the neighbor house’s attic across the street, at the doll that I now own.

I don’t know why I ever went back; if it was for Kyle’s friendship; if it was the desperate belief that everything else about his home life was perfect and better than mine; if it was because I felt that, even though what Bob did to my body hurt and left me feeling dirty and shameful, I still somehow felt that it was so much better than the lack of control in my own house. Somehow the act of going back felt like I did have a sense of control, and that it was rewarded in the end with Kyle’s lifelong friendship.

Now Kyle is dead because of me. I had arranged that night out where we would need to get picked up, made sure that it was Bob who would come to get us, and showed the gang members who to go for, while I would be dancing the night away with Kyle. Obviously, I knew it would hurt him emotionally, but I trusted my gut that it was for the better because Kyle still lived at home and I still saw the way he acted around his dad, timid and uncomfortable when he got up close to him. I knew that it was right.

But I messed up everything, and I have to do it over. I have found another strategy. Bob wasn’t only interested in kids; he was also interested in hookers. Here I find myself unable to get past a job interview for a normal job, and I must go rogue. I tell my family that I am safe but I am going to be away for a while, and they try to hold me back but they can’t refuse because I am my own adult.

It is depressingly easy to get into prostitution today: One contact becomes your ad and suddenly, you’re sold like a cheap car on Craigslist. So much for self-empowerment and feminism. I don’t have any clothes I consider slutty but I find out that it doesn’t matter, they’ll treat you the same—and all the sexual trauma awakens, rushes down my spine and keeps my body stiffened like I am in electrotherapy, breathing through my teeth. The greedy sensations, the foul smells, the taste stuck in the back of my throat that I will be washing away with soap in the bathroom later. And the best part, I can’t stop. This is what I was made for, and it all crescendos the day Bob becomes my client, and takes me home.

“It’s been a while,” he says. I tell him to shut up, my voice is grown-up. “What?” he says anyway, and I tell him that I don’t want him to make me remember. “Alright,” he answers. Over the next many years, I willingly see Bob. Bob becomes my client, and I become his. Sometimes he makes me dress up as Kyle in his old clothes, all of which I know by heart, and sometimes he tears up and asks me to just sit with him and hold his hand. I don’t know which makes me feel more ill.

When I fuck with Bob, I make sure to make him feel loved and seen and heard. I do everything that he wants me to. It is like I am his doll. This is a punishment for both of us, I think, fittingly. My life has turned into our life. We are one side of the same coin, the victim and the perpetrator. He buys me things and asks me out, too. We lay in bed after fucking, and I let him cook breakfast for me in the morning.

By the time Bob is in his late 60s, we are in a loving relationship, and I no longer have ties with my family. And by loving, I mean: “I hate every single inch of your skin, but I will tolerate you until it’s time.” Because one day, he will die by my hands, too.

He frequently talks about marrying me. A discreet marriage, of course—not because I am the childhood friend of his dead son and much younger, but because I am a trans girl. His colleagues, of course, can’t know. I don’t reject him but I appear reluctant, I don’t want him to know that I want the marriage to happen, too.

So, by the time we are officially, and discreetly, married, I am ready to finalize our time together.

Serving by serving, I put a little bit of rat poison in his drinks. He falls ill, pale as a white sheet and wet with heavy beads of sweat. His lips are bluish, he throws up a lot. I keep it going, serve him just enough to keep him ill for extended periods and drag it out, but make sure there are periods when his health is better and he can return to work to avoid suspicion.

It is a slow process but this is what I have waited for. I realize that I do not find joy in seeing him die slowly but there is something else that makes it worth it. Like the tense pause between the end of a performance and a standing ovation. He coughs, gets slimy, he is the most disgusting he has ever been, and I have seen the worst of him. He wants sex, and I pretend to pity him when I say no, I simply cannot.

I know the torture has to end when he is bedridden for several weeks, the workplace keeps calling and he is coughing up blood. I have to give him a proper doze and end the misery, despite how every nerve in my body tells me to extend and keep pushing, keep seeing how far I can make him go. I know that it has to end.

The fat doll, which I have placed on a bookcase next to his bed, stares at us as I sit next to him and give him his final doze of arsenic. “I am scared,” he says, “don’t you think you should call the doctor?” I open his hand and run my finger in circles on his rough palm. “No. I don’t think I will.”

With caution, I proceed to remind him that a real man owns his illness and doesn’t succumb to it. A man’s illness is his, and only his problem, and if he makes it anybody else’s, well, then he is no better than said illness. Bob’s teary eyes look at me for help. “I want you to know before you pass, that it was me. All those years ago. With Kyle. I arranged for someone to get hurt that night.”

He blinks, and his gaze flickers around as if he is tracking a fly darting the room. “What do you mean “with Kyle”?” His old voice is so much more fragile like a whimper than I expected. He almost sounds innocent.

“I mean that I killed your son,” I say, and he reluctantly laughs in an uncomfortable smile. “It was supposed to be you for raping me and for raping Kyle. For everything you did to us, you disgusting pig.”

I can feel my voice and hand tremble as I recollect my memory. All of what has been boiled up, unsaid. No words have enough color or edge to give life to that. Yet I want him to believe what I say, and it appears he is fumbling, beginning to see a picture he never even considered.

“Remember how eager I was for you to come and pick us up at the nightclub? How I had it planned for months—and those three men who got away? I paid them for years worth of work salary, oh yeah, I messed up with that. It wasn’t supposed to be Kyle.” I suddenly find myself choking up before realizing my cheeks are already wet with tears. “He was my friend. I didn’t even want anybody dead. I just wanted you to hurt,” I cried, gasping, “I needed you to feel so, so hurt. Please, why did you do it?” I ask.

Through my blurred vision, I see his face distorted, too, in a sad frown with ugly tears and snot running down his face. It feels like I am looking at the real Bob, caught in shame and self-pity, and I can’t tell if he is crying for me, for himself or for both of us.

I stop myself from squeezing his hand and let go. He eyes the empty cup of arsenic at his bedside. “How long?” he asks.

No, I think. This is not about you, Bob. But he thinks so.

In the exhausted breath of a loser, I sigh and stand up. I no longer look at him. I’m staring at my doll.

Bob is not healthy enough to get up himself and call for help, call for anything. He may live for another hour, maybe for another day. Nobody stops by for him anymore.

As I leave Bob to die alone in excruciating pain, I am comfortable knowing that I will be somewhere else and that when his neck tightens, and he angles his head to scan the room for help, he will find himself in just the right position to lock eyes with the “faceless” doll I leave behind.

Most people labor under the delusion that social work is a calling, something you are born into - a destiny preordained by the virtuosity of one's saintly soul. That has always felt like ten pounds of bullshit in a five-pound bag to me. But hey - maybe that's true for some of my colleagues, maybe some of them are saints-in-training, guided solely by the desire to provide philanthropy to the downtrodden. That ain't me though. The Job certainly isn't saint-work, either. Saint-work implies that the process is godly and just, which it plain isn't, not on any level. Social work puts you in the trenches, a soldier "fighting the good fight", so to speak. Last time I checked, we didn't send the pope and his bishops, armed to teeth with sharpened crosses and lukewarm holy water, to storm the beaches of Normandy. It's a messy, messy affair - no place for someone who isn't okay getting their hands a little dirty. Assisting the desperate puts you in touch with all sorts of heartache, misery, depravity, tragedy, sadism, loneliness - the list could go on, but I don't want to turn this story into Infinite Jest. But don't just take my word for it. As a frequenter of the r/socialwork subreddit, I'll direct you fine, upstanding, inquisitive lurkers to this quote posted by a fellow solider a few years back that I made a point of favoriting:

"Social work is easy ! Just like riding a bike. Except the bike is on fire, and everything is on fire, because you're in hell"

But I'm getting off track. Back to the point, you may be asking yourself, why does Corvus do this, if not for good of mankind? Also, what the fuck kind of name is Corvus? No idea about the name, but I got reasons for doing what I do. Two reasons, really. First and foremost, I've been doing this job for what seems like an eternity - started in the early 1990s, well before Monica Lewinsky was a household name. Been doing it so long that it's practically all I know how to do. Secondly, it distracts me. Hell ain't fun but it sure is stimulating, hard to be preoccupied with anything else amidst the brimstone and lake of fire. I don't like to think about my past, too painful. Rather be somewhere else, even if that somewhere is the metaphorical equivalent of the DMV in Dante's Inferno. And I'm a bit of a hound dog regarding my caseload - when I'm on the job, I barely feel the need to eat or sleep. I get lost in it, and I've grown fond of that feeling.

And that is what I would have believed, to my last goddamned raspy death rattle, if it weren't for Charlie. 

So I'm sitting at my desk, minding my own business between clients, when I see this young guy walk in the front door of the office a good hundred yards from where I am. A real tall, dark, and handsome type. Medium-length curly brown hair, disheveled to the point that it looks intentional and post-coital. Black blazer, black turtleneck, brown chinos. A comfortable six-foot-two inches. Honestly, I think he caught my eye because of how out of place he looked. Young, attractive, put-together, tall - couldn't imagine what the bastard needed us for. 

And he's over there scanning the room, searching for someone, and I feel pretty confident it's not me 'cause I don't know this Casanova, but then our eyes meet. We're staring at each other, and I can tell he's stopped searching. He starts to make an absolute B-line towards me, and I have no clue what this heat-seeking missile wants, but in social work, you get pretty attuned to the possibility of violence from complete strangers. Maybe this is the angry husband of a domestic abuse victim I tended to. Maybe he's a father that hit his kid so I sicked child protective services on his ass. The possibilities are, unfortunately, kind of endless. I clutch a screwdriver under the palm of my right hand and brace myself for the worst. 

As you may be able to discern, I am pretty desensitized to insanity. Not exactly subtextual to this whole thing. But insanity suits me. It takes up a lot of space in my mind and my autonomic nervous system, which is kind of the whole appeal. I've got a lot of repressed traumas I think, a real treasure trove of adverse childhood events that I sometimes can feel rumbling in the back of my skull. I've done an excellent job keeping locked tight, mostly. There is one thing that slipped out, however, and If it weren't important to the rest of this, trust me, I wouldn't even mention it. When I was real young, I almost drowned. I fell right to the bottom of a pool for some reason, no one around to help; who knows where Mommy and Daddy dearest had gotten off to. A lifeguard pulled me up at the last second, just as the thick, murky water began filling my lungs. At least, I think she was a lifeguard; all I remember afterward is the sun in my eyes and being dazed. Don't remember much before or after that, and I don't care to. Can't even go near a pool nowadays, or any body of water for that matter. Over the years, I've gotten a lot of heat from my ex-wives about my absolute unwillingness to get help "unpacking" everything. But as far as I'm concerned, the work is all the therapy and medicine I'll ever need. In fact, I've made a point not to see a "professional" about it - never been to a therapist, never been to a doctor. People consider me a "professional"; trust me, being behind that curtain is eye-opening. 

Before I had this job, though, I was suicidally alcoholic and living on the streets. Theo, a social worker who was a legend of my office, God rest his soul, found my withered husk one fateful night and offered to help. Over time, I got back on my feet. Thankfully, back in the 90s, you didn't need a master's degree to pursue social work, and a bachelor's degree was pretty easy to fake before the internet. One short year later, I was working alongside my mentor. Best fifteen years of my life. My only regret is not getting closer to him. He was always open and vulnerable with me. The number of times I rejected an invitation for dinner with his wife and family is probably in the triple digits. It just never felt possible. Never felt right. 

So anyway, the stranger gets to my desk, and I am ready for whatever argy-bargy this psychopath has in mind. Instead of trying to wring my neck, the lunatic stops a few feet from me, proceeds to slam a weathered newspaper on my desk, crosses his arms, and then waits impatiently like I'm the one holding him up. It takes me a minute to mentally acclimate to this new absurdity and respond. All the while, this maniac is glaring daggers at me, then looking at the paper, then back at me, so on and so forth. Tapping his right foot as if to say: "I'm waiting, old man". 

Eventually, I put on my readers to examine the disintegrating parchment, and its a copy of The New York Times from the winter of 1993. I bring my gaze back to his, completely befuddled, and in the sweetest, most saccharine voice I can muster in these trying times, I ask him: "Can you kindly explain to me what the fuck I'm looking at?"

He rips the paper from my hands, I watch him flip through it, and again, he looks livid with me for not understanding. Finally, he gets to the back of that ancient text and apparently finds what he is looking for, at which point he flips the paper back at me and points to an article circled in blue ink. The column he circled was in the reader-submitted "dating tips" section. And for those of you young enough to be asking - Yes, people used to legitimately look towards the wisdom of other people who would go out of their way to send "dating tips" to a major newspaper. God bless and keep the 90s.

I almost didn't read the title of the article that he circled. I mean, would you have? I don't necessarily seek out opportunities to cameo in every schizophrenic crisis playing itself out on the streets of New York. But, hell, maybe I kind of do. Veteran social worker and all that, I mean.

So I looked at the title, and immediately, I recognized the article. It became pretty infamous back when I started out as a social worker, and not because it gave excellent advice on how to pull off an up-do. I still don't know why this silent stranger is presenting me with it, but it did generate a tiny spark of interest, I will say. He had circled the first and only big break in the "Lady Hemlock" ritual killings that terrorized Brooklyn that winter, which was titled:

"An Occultist's Guide to Love and Loss in the 20th Century"

For those of you who weren't on the NYPD upwards of thirty years ago, allow me to give you a quick synopsis:

Six unexplained corpses in a little over three months, all killed by a singular puncture wound into the back of neck and out through the front. Two middle-aged men, an elderly couple, a wealthy widowed small business owner, and a rising football star out of one the local high schools. All terrifying, but the kid's death - that was kerosene to the growing wildfire. The people wanted answers, but the police had none to give. This killer was busy, too. A new body had been discovered approximately every two weeks, like clockwork. But the police didn't even know where to begin - the victims were seemingly selected at random: no unifying age, gender, job - really no unifying anything other than the manner of death, at least at first. Eventually, it was discovered at autopsy that each victim had a different shape carved on the inside of their skull, right between the eyes. How did the killer do that? Who the fuck knows. If the police had any ideas they sure as shit didn't let the public in on it. If you're an avid fan of Unsolved Mysteries, like me, you would eventually learn that experts in the occult couldn't all agree on a particular cultural origin for the strange marks. Or, more hauntingly, how they were seemingly inflicted before death. 

Now mind you, this was at the height of the "satanic panic", so before the words "nordic-looking rune" could even leave the police commissioner's mouth during a press conference, people were raring up for a witch hunt. They needed something to chew on, some piece of evidence to assure them that the authorities were closing in on this killer. Thankfully, some real Sherlock Holmes type in the NYPD noticed something in the paper one day that would give everyone something to think about. About a week before each body was found, a contributor who went by the name "Lady Hemlock" had been published in the "dating tips" section of the New York Times. Now overall, the advice itself was pretty benign. Bizarre, cryptic, and borderline nonsensical, sure - but it wasn't a confession to the crimes or anything. Nothing like "Hi, I'm Jeffery Dahmer, and here are some tricks on how to break the ice on the first date by discussing the benefits of low-income housing". With each article, however, a certain shape would be printed alongside it - shapes that, one week later, would be inscribed on the inside of someone's skull while they were still alive and breathing. 

Thus, the search was on for this "Lady Hemlock." The police initially theorized that she actually worked at the New York Times because it was suspicious that the killer was able to reliably get their articles published ahead of time while still staying on a tight every two-week timetable. No "person of interest" was ever identified in the Times, however, and there was only one more victim, but it was hands down the most confusing and gruesome. All the internal organs of some poor sap were found in a trash can by a local park, and I mean all of them - lungs, colon, liver, spleen - every gross viscera present and accounted for, excluding the brain. None of it belonged to the prior victims or any other corpses that found their way into the morgue in the decades to follow. The murder was determined to be related to "Lady Hemlock" due to a shape carved on the outside of the heart. 

And while that is all very interesting, I still had no idea why this man had preserved the article for three decades to then forcefully shove it under my nose for appraisal. So I asked him again, "what, dear God, are you trying to tell me?". Then began the wild gesticulations that inspired his namesake: he pointed at the paper again, then at him, then at me, then at the paper, then back at him, then back at the paper. We'd come to know him around the office as "Charlie" in an outdated reference to Charlie Chaplin, due to his mute nature and his vigorous pantomiming. At one point, it seemed like he had a flash of euphoria, and he began to take off his blazer and turtleneck - and that is when I decided I had seen enough. 

"Marco, get this perv out of here !" I called over to everyone's favorite security guard. We liked him for his work ethic, but we loved him for the beatboxing he did while on shift. 

Kicking and screaming, Charlie was dragged out of our office, Marco throwing the newspaper out after him. In the process, however, a sticky note fell out of the folds onto the entrance mat. He looked at it, read it, and then walked back and handed it to me:

"What are you doing that for, man?" I said, wondering why everyone had selected me as their target for unabashed weirdness today.

"I think it's for you, bud" Marco replied, still huffing and puffing from the commotion.

The note in my hand said: "Thanks Corvus. Appreciate the help."

—-----------

Charlie and his one-man performance would become a regular staple around the office the following month. At first, it was mostly just silly because Charlie never seemed intent on hurting anyone. He just harbored this arcane compulsion to present me with dating advice from a serial killer that, to my knowledge, is still roaming free to this day. But he was never physically aggressive or violent. I offered to help him if he could talk to me or provide some documentation about where he was from, what he was doing here, and what he needed help with, but it always came back to that damn article. Eventually, Charlie needed to find new and creative ways to get the paper to me because security was starting to recognize him on sight: he came to the office early, then he mailed a copy of it to me, then he waited for me to leave, and followed me to my car with it. Why did I never call the cops? Well, as I said, I'm pretty resistant to insanity. As long as it never turned violent, I would wait for Charlie to tire himself out and instead start to badger someone else. 

Over time, though, it transitioned a bit from comedy to tragedy. Every time he came in, he was wearing the same clothes. Then, I noticed he wasn't shaving his beard or showering. Clearly, he was unhoused. I wanted to help him, but he seemed unwilling to accept the type of help I was able to offer. 

One fateful night, I was working late in the office, typing up a case report, when Mr. Chaplin somehow materialized out of thin air in front of me. Scared me halfway to Val Halla. Weakly, he once again handed me that article. I looked up at this odd, frightened-looking man and wondered if this was how Theo felt seeing me for the first time. Whether it was exhaustion, pity, or me channeling my mentor, I relented:

"Sit down and keep your shirt on." I grumbled.

He did as he was told, and I once again began to examine that article, "An Occultist's Guide to Love and Loss in the 20th Century." Charlie, for the thousandth time, stared at me and said jack shit. I guessed that he wanted me to read the whole thing while he watched, and there was no way I could have anticipated why at the time. I sighed, turned on a lamp, and began to read the column. Judging by the date, I believe this was the first one printed (i.e., the column that preceded the first victim):

Dear readers, please spare me a few moments. The world is lost, made blind by circuitry and the advancement of the physical, the material. Yet, in doing so, we are rejecting the immaterial - the omniscient current that ebbs and flows through those favored by The Six-Eyed Crow, our universal mother. And in rejecting the current, what do we have to show for it? A bevy of suitable mates to help carry on the bloodline? The prosperity that cometh with our rightful place in the celestial hierarchy? Dominance and control over those who would suppress the leyline? No, I think not. Yet, in the face of defeat, I remain firm and steadfast. I will continue to preserve the sanctity of the current by performing the old ways. 

Grandmother always used to tell me: "Do not take under what is owed to you; compromise is the corruption that pollutes and festers every choice therein". She lived these words, as grandfather was an amalgam, congealed from the essence of the many. Our coven, and even my mother, rejected the practice, the old ways, and questioned the divinity given to us by the universal mother. This rejection did not deter Grandmother. It amplified her gospel. Her sermon only grew louder. It made her a symbol of devotion and, eventually, a martyr.

I desired to live her words, and in this, I have succeeded. I have had many an amalgam over the years, but I have yet to achieve the perfection necessary to sire my kin. And because of their imperfection, I have cast them out to wander the mortal plane. Alone, forced to endure divinity unlived in penitent singularity. 

But lately, I find myself tormented by my own imperfections. Although I continue to live Grandmother's words, I have not the bravery to spread the gospel openly, which I believe is required to revive our coven. The voice of the current grows quiet among the noise of the world and the voice of my current amalgam. Allow me an opportunity to rectify this error. Hear these words: every soul carries a part of the leyline, however small, and it can be harnessed as a means to draw closer to the universal mother. Follow me, my example, my instruction, and my image, into the next dawn, and witness as I construct a new amalgam, casting aside the defunct and imperfect predecessor. A golem born of a new six: the devotion to adhere, the courage to fight, the desire to take, the wisdom to live, the faith to believe, and the monasticism to remain voiceless and pure.

If you follow these words and learn by my example, your ascension is sure to follow."

When I finished, I noticed Charlie was scribbling something down on a small square of paper. I reached over to take it, assuming it was some explanatory message for why he had been so dead set on me reading this looney nonsense. He raised one index finger to my hand, however, and pushed it back. He then stood up slowly, inhaling, exhaling, and closing his eyes as if to center himself. In one fluid motion, he revealed a pocketknife he had concealed in the breast pocket of his blazer and buried it into his own chest. 

He then dragged the knife up the length of his sternum, smoke and steam rising from the wound that was otherwise completely sterile and bloodless. In stunned horror, I watched him put one hand on either side of the new slit on his chest, pulling and wrenching the tissue agape, only to reveal an empty cavity. He watched me intently while he did so - no pain or discomfort on his face, just despair and longing. 

Before I could react, he drew and arced the knife into the air, then sent it careening down to splinter my chest. I released a bloodcurdling scream, not out of physical agony but out of unbridled existential terror and shock. I couldn't find the will to move as Charlie put his hands through the wound and pulled outward as hard as he possibly could. Nothing. No blood. No pain. Just steam, useless mist rising up and dissipating unceremoniously. I'm just as empty as the nightmare standing before me, I thought. My scream eventually stopped and transitioned more to catatonia as Charlie reached into his pocket and handed me the square of paper to read: 

"We are kin"

—----------------------------------

As with every house of cards, you pull one card loose, the damned whole thing comes toppling down. Proverbially, that card usually isn't as extreme as a knife through your chest as a means to reveal a very noticeable vital organ deficiency, but I digress. 

Charlie and I spent the entire night in my office after I recovered from the shock. Through a series of writings, he explained that a "bright, fuzzy light" handed him the old newspaper and the note, at which point he found himself outside my office. The sticky note was also written in a completely different handwriting than Charlie's, so we suppose it was penned by "Lady Hemlock" ("Thanks Corvus. Appreciate the help"). No memories before all that, though. So, he stood outside the office, read the article a few times, and then wondered what to do next. Took him a while to figure out he was supposed to go inside, knowing he should look for something but not even really knowing what he was looking for. When our eyes met, suddenly, he knew what to do; he was "struck by lightning", according to him. Kin recognizing kin.

In the end, he theorized I was an amalgam like him. I mean, the timeline does add up: I met Theo in '91, got the job in '92, and the killings started in '93 - meaning I would have already been abandoned by the time Charlie was made. Why Lady Hemlock put us together is an entirely separate issue, as it directly contradicts what she said in that article. Maybe she had a change of heart about isolating her so-called imperfect creations. Regardless, the revelation certainly gave my obsession with distraction some new dimensions. Hard to "unpack" your childhood memories if you don't have any. It's probably not a great idea to attend a dinner at your mentor's house and not be able to eat, assuming the food just kind of plops down into some unholy internal nothingness. I may or may not have actually been drinking booze when Theo found me on the street. If I was, I imagine it didn't do a lot other than pickling the inside of my empty abdomen. The weight of it all sometimes overwhelms me to the point of tears; I'm man enough to admit it. 

One day at a time, Charlie tells me (more accurately writes down and hands to me, he still can't talk). He doesn't remember what his name was before, so he still goes by Charlie. We do worry that his appearance portends a new series of "Lady Hemlock" killings as she attempts to create a more perfect amalgam, but we'll cross that strange bridge when the time comes. We've certainly contemplated going to the police, but at the same time, not sure how they will react to the whole "organ deficiency" thing. Both of our chest wounds were healed by the time we left the office in the morning, though, so we're assuming they probably couldn't kill us even if they wanted to. It's been nice, honestly. Having Charlie, I mean. Whatever we are, we can at least be it together. That counts for something. 

He will have to get his master's if he wants to pursue social work, though. It's 2024, after all. Not everyone can be so lucky as to be abhorrently congealed under some godless death ritual in the 90s. 

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

II.

An emaciated framed man walked carefully through tall bushels of unkempt grass. Muttering inaudibly to himself while picking at an open sore on his face. He reached his destination in a few minutes. A large wooden gate, sheep sleeping on the ground, all with freshly shorn fur. The man patted his crotch to feel the girth then fished through his pockets. "Aah. Here we go." He whispered then pulled out a glass pipe and a small plastic bag. He opened the bag and pulled out a few dingy chunks of some substance and dropped them into a small opening at the bulbous end of the pipe. A flame emerged from a plastic lighter and it was placed underneath the glass. Smoke rolled and the man sucked up the milky white fumes. He held it in then let it out slowly with a moan of ecstasy. "Fuck yea!" His heart pumped and his whole body started to tingle.

The man put the pipe back in his pocket, forgetting how hot it got after he used it and the thing burned the skin of his leg. "God damnit!" He shouted but quickly covered his mouth and looked towards the log cabin to his left. No sound and all the lights remained off. Seeing it as a sign to continue, the man climbed over the gate and started creeping towards a slumbering sheep. Drool leaked out of one side of his mouth and he grinned, showing a display of black and corroded teeth. "There's the one." He took cautionary steps in order to not frighten the animal. Digging at another sore that covered most of his cheek. The man padded his crotch again and began to undo his belt and unzip his jeans. He inched closer but stopped when a gleaming aura of orange light circled the area around him. "Oh shit. I've been spotted." He whispered in a panic. He turned and ran, not bothering to fasten his belt. He continued running, periodically pulling up his jeans. A low whistle blew with the night breeze. Then a hum started to resonate near the sheep pen. The man threw himself over the gate and fell over from the sagging jeans, ruining his stride. He landed hard on the ground and slowly rose back to his feet. He looked back towards the pen and he was dumbfounded. Rising from the ground and surrounded by that faint citrus light, he saw the unconscious animal. Suspended in the air, slowly lifting towards the sky. It didn't stir or wake as this happened. The man was shocked and he swallowed a lump in his throat.

"What......the......fuck?" He spoke between shivering breaths of air. Panic set in as he backed away slowly while watching the spectacle and when he looked up, he couldn't believe his eyes. A large craft shimmered from the glow of the moon in a vibrant blue that cascaded into a deep purple. Yellow dots of phosphorescent orbs littered multiple edges of the thing, mimicking the stars beyond. This massive object did not move, simply remained motionless in the air with no sound of an engine to power it. No windows were visible. It was completely symmetrical, leaving the man perplexed as to which was the front and which was the back. The object was both spherical and angular, melting together to create a shape not recorded in any text book. The frightened man continued his backward steps until he was a good distance away then spun to begin running.

He ran as fast as he could with the drug in his system adding to his velocity. He pushed past tree branches and somehow evaded the large rocks randomly strewn about the dirt path he normally took to get to this specific farm. He feared that he would be next to be taken so he did not look back. Soon his stamina was depleted and he slowed to a stop in order to catch his breath. "Fuck me. Those fucking things are real?" He spoke between deep gasps of air. The woods were silent until a twig snapped behind him. He turned and screamed at the sight before him. "No. Stay away from-" His words were cut off mid sentence and his body stiffened from something injected into his flesh. He fell back, landing on the hard dirt. Cold clammy hands gripped his body and started to remove his clothes, clicks and pops came from inhuman mouths. The man was still alive but unable to scream or move, being trapped in his body as he watched a strange pulsing object composed of blades and smoke being lowered towards his exposed skin. Obnoxious snoring was having a contest with the box fan on who could make the most noise. It was a steady race but the ultimate victor was a high pitch squeak of a fart that sent Leroy's sheet to lift up a bit from the building torrent of gas. Heat from the sun created a hotbox effect in the trailer which made the mattress underneath the man damp and smelling of body odor and spoiled beer. More snoring erupted but was cut off by the eight bit version of AC/DC's Big Balls blasting from the plastic contraption sitting on the nightstand. To be more technical, it was a cardboard box that once housed the new microwave Suzy Mae bought Leroy last year after the old one exploded.

Turns out you can't microwave a can of beefaroni for more than ten seconds before streaks of electricity use it as a conduit. It ran for a total of thirty seconds before the thing smoked, plastic melted and it ultimately exploded. The glass on the door shattered and shot out in a rain of shrapnel that pierced the deer head mounted on the adjacent wall. Ol' Buckweed the deer found it surprising and still has some of the glass embedded in his forehead. The tune continued with Bonn Scott's raspy voice being replaced by horrible monotone beeps of the ring tone. Leroy rolled over, letting out another squealing flatulent and reached out to grab his obnoxious phone. His fingers met the edge of the box and it tipped over. The phone fell to the floor and he grumbled. "Ugh. The hell." He scooted towards the edge of the bed to blindly find the blaring device that was now break dancing with the vibration that accompanied the tune. Success. Leroy snatched it up but not before losing balance and planting his face on the dirty carpet.

The smell of feet and cool ranch doritos filled his nose which made him cough out an elongated "Daaaamniiiit". He let gravity take hold and waited for the rest of his body to slide off of the bed. After he dropped, the sweat drenched Leroy opened one dry crusty eye to see the green light display on his flip phone. It read three missed calls with the name "Shithead" attached to it. "What the hell does he want at this hour, it's only ten thirty." He opened the phone and used the ancient buttons on the outdated cellular contraption to get to the contacts menu and call the person who had disturbed his beauty sleep. Two rings later and a deep voice answered. "'Bout time your lazy ass woke up. Get over here." Leroy itched his face then his unmentionables. "Well a good fucking morning to you too Strawberry Shortcake. What's with all the calls? Where's the fire?" There was a mumbling on the other end but finally Boomer uttered words that were comprehensive. "It's my sheep." Leroy smacked at a fly that flew towards his face, he missed and caught himself in the nose. He tried to hide the pain in his voice but it was highly unlikely that it worked. "What. Did you catch Meth Head Marty trying to shuck his corn in another sheep?"

Marty Amberson, also known as Meth Head Marty was the local junkie around these parts. Meth was his go to habit but he'd suck anyone dry for a pill or swallow of liquor. He had no job, car or even a house. There was a time in his life where he had all of these things but he got hooked on countless drugs thanks to his ever convincing Uncle Eanus. Eanus is a whole other set of stories. One involving bath salts, two hookers and a gimp using a tube with a gerbil but we won't get into that right now.

Marty's main source of income was picking up cans off the side of the road and you couldn't let him in your house or he'd rip up all of your copper pipes. Ask Miss Abigail about that one. She learned real quick that helping certain homeless people ended with receiving a black eye and no plumbing in your house. Anyway, on top of living in a tent, being an addict and a thief, Meth Head Marty also had a beastiality problem. That is to say, no woman wanted him, so he took to having intimate relationships with livestock. I mean honestly, would you be interested in a man who weighs ninety pounds soak and wet, smells of asparagus and fish sticks, and has sores all over his body that never heal? He resembles a walking corpse with a hard on. Yeah, I didn't think so. So humans were basically off of his list of lovers except for when he ran out of money or drugs. But then he was stuck with the obese truckers down at the rest stop off mile marker eighty eight. And what they did wasn't love and it always left a bad taste in Meth Head Marty's mouth. That statement is both figuratively and realistically accurate. Nowadays his chosen partners in the carnal way were limited to those who resided in barns and fields. Farm animals of all varieties had their time with the tweaker. The man did not discriminate when it came to species. However he was quite fond of sheep and that is when it became Boomer's problem. Being one of the only sheep farmers in Saggysack County, his farm was literally a breeding ground for the horny drug addict. And not once, not twice, but five times Boomer had to defend his livestock from the depraved sicko. No matter what he did, the fucker would always try to sneak back in and mate with the herd. You'd think after having your jaw broken and three aluminum arrows shot in your ass would be a good enough incentive to stay away. But the man had shit for brains and never and I mean never learned his lesson. Sorry for the long intro to Meth Head Marty, we'll get back to the main event.

"No. It's way worse than that dickwad trying to fuck my sheep. Just get over here now. No lollygagging.'' Boomer's tone was a mixture of agitation and assertiveness. He didn't get like this very often, so Leroy knew it was something serious. He got up, threw some clothes on he found on the floor and walked to the front door. After putting his boots on and shoving the laces inside his socks, Leroy walked outside, a few yards away he saw a possum laying on its back. The very same possum he saw the stray dog chasing yesterday. He packed a fresh can of skoal and peeled the paper with a thumbnail then popped the top, placing a fat wad in his lip. He looked at the dead animal once more then spit before walking to his car. After four attempts to get the engine to turn over, he was headed off to Boomer's. When Leroy arrived, he saw Boomer sitting on the steps of the cabin smoking a cigarette. He was also drinking from a bottle of whiskey. "Shit. This must be real bad." Leroy thought to himself as he put the car in park. He opened the door which sounded like a shotgun going off thanks to the massive dent in the crease between the side fender and door edge. A flock of birds flew off and Leroy ducked, paranoia set in from the last time a bird flew over him.

"What's going on big guy?" Leroy spoke and approached his friend cautiously. Not knowing how he was going to react or what had him looking so distraught. Boomer responded by tilting the bottle back and draining the remainder of its contents. He winced from the burn then threw the bottle behind his shoulder, it hit the log wall and shattered. Leroy tiptoed closer and sat next to Boomer. "Damn son. What the fuck has got you in such a bind?" He could see tears welling up in the big man's eyes. He knew things were bad and really hoped Boomer would stifle the cry. Leroy never cried, at least not while he was sober and when anyone let loose tears around him, he felt awkward and would tend to disappear from the scene. But he couldn't do that to his best friend. So instead he tried again to get him to explain what was going on.

Boomer's voice cracked when he finally decided to speak. "It's Daisy. Some motherfucker peeled her skin off!" He punched the step he was sitting on and Leroy's eyes widened when he saw the thick oak plank crack. Boomer was massive, six foot ten and weighed damn near four hundred pounds. There was power behind his size and everyone knew it. He was not quick to violence and was the last one to throw a punch. But if you ended up on the receiving end of that fist, you better have your final will and testament written out because you were probably gonna die. One hit from Boomer meant your ass was done for. "Alright alright. Easy does it now. Just tell me what happened." Leroy was most likely one of very few people able to settle Boomer down during the extremely rare fits of rage he had. But don't be fooled, he was fucking terrified when that happened. Even so, Boomer would never attack his friend but that didn't make his anger any less frightening. With that said, they were two peas in a pod and minus the requirement of shared blood, they were brothers. So they always looked out for each other.

A long deep breath escaped Boomer's lips and he rose to his feet. "Follow me." Leroy did as instructed and the two went towards the gate of the pen. A crowd of bleating sheep formed a circle, dead center of the area the men walked towards. Boomer and Leroy had to coax and shove them out of the way so that the corpse could be viewed. "Jesus Mary tits swinging on a fucking duck. What the hell happened to her?" The sight was gruesome and like nothing they had ever seen before. In front of them laid the desecrated remains of the animal. From the shoulders down, everything seemed intact. But from there up is what caused Leroy to burst out his odd phrase of words.

The neck bones and skull were all that remained. All muscle tissue, blood and flesh were gone. The eyes were missing along with the teeth. A square hole was centered at the area a few inches above where the nose should be. The fur and flesh that was still attached below looked to have been burned. Cauterized would be a better term. The remnants of fur appeared to be melted with a line of black residue that gleamed in the sunlight. As strange as this all was, there was something stranger. There was no blood to be found. And we all know when something dies, the bladder and bowels release. Yet there were no fluids or excrement either. It was like the soft matter surrounding the bone was vacuum sealed and ripped in the cleanest way possible then singed the connecting area closed. And to add to the weirdness of the scene, there was a smell of burnt metal. Not like the smell or taste of copper you get from blood. This was more of the scent you get when using a cutting wheel to shorten pieces of rebar. They also noticed that around the animal, the grass was completely dead. Everywhere else was the shortly manicured luscious green threads but in a perfect circle under and around the corpse, it was piss yellow. Then beyond that was a ring of pure white. Resembling your lawn after letting a kiddie pool or wheel lay for a while then remove it to show a discolored shape of what sat there after a few days.

The two men stood in silence just viewing the crime scene. Finally one of them spoke. "Uh. Hey Boomer, what's wrong with Daisy's hind leg?" Boomer knelt down to examine one leg that seemed not to resemble the rest. "What the hell? Boomer said while prodding at the misfit limb. It was made of a different type of fur and the color didn't match. At the bottom, a hoof was replaced with five pads, nails and an additional dewclaw. It was grafted at the animal equivalent of an elbow. The same black substance lined the area, connecting the mismatched pieces together. If you haven't figured it out, a dog leg was sewn onto the sheep. Well maybe not sewn on, but you get the idea.

With a look of bewilderment and a long leg of ash (no pun intended) hanging off an expended cigarette in his tightened lips, Boomer grunted inquisitively. "How? Wh-why?" The confused friends didn't have an answer and neither did the crowd of sheep that observed them. They discussed it amongst themselves, coming up with no conclusion. "This is fuckin' weird, Boom. Did you see anything last night?" Even if he could have seen something, the alcohol they consumed made visibility difficult but regardless, Boomer passed out shortly after arriving home from dropping off Leroy. "Didn't see shit. I got up to tend the farm and saw the sheep herded around here and when I walked up, Daisy was like this. Who the fuck does this to a defenseless animal?!" He screamed and Leroy felt the earth shake. "Oh shit." Leroy thought to himself. It was time to make another attempt to calm the brute down.

After some soothing words and a few pats to the back, Leroy successfully settled Boomer's rage. They had a few beers then set off to dig a grave for the late Daisy. The plot was made in the animal cemetery located behind the cabin. All of Boomer's family was buried on this land and when he took over ownership, he created one for the animals. His ancestors never befriended the creatures that inhabited the farm but as stated before, the man's heart was four times too big. This meant he had a fondness for every living thing he came in contact with. Through the years of running the farm, he buried every fur, scale or feathered spirit that passed away and now there was a secondary gravesite next to his family's. There were no headstones on that specific patch of land, but he did use his woodworking skills to create markers that indicated the fallen friends, equipped with their names and dates. Daisy was the next to be placed in that sanctuary.

Boomer and Leroy took in their hands a pair of legs and trotted to the freshly dug grave plot. It was silent, save for the labored breaths and grunting. They had reached the grave and gently set Daisy down. Leroy stretched his back, placing his hands on his hips. "Damn. Who knew a sheep could be so heavy?" The question was rhetorical and Boomer did not react to the words. Leroy continued his stretching, leaning backwards then forwards to get the muscles to loosen up. After the third time of doing this he paused. Something had caught his eye. "Hey Boomer." The statement was reciprocated with a hum. "Not to be a smartass or nothin but, thought you said Daisy was a girl." Boomer looked up in confusion. "She is a girl." Leroy leaned further down, looking directly at the nether regions of the dead sheep. They had laid the body face up and spread eagle. "Well I'm not trying to prank ya or nothin' but this Ol' girl has a set of twig and berries on her. And um, they ain't what I spect to see on sheep." There was a long pause before Boomer walked up, scolding his friend. "What in the name of Drew Blood are you talking about? She's a fucking female sheep. The whole herd is jackass." The words stung Leroy's heart but he knew what he saw. "This bitch has a set on her that's bigger than mine! Look!" Soon two sets of eyes peered at the unmentionable area of the sheep. Perplexed by the sight, both men scratched their heads. Not only had this poor animal had its skull picked clean, given a dog leg but now it was discovered she was given a set of human genitalia. And like the other spots, that black bead of scorched tar substance surrounded the area. "I'm gonna find and kill whatever sick fuck did this." Leroy backed up a few steps just in case hands started to fly. Luckily Boomer's statement was just an exhalation of frustration and not a step towards blind fury. At least not at this point in time. It was clear that some twisted bastard was running around experimenting on farm animals. This person better pray to God that Howard "Boomer" Hulkins didn't get ahold of them. Yes, Boomer's real name is Howard Hulkins. Go ahead and say that name to his face and see what happens, I dare you.

The anger faded as Boomer and Leroy dropped the oddity of science into the grave. After the burial and a few kind words, it was time to drink the pain away. Leroy called Suzy Mae to cancel dinner plans for the night. He explained the situation and she cared more for the easing of Boomer's broken heart than the fifty cent wing night at Chicken Cathedral. Home of the one and a half pound hot damn spicy turkey chili dog. The bun was drizzled with candied ghost pepper oil and the whole thing was covered in Carolina reaper jelly. Be advised, if you ever order that shit, plan to have about three extra rolls of toilet paper, a bucket of ice, a plunger and a gallon of pepto bismol. You can ask Leroy about the mistake he made when ordering it. Leroy invited Boomer over to his place for some free beer and offered to cook for him. The events of the day had emptied the fridge in the cabin so he obliged. As usual, Leroy rode in Boomer's truck, leaving his sorry excuse of a car sitting on the dirt path. A glimmer of sadness and neglect shone off of its faded headlight. The men got out and something sparked in Leroy's head. "Hey. I wonder if something weird happened to the possum I saw this mornin'. Fucker looked dead but I ain't checked it on a counts I's rushing to get to you." Boomer cocked an eyebrow. "Why would anything be done to a possum?" He wasn't putting pieces together like Leroy. "Well maybe this sick fucker branches off to diddle on more than just sheep. Let's go look, it's right near the front dir."

They approached the upturned possum that had not moved since Leroy left. The mouth was open and its legs all pointed towards the sky. It smelled of rancid meat and urine. "Wooooeeee! Yea that little bastards deader than my dick when Mrs. Smolpekir comes outside to sunbathe." Leroy was referring to the wife of old Steven Smolpekir. He lived on the property next door. Like Boomer, old man Smolpekir was a farmer but he dealt in corn and corn liquor. He sold the salvageable less moldy stalks to the local market and the basically rotten stalks he used in his still. The shit smelled atrocious but it would get the job done and made for a good paint thinner.

He was very old and employed teenagers to help with both businesses. His wife was ten years younger and a bit of a pervert. Keep in mind that although younger than her husband, she was still approaching seventy. She loved eyeing the young boys who tended the corn field and was known to flash them. By no surprise to anyone, most who worked on the Smolpekir farm didn't last long after witnessing that. And if she started sipping on that disgusting corn liquor. Well, she holds the record for the most restraining orders due to her intoxicated shenanigans. I'll just let you imagine the rest. Leroy was victim to her advances at one point and was scarred for life. So when he makes a statement like that, he means it. Both from the ghastly image and personal experience.

Leroy grabbed a stick nearby and started to poke at the stiff creature. There was no movement. He examined it further, lowering to his knees and did not see any abnormalities like, say, other creatures' limbs graphed to its body. "It looks like just a regular dead possum, Leroy." Boomer exclaimed. He heard panting and turned around and his heart felt a little better from the loss of Daisy. "There's my pretty girl!" The stray dog, also known as Kalido to her tribe, came prancing up to see what the commotion was about. Boomer sat down on the dirt to get face to face with the dog to show his affection. He patted her head and scratched behind her ears which sent a leg flying. You know how some animals get when you scratch a good spot. The leg started to thump and Boomer stopped to grasp the leg gently. "What the hell?" A familiar sight was displayed in front of him. He had solved one mystery about his departed sheep. The replacement leg came from this particular dog and the evidence was clear by the sheep's leg that was just seconds ago, thumping on the ground. He touched it to make sure it was real and it indeed was. It functioned as it was supposed to and in the same area he saw the black bead around the section where the two different types of fur met. It didn't seem to hurt the dog and he saw no complications. She was just now the only dog in the world with a sheep leg. Boomer continued scratching the dog while attempting to get Leroy's attention. His scrawny friend was too fixated on poking the possum. "This fuckers hard as a nipple at a wet t shirt contest." Leroy spoke to himself. Thinking it was an internal thought but it wasn't.

The stick was shoved into the gaping mouth of the rodent and it hit its tongue. It chomped down then hissed. "Holy shiyut!!" The elongated word at the end stirred up a ruckus. The possum got back on its feet and the new sheep legged dog lunged towards the animal, a bark escaping her muzzle. Dust flew and instead of running away, the possum lept towards Leroy, who was still on his knees. This was a bad decision considering the animal opened its mouth and latched on to the first thing it came in contact with. Leroy's crotch. "Oh God damn! Shit! Shit! Boomer, help me! Jesus help me! It's got my...." His words faded as he started to run away, thinking that would release the animal's grip. Boomer howled with laughter and fell on his back, rolling over to see his friend galloping around with a mass of black and gray fur, looking like a wookie's fist clenching a small coin purse. This was the kind of distraction needed after suffering such a heavy loss.

[Part 1]

Death. It was inevitable for everyone, but in Rosen, it was something… strange. There were no funerals, no quiet gatherings in remembrance. No one even spoke of it. The first time I noticed was when one of the regulars at the store—a friendly old man who always bought the same blend of tea—stopped showing up. I asked Esther about him, and with a casual shrug, she simply said he had died.

The nonchalance in her response was baffling, almost chilling. I stared at her, searching her face for some sign of sadness or even recognition of the weight of what she’d just said. Instead, she met my gaze with an expression as serene as ever. I pressed her for details, questions tumbling out faster than I could contain them, but she pushed each aside with an almost practiced ease.

After that, I began to notice it—the strange, metallic tang in the air whenever someone died. It was faint at first, but unmistakable, lingering in a way that felt wrong, like a warning no one else seemed to heed. A bitter scent of rusted iron that caught in my throat and stung my nose.

It gnawed at me, this thought of death in Rosen, creeping into quiet moments when I should’ve felt safe. I started to wonder what my own death would be like in this town. Would I simply… vanish? Would people just accept it, turn the page as if I’d never existed? Would there be no mention, no farewell? Just a lingering scent in the air, faint and metallic, as if the town itself had swallowed me whole. It was a thought that chilled me to the bone, yet somehow, no one else seemed haunted by it.

Every night after the man from the lake stumbled into the store, I had trouble sleeping. His desperate eyes, his frantic words—it was as if he’d brought something dark and unsettling with him. And then there was Esther’s reaction, her sudden unease, the way she’d brushed off my questions about the lake as if I were prying into forbidden territory.

Lying in bed, I replayed the encounter over and over, each memory fueling an endless stream of questions. What was really out there, hidden in the shadows of this town? Why had I never heard of the lake until now? And what did Esther mean when she said people who lived by it "got strange"?

The more I tried to shake it off, the deeper my curiosity burrowed. The stillness of the night pressed down on me, and I felt a strange pull, as though the lake itself was whispering, daring me to find the answers that no one wanted to speak of.

I couldn’t ignore it any longer—I had to find the lake. Esther’s warning echoed in my mind, but it only seemed to amplify the pull I felt. I knew it was reckless, that maybe I was letting my curiosity get the better of me, but there was something about the lake, something about that man’s haunted eyes, that I couldn’t shake. It was like an itch I couldn’t scratch, a puzzle I couldn’t solve until I saw it for myself.

Every quiet night since the encounter, the lake had lingered in my thoughts, an obsession creeping into every corner of my mind. I’d lie awake, imagining the water stretching out, dark and unknowable, waiting just beyond the edges of the town. I had to see it with my own eyes—to make sense of whatever strange energy had settled over Rosen.

As dawn approached, I made up my mind.

The decision felt both reckless and inevitable, as if it had been building in me long before I was even aware of it. As the first light of dawn crept through my window, I got dressed, my heart pounding with the quiet thrill of breaking an unspoken rule. I told myself it was just curiosity, that I needed answers to ease my mind, but a small part of me couldn’t deny the fear that simmered just below the surface. The lake felt more like a forbidden secret than a body of water, and in a town that spoke so little of death, I couldn’t help but wonder what it was hiding.

I thought about the scent that lingered in the air after someone passed, that unmistakable smell of rusted iron that I could practically taste. It reminded me of the lake somehow, as if they were connected. I didn’t know what I expected to find, but I couldn’t turn back now. The questions that had haunted me every night were about to meet the light of day.

I needed to find where the lake was, and luckily the library was always open. There had to be some maps in there. The library stood at the edge of the main square, a quaint, unassuming building I’d passed countless times but had never ventured into. This early in the morning, the streets were still deserted, and a thick mist curled around the town, muting the colors of the buildings and casting everything in a washed-out gray.

I pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside, half-expecting it to be locked. But as always, it was open, filled with the faint scent of old paper and dust, the kind of place that felt frozen in time. Rows of shelves stretched into the shadows, and the dim light filtering through the windows made the place feel almost hollow. A lone lamp glowed on the far side of the room, illuminating the front desk, but there was no one around. It was just me, the quiet, and the restless curiosity that had driven me here.

I found the map section tucked away in a corner, the books worn and faded with age. Pulling one of the older volumes from the shelf, I spread it open on a nearby table, scanning it for any sign of the lake. My fingers trailed over the creased, yellowed pages as I traced the outline of the town. There was no mention of the lake anywhere within the town’s limits, but my eyes drifted to the outskirts, just past the forests and hills that bordered Rosen.

And there it was—barely a speck on the map, an unnamed body of water hidden away in the northern woods. Then I heard the door creak open behind me, I glanced over and there stood Mr. Mattherson. Mr. Mattherson was the librarian, a tall elderly man with a big white bushy beard. He looked like he was straight out of the late 1800s with the way he presented himself.

I quickly closed the map book, feeling a bit like a child caught doing something I shouldn’t. Mr. Mattherson stepped forward, his cane tapping lightly against the floor. He wore a long, dark coat with silver buttons and a high collar, his presence somehow both gentle and imposing. His eyes, sharp and startlingly blue, settled on me with a curious gleam as he tilted his head.

“Early morning research, hmm?” His voice was soft, almost grandfatherly, yet it carried an undertone that made me uneasy.

“Uh, yes,” I stammered, trying to keep my tone casual. “Just... learning about the town.”

Mr. Mattherson nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the map book as he leaned a little closer. “A fine pursuit, understanding one’s surroundings. Rosen has a lot of... history.”

His eyes flickered to the book in my hands, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. “And I see you’ve stumbled upon the lake,” he said, voice dropping to a murmur, as if the word itself were a secret.

I swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden chill that washed over me. “I didn’t know there was a lake until recently.”

Mr. Mattherson’s gaze became distant, and for a moment, it was as if he was looking at something only he could see. “The lake is... an old place,” he said quietly, choosing his words carefully. “Older than the town itself. Not many folks talk about it these days.” He took a breath, as if weighing what to say next. “It’s best left undisturbed.”

I hesitated, wondering if I should ask him the questions gnawing at me, but before I could, he raised a hand, his expression softening.

“Curiosity can be a powerful force, but not everything needs uncovering, child.” His tone was warm, almost protective. “Some things are best kept in the quiet shadows where they belong.”

He gave me one last long look, then turned away, his cane tapping rhythmically as he disappeared between the shelves. I stood there, staring at the spot where he’d been, a strange mixture of dread and fascination settling over me.

The lake—this forbidden, ancient place—wasn't just something to avoid. It was something deeper, something the town had purposefully buried in whispers and warnings. And now, despite Mr. Mattherson’s words, I felt the pull even stronger, as though the lake itself were calling me. Without thinking, I sprang from my seat and hurried after him, catching him just as he returned a book to the shelf.

“But what’s wrong with the lake?” I blurted out, the question spilling from my lips before I could rein it in. “Why shouldn’t I go there?”

He paused, his hand resting on the book’s spine. His face, lined and weary, softened with a hint of something I couldn’t place—pity, perhaps, or regret. “By now, you must know how this town feels about death,” he said, his voice low, each word carrying a weight that seemed almost painful. I nodded slowly, feeling a chill settle over me.

Mr. Mattherson sighed deeply, his gaze drifting to some distant memory. “The mine up on the mountain has been running for years. Decades. They drill deep, dredging up more than just rock and metal. There’s sludge, toxins... all of it pouring into the streams. And where do you think those streams lead?” His eyes met mine, his gaze dark. “The lake.”

A knot formed in my stomach as he continued, his voice tinged with sorrow. “We’ve lost several children to that lake,” he said softly. “They thought it was just a place to swim, to play. But there’s nothing safe about it now.” His words lingered in the air, casting a heavy silence over us.

I didn’t know whether to believe him, but the sincerity in his voice made it hard to dismiss. His words hung heavy in the air, each one weighing on me like a truth I wasn’t ready to face. If it was just that—if the lake was simply poisoned by the mine’s toxins—why couldn’t Esther have said it? Why didn’t Mr. Mattherson just start with that, instead of burying it in cryptic warnings?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that every lie, every half-truth, was rooted in something real. Maybe the lake was dangerous, poisoned by the mine as he said, but there was something more lurking beneath the surface—something he wasn’t telling me, something Esther wasn’t telling me.

The pull of the lake hadn’t lessened, but now it felt different. It wasn’t just a place of hidden danger—it was a mystery, something wrapped in layers of silence and half-truths. And the more I probed, the more I felt that the town, with its strange rituals and its avoidance of death, was hiding something far darker than I could have imagined.

I was going. I was going to that lake. No more hesitation, no more cryptic warnings. I had to see it for myself, to understand what was truly hidden away from us.

But as I stepped outside, a sudden wave of pain slammed into my head. It was as if my brain was screaming at me, urging me to stop, to turn back. The world around me seemed to shift, distorting and twisting in an instant. The once familiar streets were suddenly darker, the buildings decaying and crumbling as if time itself had taken its toll in mere seconds. The pavement beneath my feet felt uneven, and the air was thick with something... oppressive.

I stood there, frozen in place, my breath catching in my throat. What was happening? The pain in my head intensified, and I felt a deep sense of dread flood over me. The town I had known for months, the town I had thought I understood, was unrecognizable. It was like I was standing in a twisted version of Rosen, one that didn’t belong in the present.

Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. The pain in my skull dulled, and the world returned to normal. The streets were quiet again, the buildings standing tall and intact, as if nothing had happened at all.

I shook my head, trying to shake off the lingering sensation of unease. It didn’t make sense. Was it a warning from my mind—or something else? I didn’t know, but I couldn’t let it stop me. The lake was still out there, waiting.

I continued to walk through the town, the silence pressing in from all sides. It was unnerving how empty it felt. The streets that had once been filled with the quiet hum of daily life now seemed abandoned, as though everyone had disappeared in an instant. The only sound was the soft shuffle of my footsteps on the pavement and the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees.

Faint beams of early morning sunlight pierced the fog, casting delicate patterns on the street, but they only seemed to highlight the eerie stillness of everything around me. The town, once so familiar, now felt like a forgotten place, caught in a moment of suspended animation. I was alone here—truly alone—with only my thoughts for company.

Questions raced through my mind, each one more urgent than the last. Why was the lake so forbidden? What did Mr. Mattherson mean when he spoke of the children lost to it? And why did Esther’s reaction feel so much like fear? Was there something in that water? Or was it something beyond the lake itself? Something far darker, buried deep within the town?

Every corner I turned, I half-expected to find the answers waiting for me, but there was nothing. Only silence. Only shadows.

I reached the edge of the town, where a long-forgotten trail spiraled into the forest. The air grew heavier here, as if the very earth was holding its breath. The trees loomed ahead, their pitch-black leaves swaying with an unnatural stillness. A chill crept up my spine as my mind, already on edge, flashed back to my first arrival in this town. Those same dark trees had stood then, a silent witness to my uncertain steps. The memory stirred something deep within me, but I couldn’t tell if it was a recollection or something my mind had conjured from the haze of all these strange sensations.

Was this all just a hallucination? Some warped episode of my mind unspooling in real-time? But as I stood at the trail’s entrance, the leaves beckoning me, the weight of reality felt too heavy to ignore.

My hand twitched at my side, and without thinking, I reached out toward the nearest branch. The moment my fingers brushed against the black leaves, they disintegrated into dust, as if they were never truly there to begin with. It was like touching the remnants of a nightmare, something that wasn’t supposed to exist, and yet here it was, crumbling under my touch.

I pulled my hand back quickly, heart pounding in my chest, my breath coming in shallow gasps. What was happening here? Was this a part of the town’s twisted reality? Or was it something deeper, a truth hidden in the dark corners of my mind?

The trail stretched before me, winding into the shadows, and despite the unease coursing through me, the pull was undeniable. I couldn’t stop now. I couldn’t turn back.

I braced myself and continued onward, the weight of each step dragging me deeper into the woods. As I moved, the unmistakable smell that had become so familiar in this town—the heavy, metallic tang of death—hit me once more. But this time, it was sharper, more pungent, as if the very air had thickened with it. It stung my nose, filled my lungs, and before I could even try to fight it, tears began to well up in my eyes, blurring my vision. But I couldn't stop. No matter how much my body screamed for me to turn back, I pressed forward. I wouldn't stop. I couldn't.

The deeper I ventured, the more the forest seemed to close in around me. The trees, now withered and blackened, whispered in the wind, their twisted limbs reaching for me like gnarled hands. But it wasn’t just the forest that unnerved me—it was the silence. An oppressive, suffocating quiet hung in the air, the usual sounds of life all but erased, leaving only the distant echo of my footsteps and the pounding of my heart.

Then, in the distance, I heard something that shook me to my core. It sounded like a wolf’s howl, a primal, mournful cry that sent a shiver crawling up my spine. But it wasn’t right. It was distorted, fragmented, like something trying to escape from the depths of a nightmare. The sound fractured the air, twisting into unnatural tones, and for a moment, I stood frozen, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.

My breath hitched in my throat. The howl echoed again, louder this time, reverberating through the trees like a warning. Or was it a beckoning? I didn't know which was worse—the fear creeping through my veins or the strange compulsion pulling me forward, deeper into the heart of the forest. Every instinct screamed at me to leave, but I couldn’t. Not now. Not when I was so close.

As I rounded the corner, I saw it. At first, I thought it was just a trick of my mind—a shadow cast by the trees, a fleeting glimpse of something unnatural. But no. It was there, standing just beyond the reach of the dying light. A wolf.

Except, it wasn’t right.

The creature stood unnaturally still, its body twisted and malformed, as if the world itself had refused to let it exist in the way nature intended. Its fur was matted and dark, drenched in a black, viscous liquid that clung to its form like tar. The same liquid I had encountered all those months ago. A thick, oily substance that seemed to seep from the very heart of Rosen, from the ground, from the air.

My heart skipped a beat, and the world around me felt as though it were tilting on its axis. My breath caught in my throat, and my legs felt like they might give way beneath me. I couldn’t look away from the creature. Its eyes—dark, empty pools—were locked onto mine, as though it had been waiting for me to see it. To acknowledge it.

Then, in the horrifying silence that followed, it hit me. This was the first animal I had seen since I arrived in Rosen. Not a single bird, not a single insect, not even a stray dog. Only people. And this—this thing—wasn't an animal. It was something else. Something... wrong.

I staggered back, my mind racing to make sense of the puzzle pieces, but they didn’t fit. My chest tightened, panic crawling up my spine. How long had I been here without noticing? How long had the town, with all its secrets, been hiding this? The answer, however, was painfully obvious. I was too late to turn back.

The creature let out a low, guttural growl, sending a tremor through my bones, and I realized with a sickening jolt that I wasn't alone. It had been waiting for me—just as the town had been, ever since I arrived.

The liquid on its fur shimmered in the dim light, dark and foreboding, as though it had been stained by something older than the town itself. Something that should have never been unleashed.

Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone. One moment, the twisted creature stood before me, its empty eyes boring into mine, the slick black liquid dripping from its form. The next—nothing. The air was still. The only sound was the rustling of the wind in the trees.

But I felt it. I could still sense it—its presence lingering in the air, in the shadows, in the very soil beneath my feet. It was there, somewhere, watching me. Waiting. My heart raced, and I wanted to flee, to turn back to the safety of the town, but my feet wouldn’t move.

I was paralyzed. Why didn’t I turn back?

I had every reason to. I knew better. I should’ve known better. The warnings, the strange pull of the lake, the inexplicable deaths—what did I think I was going to find? The answers I was chasing were too dangerous. This town wasn’t just hiding something—it was built on a foundation of secrets, each one darker than the last.

But even as the weight of my foolishness pressed down on me, I couldn’t stop. The need to know, to understand, was stronger than any fear. The twisted creatures, the strange liquid, the absence of life in Rosen—everything was connected, and I couldn’t walk away from it. Not now.

With my heart still pounding in my chest, I pushed forward, away from the empty space where the wolf had been. I had to keep moving. I had to find the lake, the heart of whatever madness had taken hold of this place.

I should have turned back. I knew it. But it was too late now. The path ahead was the only one I could follow.

Eventually, the trees parted, and there it was—the lake. For a moment, a wave of relief washed over me. It seemed... normal. The lake wasn't the largest I'd ever seen, but it wasn’t small either. About half a mile across, maybe more. On the far side, I could just make out the silhouette of a cabin. I took a hesitant step forward, thinking maybe this was all some kind of mistake, maybe it wasn’t as bad as they said.

But as I neared the shore, the air thickened. That metallic stench—the one I’d come to recognize as death—clung to the atmosphere, suffocating me with each breath. My stomach lurched, and sweat broke out across my skin. I blinked, trying to shake the haze in my mind, but the world around me began to shift. What was once reality now felt fragile, like a thin pane of glass, cracking beneath the weight of something I couldn’t understand.

This wasn’t a lake. Not anymore. What had once been water had turned into a vast, pitch-black expanse—thick, tar-like liquid that shimmered beneath the low light. It moved, rippling unnaturally, as if something below the surface was making it churn, tugging at the edges of my sanity.

I didn’t need to see it to know—it was watching me. Something was pulling me closer, drawing me in. The liquid wasn’t just liquid. It was alive. It wanted something from me. It felt like it knew me, like it had been waiting for me to arrive. There was no sound—no wind, no birds, no rustle of leaves. Just the undulating waves of that black liquid, and the air around me, vibrating with a low hum, as if the ground itself was alive with the same dark energy.

Every instinct screamed at me to run, to turn around and flee before it was too late. My legs trembled beneath me, my heart hammering in my chest, but my body wouldn’t obey. I was rooted to the spot, unable to tear my gaze away. The fear wasn’t gone—it was still there, but something else... something deeper, more dangerous... began to grow in its place. A strange pull. A longing.

The thought swirled in my mind, whispered like a secret I couldn’t ignore. Stay. My mind fought it, but it became harder and harder to tell fear from desire. I could feel the darkness calling, as if it knew me better than I knew myself. It was waiting. I was waiting.

I stepped forward. Just one step, but it felt like the world shifted beneath my feet. The ground beneath me was solid, yet somehow... not. A warmth spread through my chest, unfamiliar and soothing, making the panic seem like a distant memory. I didn’t want to fight it anymore. The lake... the darkness... it felt like home. It felt like release.

I could jump. The thought seized me. What would it feel like to give in, to let the black liquid consume me completely? It felt like freedom, like everything that had burdened me, everything that had been dragging me down, would disappear. The voice in my head—my voice—screamed at me to stop, to pull back, but it sounded so far away. Like it belonged to someone else.

Without even realizing it, I stepped closer, my foot hovering above the surface of the blackness. For a fleeting moment, my hand twitched as if reaching out, and I thought I saw something—a flicker, a glimmer—beneath the liquid, something watching me from the depths.

I was so close. Just one more step, and I would be consumed. Would it be painful? Or would it be a release?

Run.

The thought hit me like a jolt of electricity, a loud crack echoing in my skull, shattering the spell. For just a second, everything snapped back into focus. The town. Esther. The people I had left behind. My heart pounded in my chest, and I staggered backward, gasping for air, the weight of the blackness still pressing down on me like an invisible hand.

I turned, my legs shaking, and stumbled away from the lake, away from whatever that thing was. Every instinct screamed at me to get as far from it as possible. I didn’t know what was happening, but one thing was clear—I wasn’t meant to be here. Not now. Not like this.

The distance between me and the lake grew, but the pull didn’t fade. It lingered, like a shadow that would follow me, haunting me until I understood what it wanted from me.

Gary is one woman away from being a man whore, he has slept with 9 living women and if he sleeps with one more living women then he is a man whore. Gary has a found a loop hole though and so he is happy that he won't be called a man whore through out town. He has also recently became a friend with a guy called tabby who was born everyday, and so this friend has a birthday everyday. For a month Gary has been going to tabbys parties everyday and the worn out party goers have been blasting Gary for finding a loop hole around being a man whore.

"I have been sleeping with dead women and you can only be a man whore if you sleep with 10 living women or more" gary told the worn out party goers.

The party goers have been going to tabbys constant everyday birthday parties for years. If tabby doesn't celebrate his birthday then death will think that he wants to die. Some people at the party still think that Gary is a man whore because he still sleeps with women, even though they are dead. Gary though keeps claiming that sleeping with dead women doesn't count.

People are disgusted with Gary and tabby is getting annoyed that everyone has turn their attention towards Gary and not him. Tabby tried to get everyone's attention back to him as he is the birthday boy. Then tabby calls out a woman at the party who also happens to be her birthday as well. Because tabby has a birthday everyday, if any of his friends has their birthday the same day as his and it's bound to happen, then they must be ritually killed tabby tells everyone. Then tabby kills the woman who just happened to have her birthday come up and now it's only tabby who is the birthday person.

Then Gary meets the girl who was killed at the party for having birthday the same day as tabby. The dead girl and Gary then sleep together and then the dead girl revealed that she wasn't dead at all, it was all fake. Tabby doesn't care if someone birthday falls on the same day as his, as tabby was born everyday. Now that Gary has slept with the tenth living women, he is now a man whore and he dare not show his face around town anymore.

Gary knows what happens to manwhores, their inside and organs must be cleaned out while he is fully awake. It is the only way to purify him.

But never listened

His mom had always insisted he respect his father. He never knew she did so, out of fear of losing the life she had — not realizing she was both prisoner and guard.

He missed the breadcrumbs. She glossed over gaining skills to enjoy mimosas at brunch. She spent her days gossiping — rejecting the art of understanding. She focused on the things she wanted — neglecting a lifestyle that truly benefited her.

She almost never shared her opinion first — differing with his dad with less probability than a 100-year flood.

On those rare occasions, she was quick to backtrack and convince her husband she actually agreed with him — misjudging the words she had chosen. She never wanted him to consider her a threat — doing everything to stay on his side.

She was drained — her body language able to narrate. He never noticed because he only listened to her words — surfacely. His dad painted a happy picture — a blissful ignorance.

He never realized how bad she wanted to tell him. Each passing day, an ocean of disillusionment consuming another piece of her tiny island — more isolated from escape.

-----

He ventured into the world, hoping to return and make his dad proud. He had watched carefully, and understood what his dad truly respected.

His fiancee preferred dinners without her future in-laws. She saw something in his mom’s eyes that showed her future. She could smell the helplessness on her breath.

-----

His mom raised her champagne glass, aware the truth she wanted to share, but felt forced to bury, had become the boulder he would greet each morning — at the bottom of the hill. He found power, the only way he knew how — demanding it from the powerless.

I’m a passionate guitar player and have played in multiple bands in the past, but I have also performed in several small events like charity events. Now that I’m a full-time student, I hardly find the time for that anymore, but I like to take the time to at least strum the strings privately.

Some time ago I received the news that my grandfather Wally was hospitalized after suffering a stroke. This was his second and apparently his most severe. 

I like Wally. He was always one of my favorite members in the family. He always knew how to make me and my siblings laugh. He was always the one who cheered us up at every family gathering when arguments arose that always happen at such gatherings. He knew good jokes and funny anecdotes. He never had a hard time being in a good mood.

So much for Wally’s good qualities. But if there’s one thing that bothers me about him, it’s his obsession with the paranormal. I can’t explain it any other way, as I don’t know enough about it myself. Most of what I know stems from rumors and hearsay from family. All I know is that Wally is so deep in his obsession that he’s apparently joined a cult himself. I wonder if the whole thing has something to do with the fact that he lost his wife, my grandmother, to whom he was married for 34 years, a few years ago. Maybe it’s all a coping mechanism. He’s never spoken about it himself and no one really dares to ask him about it. If anyone has ever tried.

Whatever is going on, it has never hurt us as a family before, so we let him do and we stuck to the usual rumors without making a fuss about it.

Anyway, my mom called me the other day and asked me to go visit Wally. He had a request for me. He also asked me to bring my guitar.

As much as I found Wally’s obscure preferences odd, my love for him was stronger, so I grabbed my guitar and drove to the hospital in my small town.

A nurse led me to Wally’s wing, and the second he saw me, his bright smile was more contagious than the diseases that roamed this place.

“My boy, you’ve grown so much.”

I walked up to him and hugged him tightly. He only put one arm around me while his other dangled from the bed. 

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” 

“A stroke suits me pretty well, doesn’t it?” He raised his numb arm and swung it around like a bell. I had to laugh. His sense of humor was offbeat but still with the realm of normality. In contrast to his private preferences.

“You brought the guitar with you, that’s fantastic. I know how much you like to play.”

“Why did you want me to bring it, Grandpa?” 

“I thought you could play me some songs. It’s so lonely in this hospital, I could use some entertainment.”

So I put the guitar strap around my neck and strummed the strings a little while tuning them.

“What would you like to hear?”

“It doesn’t matter. But please no gospel stuff. That’s not my thing."

I wondered if Wally had ever said anything about his faith, let alone whether he was an atheist. But I didn’t ask because I considered it a personal matter.

So I played a few songs that fresh in my mind and that I had played at a few events before. "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac, "Hotel California" by The Eagles, "Dust In the Wind" by Kansas, "Help" by The Beatles. Basic stuff. Not too much, not too lame. Wally enjoyed the music very much. He leaned back, closed his eyes and listened attentively, and seemed to reflect on the best memories of his life. Suddenly the hospital had become less lonely and more of a refuge of nostalgia. He no longer cared that he was dying. Even though it hardly seemed as if he ever feared death before.

At one point I was in a strong flow myself and played song after song as if I was on autoplay. After a while I played "That’s Life" by Frank Sinatra, and as soon as I finished, Wally grabbed my guitar and the flow was gone. He held the neck and said with strange delight: “That’s it. That’s the song.”

He didn’t tell me what he meant by that. At first, I thought he just liked the song the best of all, which I could understand very well. Then it dawned on me. He wanted to hear this song on his deathbed, as a farewell to his past life.

Fast forward two months later. I got the news that Wally’s health had deteriorated significantly and that he would be spending his final hours in hospice care. This news alone was hard to digest, but when I was asked to once again come over and bring my guitar, I struggled with the idea of how I would cope. I didn’t want to watch my grandpa pass away. But I knew I had to fulfill his final wish. 

So I went to see him again, this time to a hospice near the hospital. I had never been to a hospice before, but I assumed that the conditions would be no different to a normal hospital environment, perhaps a little more home-like and safe. 

The place I arrived at, however, looked completely different. I found myself in a large hall with two beds lined up next to each other. The hall was dark except for torches and candles on the walls and tables that lit up the room. The walls were covered in drawings that I couldn’t explain. Many of the drawings looked like mysterious ornaments and symbols. Some of them looked like ancient scriptures. I felt like I was in a cave.

There was a lot of space between the two beds. A row of black crosses on the floor decorated the hall. I assumed that more beds would be added soon and the crosses had been drawn on temporarily.

I recognized my grandpa on one of the beds. He waved to me and asked me to come over. I walked past the other bed, in which another elderly man was lying, next to him a young woman, about my age, with a harp in her lap. She gave me a strange look. I had the feeling that she wanted to speak to me but just didn’t have the courage. 

Wally hugged me when I got to his bed.

“So good to have you back.” 

I looked Wally up and down. He looked really bad. His skin was very faded and bony. His few hairs had taken on the color of his teeth. It was a miracle he was still alive.

“Are you ready?” he asked me intensely.

“Yes, grandpa. ‘That’s life’, right?”

He nodded, but then the older man from the other bed spoke up. “Hey, Wally, we agreed that I’d go first.” 

Wally clapped at his head. “I’m sorry, Al. I’ll let your niece go first then.”

The woman at Al’s side picked up the harp and gently pulled the strings. Very gently. She looked at me. Her eyes looked glassy. Her fingers were shaking as much as the strings. She seemed desperate.

“Come on, Estella, I’d like to retire today,” Al called out, slightly irritated. “I don’t want to wait another two months.”

Tears welled up in Estella’s eyes. She slowly turned her gaze away from me. She seemed to love her uncle even more than I loved my grandfather, which is why she was mourning him so much.

A slow but beautiful melody came from the harp. After a few notes, I recognized the song immediately: “Hallelujah”. Despite her weak state of mind, she played the song like a professional harpist, without making a mistake.

I sat down next to my grandpa, mesmerized, and watched Estella as she gave her uncle a piece of magic for his passing.

At that moment, Al’s bed suddenly lit up. It seemed like a magical entity. But then I looked down at the legs of the bed. They caught fire.

I jumped up and dropped my guitar. The fire rose up and surrounded the rest of the bed. Soon Al caught fire too. His entire face was covered in a fiery red vortex. He rocked back and forth. Through the flames I could make out the outline of his face and it seemed as if he was screaming. But the sound he made sounded less like a pained scream and more like a maniacal laugh. The sound quickly died down and I knew the larynx had melted away.

While Al was burning, Estella suddenly suffered the same fate. Her dress, which was initially blue, turned orange and in a matter of seconds she too was enveloped in a fiery vortex. She fell to the side and struggled for rescue. She kept screaming “Mom!” 

As if adrenaline was about to shoot out of my skin at any moment, I ran over to Estella and put my jacked on her body, hoping to put out the fire, but after just three seconds, my jacket was gone too. 

All I could do was sit there and watch her die. Her arm was the only part of her body to rise from the ground one last time. Most of the skin remained on the floor, trailing threads of skin and veins. The arm reached towards me. I instinctively reached for it until Wally behind me shouted with all the strength he had left: “Don’t touch her! She’s not completely burned yet!”

I sat back and continued to watch as her body charred into a skeleton covered in roasted meat. 

In the light of the fire, I could see the drawings on the wall glow brightly.

After what felt like an eternity, the last bit of embers had burned out. In the background, I heard someone coming towards us from another room. They were two men, dressed in janitor’s uniforms, who were burying the skeletons of Estella and Al in garbage bags. They swept up the remains and ashes with a shovel and broom. Then they drew two strips of tape on the floor and eventually left the hall. Where there had been a bed with two people, there was now a huge black cross.

“Now it’s our turn, my boy,” I heard Wally say behind me in a cheerful tone.

 I slowly stood up and turned to him. He was smiling from ear to ear.

“I can’t, grandpa,” I said, whimpering. I didn’t know how else to express my feelings.

Wally’s smile faded slightly. “But I chose you. I chose the song. I’m ready.”

I looked again at his corpse-like body, his missing teeth, his pale skin, his lack of brains. This was the same man I had cherished and look up to all these years and who had now betrayed me beyond belief. At this moment I would’ve loved to take my guitar and literally smash it into his mind. But I had another plan. 

“I’m not ready yet.”

With these words, I walked out of the building, didn’t look back, and started running when I felt the daylight on my skin.

In the background I heard my grandpa whimpering. He called something after me, but it was hard to understand because he was mumbling due to his condition. He said something along the lines of “I chose you!”

That happened three days ago, and as I write this down, a lot has happened since then. Immediately after I escaped, I told my parents and technically my entire family everything. Most of them dismissed my story as an exaggeration or even a lie, but luckily my parents were on my side and believed me. We told everything to the police, and they wanted to take a look at the situation themselves. They said they had checked out the hospice and the building’s managers had an explanation for everything. There was no law prohibiting murals or candles and torches as the only light source. They also believed the explanation that the crosses on the floor were temporarily drawn for future beds. But what really shuddered me was the fact that Wally was still there and, as it seemed, waiting for me.

But that’s not all. Since my escape, unfortunate things have happened within my family. Two days ago my aunt was the victim of a pile-up that she barely survived. My uncle’s company went bankrupt yesterday, and this morning I found out that my cousin had suffered a miscarriage.

I wouldn’t have found this series of events quite so obscure if it hadn’t been for the letter I received before writing this down. The sender was Wally’s hospice and on a piece of paper there was just one sentence:

“I’m waiting for you.”

Storms usually destroy things and take away the value that you had in life. Where I live we have tornadoes and flooding. It's right at the epic center but we have more tornadoes than floods. It's horrible when a terrible storm is going to hit us and we have to evacuate, then on the way back you don't know if you have your house in good condition. I remember once that we had tornadoes and flooding, that was bad. Then it looked like we were going to have flooding and tornadoes again, and everyone was evacuating but some stayed. I was one of the ones who evacuated.

First there were the tornadoes and then the floods came. When it all cleared and we all went back to see the destruction, we were mesmerised. The storm hadn't taken anything but had actually remade the area into a beautiful amazing town. It made the houses bigger and more prettier. We couldn't believe it and we had no idea how it was possible. The storm even improved the people that stayed behind and not evacuated. If they were dumb then they became intelligent, if they were ugly then they became pretty. It was strange.

Then when we heard that the same storm was coming towards us again, more people stayed behind and didn't avacuate. I stated behind and it was the tornadoes that hit first and then the floods. After all of it I thought I was going to die, but I became stronger and more athletic when before I wasn't athletic. People who were blind, deaf, bald were now the opposite after the storm. This storm gives and doesn't take. More storms were still coming and it was more powerful tornadoes and stronger and deeper floods.

This time nobody was evacuating as everyone wanted to be improved. The town looked beautiful and something out of a fantasy book. Then when we became even more after the third storm, from the shadows came the creatures who are ready to devour us. They wanted their prey and meat healthy and good for them to consume. For if they consume anything bad, disabled, old and in general bad health, then they will suffer it too. People started getting consumed by them and I hid and I missed being my old self, as I know that these creatures would eat me if I wasn't healthy and athletic.

After the creatures had their fill, in this beautiful town, now had the blood of its occupants.

I moved into my new apartment a few weeks ago, just looking for a fresh start after a rough breakup. The building was old, the kind that creaked when you walked and seemed to hold onto sounds. But it was cheap, and the neighborhood was quiet, so I figured I could deal with a few quirks.

On my first night, as I lay down in bed, I heard footsteps from the apartment above me. I thought nothing of it at first; it's an apartment building, after all, and you expect a certain amount of noise. But these footsteps didn’t have the usual random pattern you’d expect from someone moving around their home. They were rhythmic. Back and forth, back and forth. And it went on for hours, like someone pacing.

I tried to sleep, but the sound seeped into my brain and wouldn’t let go. By 3 a.m., I was still wide awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering what could possibly keep someone pacing like that for so long. The next morning, I asked the building manager about the tenant above me. He looked at me, puzzled.

“No one’s lived up there in years,” he said. “We haven’t been able to rent that unit since... well, there was an incident. People say it’s haunted.”

I laughed it off and chalked up the sounds to old building noises. I didn’t believe in ghosts, and the thought of “haunted apartments” felt a bit ridiculous. But the footsteps continued every night, always the same slow, methodical pacing. And then, about a week in, I heard something else.

It was just past midnight, and the pacing had started as usual. I lay in bed, trying to ignore it, when suddenly the footsteps stopped. And then I heard a faint, muffled voice. It was low and indecipherable, like someone was trying to speak through a thick wall. I froze, my heart pounding. I couldn’t make out what it was saying, but it was definitely a voice. A man’s voice, muttering… something.

The next morning, I asked my next-door neighbor if he’d heard the noises too. He looked at me, and his face went pale.

“You hear it too?” he asked, almost whispering. “I thought it was just me. I asked the manager about it a couple years ago, and he just told me to keep it down, that the building was old. But I’ve been here a while, and… sometimes, it sounds like someone’s crying up there.”

That was all he would say. After that, he avoided me in the hall, never making eye contact.

The pacing continued every night, and sometimes, I could hear that muffled voice. I even tried recording it with my phone, but whenever I played it back, all I heard was static. My dreams were getting worse too, filled with images of dark rooms and shadowy figures. It felt like I was being watched, like something was slowly wrapping itself around me, suffocating me.

Then, last night, everything changed.

I’d fallen asleep around midnight, only to be jolted awake by a loud thud directly above me. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, barely breathing. The pacing had started again, but this time, it was faster, more frantic. And then I heard that voice—clearer than ever before.

“Help me.”

It was a whisper, but so close I could almost feel the breath against my ear. I shot up, grabbing my phone for some kind of comfort. I was about to call the building manager when the footsteps stopped. Dead silence filled the room.

And then… a knock. Directly above my bed.

I sat there, frozen, as the knock sounded again. Three slow, deliberate knocks. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I just stared up at the ceiling, waiting. Then I heard a creak—the sound of a door opening upstairs. But that didn’t make sense. No one lived up there.

With my heart pounding, I forced myself to stand. I don’t know why, but I had to see for myself. I had to know. I walked out of my apartment and up the stairs, every step heavy with dread. The door to the apartment above me was slightly ajar, and I could see a dim light spilling out from the crack.

I pushed it open slowly, and my eyes adjusted to the darkness. The apartment was empty, cold, and bare, with dust blanketing every surface. But as I stepped inside, I noticed something on the floor: footprints, in the dust, leading from the door to a corner of the room. And in that corner, the air felt… wrong, like it was thicker somehow, filled with an overwhelming sense of despair.

I heard the voice again, right next to me, soft and pleading. “Help me.”

I ran. I didn’t look back. I bolted down the stairs, back into my apartment, and locked the door behind me. But as I turned, I saw it—something I’ll never be able to unsee.

There, standing in the corner of my bedroom, was a figure. Dark, unmoving, with eyes that seemed to burn into my soul. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, it spoke.

“Help me. Or take my place.”

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I’m going insane. But every night, I can still hear it—the pacing above, the whispering, the knock. And every night, it’s getting closer.

If anyone is reading this, please—tell me I’m not alone. Tell me… tell me what I should do. Because I’m terrified that if I don’t help it, I might just become it.

I ran straight to the car and locked myself in, before realizing James was still out there. I opened the console and quickly grabbed the masks.

I could hear yelling from outside, and from the window James was standing at a distance. He was waving his arms, presumably wondering what the hell I was doing. I jumped out and told him not to check out the smell. He told me he couldn’t smell it anymore, and I was stunned. What? I kept thinking. The smell was stronger than ever.

I told him about the fox, and he looked upset for a moment, then glanced at the ground solemnly. There was nothing we could’ve done to help it. He argued over what could possibly have done such a thing, and I had no reply. I just watched him pacing around. He looked back at me and asked about the smell.

I told him it was still burning my nostrils, and he repeated that he couldn’t smell it anymore. Then he realized that he couldn’t seem to smell anything. I closed my eyes and just tried to focus; to think of some explanation for all this. He called my name, but I shushed him. He called for me again, this time sounding worried. I wondered what could it be this time?

I opened my eyes to find James barely holding himself up from the gravel path, blood rushing from his nose. I immediately started to panic and rushed to help him up. We both started frantically trying to make any sense of what was happening but still, there was no explanation.

I laid him down in the backseat of the car, and I locked the doors. We just remained silent for a while, staring off. My heart was pounding, and James was hyperventilating. Was it all anxiety? Were we just being hypochondriacs? I checked to see how James’ nose was looking. The bleeding had stopped, but he still felt cold inside, especially in his head.

That’s a feeling I could understand. It seemed almost like an anxiety attack, given the hyperventilating and the constant nervousness. I’d supposed it wasn’t impossible for a more severe case to cause a nosebleed. I’m no doctor, but that was the only theory that resembled reason. James seemed to like the idea. I could tell things were easing up, and the atmosphere was settling down.

Ever since we’d arrived, the place had felt off. And every explanation came with a new question. But we couldn’t just leave now. If we pushed hard enough, we’d complete our goal. Not that we had any specific tasks in mind. Sure, we wanted excitement but this bullshit wasn’t the kind we had anticipated.

I asked him if he felt like going home, or if he wanted to take a drive. He reminded me that we needed to check out the hardware store in the nearby town. I couldn’t believe he was still thinking about that. I paused for a second, then asked if he was serious. He just nodded, wiping his nose. I could tell he was embarrassed about everything that had happened. He seemed to look to me for advice and encouragement, so I told him I was nervous too.

He knew that, but gave me a smile. He said he just wanted to grab another beer and forget about the craziness. And that sounded like a good plan to me. But we were both making excuses to stick around.

It felt like we were walking into a trap. I like to think someone was watching us and just saying go! Turn around and get out of there already! But we decided to keep pushing further.

We stayed in the car for a good half hour. I’d occasionally roll down the windows to see if the smell was gone, but it lingered. Over time, it got less severe but the stench didn’t truly dissipate until a bit later.

Eventually I grew used to it and stepped out of the car. James jumped out with me. He looked fine enough, and his body was holding out well. He noticed me checking on him and started to walk ahead. Like my looking made him uncomfortable.

Back at camp, the fire was barely burning, and the ice in the cooler had partially melted. We each grabbed a can and chugged them down. That settled the nerves right, and we were able to continue talking about the drones, albeit with a sense of urgency.

We were both pretty tolerant when it came to holding down a drink, so neither of us were drunk per say, but we most definitely were not sober. For some reason we agreed to start a flight test with the drone right then, and so we booted it up and made sure it had some juice. It was nearly fully charged. We somehow managed to get it up in the sky, but it was all downhill from there.

James handled the controls and I watched, focusing on the screen. But the image was wobbly and grainy. It was hard to make out much detail in the sea of green and brown through the low resolution picture.

He kept steering around the tree tops, trying to capture clear angles, but he couldn’t seem to control it once we crossed the forest threshold. As soon as we had the frontside of the mall in view, the rotors malfunctioned, and the drone started pivoting and moving erratically.

We were both freaking out trying our damndest to safely land the thing, but it was losing more and more control. James was sweating, and I couldn’t blame him. That thing probably cost him a small fortune. He started mashing the controls even harder but it did nothing. The drone was gone, and the feed went dark.

He threw his glass at a tree and shouted. I was mad too. Not only because James lost his drone, but because we had lost our best method of observing the surrounding area. We’d have to do it all on foot if the drone couldn’t be repaired.

This was something we could at least partially explain as a technological failure. So we weren’t immediately checking the radar for ghosts and ghouls, but there was something undeniably wrong about the place. We saw it then, but we didn’t want to relent. Partially because we’re both stubborn, and mostly because we weren’t thinking straight.

I took a deep breath and sighed, while James went frenetic. I was used to seeing him riled up but this was an extreme outburst.

His face looked about as red as a tomato and his cheeks were flush. I told him we could fetch it after cutting through the bush. That it was probably fine. Minor damage at worst.

We both counted on it having been caught in the foliage. That would have at least mitigated some of the impact. It isn’t like searching the outside of the building on foot would be that much slower, but still, we really wanted to test out the drone and save time for exploring.

I sat down by the dying fire and watched the decrepit mall peeking through the treetops. I felt watched back. The trees appeared to block any and all potential paths almost intentionally. This place was truly sealed off tight. It didn’t seem natural to either of us. There were literally no openings at all. Absolutely none whatsoever.

At first, I had imagined the weaving branches as something akin to a wall or a fence, but now it began to resemble a spider web. I drowsed in and out of consciousness, feeling the drink coming down, and my worried thoughts just hit me. Why the hell couldn’t we see the damn place on any maps or GPS? I had to get the exact location off some sketchy website. What was up with the fox? The shit it was hiding. The nosebleed. All of it was so weird.

Every location I visit has stories. People will tell you about all sorts of crazy shit, like phantoms and demons, or other kinds of enigmatic entities. And this place wasn’t any different.

People had mentioned that the area was cursed. Some claimed the building itself was some sort of spirit. A few whack jobs wrote about conspiracies. The same old nonsense. Obviously I wrote it all off as bullshit, but I still wanted to find out what was getting everyone so worked up.

As the mall captured my stare, I realized the answer to my question. James called to me, snapping me from the trance, and I stumbled out of the chair, nearly spilling onto the ground. I felt more sober with each step, but James sounded like he hadn’t touched a drop in his life.

He was hollering about how I had just left him. How I was gone for hours. I thought he was crazy. He knew where I was, I mean I wasn’t more than 15 feet behind him, not moving a muscle. You couldn’t have missed me.

He wasn’t satisfied, and ran up to me with bulging eyes. His face read shock loud and clear. I knew something was up. He suddenly rubbed his hand down my cheek. Dirt and blood covered his fingers.

He asked me where I went again and what had happened to me, and I repeated that I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. That’s when I looked up to notice the sun already setting. I checked my phone and five hours had come and gone in a flash.

James started to get the picture that I really didn’t understand the situation. I told him I had just taken a nap for a few minutes by the fire, but his story was a lot different. He told me that after I walked away, I completely disappeared. Vanished without warning. He thought I was fucking with him at first, but after five minutes he was concerned.

I was baffled. I hadn’t just poofed out of existence. I was right there the whole time. We were genuinely considering packing up and leaving now. I grabbed my things and put my tent away. I almost started to take down his tent, but James tried to argue.

As we bickered about leaving, a devastatingly loud crash echoed from somewhere. I quickly shuffled into James’ tent and we sealed the flap without a second thought. We just sat there quietly, making sure to be unheard and preferably unseen. That was our last straw, or so we thought. We didn’t need to parse any words to know we were going the very moment we could get gone.

The crash reverberated outside, snapping back and forth between all directions. Shit man! I mumbled to myself. I was done for one night. My heart pounded in sync with the thunderous echoes. We were both tired.

I locked eyes with James and he gave me the same confused look I had grown angered of. After a while I fell back, and rolled onto my side facing the tent wall. I passed out soon enough, in spite of the noise.

When I woke up, I felt dazed and confused. I reached for my phone, unable to feel it beside me. Then I looked over to see James. He was on his knees, staring at my phone screen. Something was wrong with him. I asked him what he was doing and he just pointed the screen to me. The time hadn’t changed at all. The sound had also stopped.

James started to laugh under his breath. He told me he couldn’t get any sleep, so he waited there for nearly an hour watching me, but time didn’t follow. It was weirdly quiet. More than it had been before. The only sound to be heard was our own voices. No insects chirping or wind blowing.

My anxiety began to finally take over. It was getting so damn hard to hold out. I told him to stop laughing. To just listen. His mouth quivered and his neck twitched left to right. I just focused, trying to hear something. Anything at all. The silence felt like a substance that penetrated through my ears and into my brain.

That was it. I jumped up and started to unzip the tent door. I nearly tore it in two the way I yanked so hard. And as it opened I fell through into a mid-day storm.

Somehow, the sun was out, albeit covered by thick stormy clouds and the sound of a low rumble reverberated through the sky, not unlike the noise from earlier. Light now shone through the tent.

A jolt of lightning cracked in the distance, and not a second later did the sound emit once more. James was freaking out. He didn’t dare leave the tent as he paced in circles. I checked my phone, but the screen flickered off. The button wasn’t working. I kept tapping the screen and pushing the power, but nothing happened.

Unsure of what to do, I put my phone into my pocket. I stared at the sky, trying to think of something. How the storm seemed to appear from nowhere. How the night turned to day without a trace. James was barely managing, but he was coherent. At least I wasn’t alone in this shit show.

I grabbed him by the arms and shook him good. His teeth were chattering and he grabbed me back. He clung tightly to me. He was beyond terrified, and I was tired of playing brave. I was scared too.

We had convinced ourselves to stay by rationalizing the strange occurrences, but this couldn’t be reasonably explained. Even if I could conjure up some excuse, nothing good could possibly follow.

Did some sort of EMP wipe out our systems? That would explain the phone and the drone, but what about the storm? What about the sun? It was pitch black outside, and then it wasn’t.

Maybe the time was wrong, but that didn’t change much. The tent was partially transparent, and thin enough that any sounds outside could be heard loud and clear. And that sound. The thunder. It’s the same sound we heard before. Like a warning. No explanation was good. But neither was observable reality. It didn’t work. The logic didn’t fit.

James interrupted my moment of pause and shouted that we had to get out of there immediately. I told him I was thinking the same thing and we ran out of the tent. Both of us were booking it faster than we ever had before. The car was right there. Escape was near.

There was no time to think about what we left behind. The mall could keep it all. As far as I was concerned, the rumors were true. This place was as cursed as they came.

I put the key in the ignition so fast I almost sprained my wrist. The sound of the engine running was like magic at the time. But something was wrong. The car wouldn’t fully start.

James was pounding against the dashboard telling me to hurry up, but I didn’t know what to do. After every twist it would roar to life before shutting down again. I cursed loudly and slammed my fist into the horn. No! Not now! Come on! I screamed internally.

James told me we should have taken his truck and he was right. We were trapped, and it was all my fault. It was all because of me. My despair surged as I felt something warm trickle down my chin. It was my blood.

I recently turned 40, and I've had a pretty interesting life. Married, 4 kids and a stable career. Unfortunately during a check up, I was told I was overweight. Wanting to live to see my grandkids, I decided I'd do something about it. Everyday after work I traveled to a local nature trail. There I tried to walk at least a mile before going home. Between the serene sights of the forest and listening to music. It became a peaceful stroll i looked forward to everyday. After changing some eating habits, I was relieved to see the weight come off. But I wasn't finished, after losing twenty pounds I didn't plan on stopping. One day after work I once again planned to go walk.

This time however, I noticed something different. A little ways down from the usual wooded path I took, was yet another trail. I hadn't noticed it before, but maybe it was new. I didn't see any signs or human activity, but I figured why not. A change of scenery might be nice every once in a while. So I put in my ear buds and began my trek. As I started, I couldn't help but notice a few things. The usual trail had signs pointing you in the right direction and a wooden track to walk on. This one was only a grassy path surrounded by thick woods. It was odd but I shrugged and kept going.

With the oldies blaring in my ears, I was able to go over a mile. Now drenched in sweat and having a feeling of accomplishment. I was heading home with my head held high. While walking back, I failed to notice how deep I went. As the trail looked exactly the same. Getting tired, I was hoping that I'd see the end soon. But it just kept going, showing no signs of an exit. Looking up at the sky, I could see it was getting late. Feeling concerned, I pulled out my phone to call my wife and check in. Much to my chagrin, I had absolutely no cell service. With no other choice, I had to keep pushing forward.

I walked and walked till I was out of breath, but still no exit. I'd sit on the ground trying to catch my breath and figure out an explanation. I definitely don't remember walking this far, did I take another path? No that was impossible, the entire trail was a straight line! Maybe I got carried away and lost in my tunes. Perhaps I had a burst of energy and went farther than expected. So I stood back up and continued my trek back. I noticed the moon starting to become visible, giving the sky a dark blue glow. It wouldn't be long until nightfall and I definitely didn't want to be out here. I prayed that I'd see civilization again soon.

After what seemed like an hour, I was still out here! I was so tired and the path showed no signs of changing. Where the heck was i, why was this happening? I know I didn't walk that far, I'm almost three hundred pounds. Under normal circumstances I could've called for help, but not only did my phone have no service. It was now dead, the battery completely drained. It's safe to say I was beginning to panic. Here I am lost in the woods and now it's pitch black dark. I couldn't hear anything, I didn't see anyone…this was getting scary. But even though things were looking bad, cooler heads always prevail. So I glanced over at the woods next to me and got an idea. Since this path wouldn't end, maybe the forest would lead to an exit.

So I left the trail and started pushing through the thick brush. I could feel the briars sticking into my flesh and twigs cracking beneath my feet. I was so tired; praying that I was close to getting out of here. I wanted to go home and get something to drink, as well as explain myself to the wife. Just thinking about it gave me a sliver of hope. Unfortunately, I soon broke through the thick shrubbery. What I saw before me was the same path I had started on. The same path I had walked for hours, I was back on it. Now panicking like never before, I ran through the trees once again.

I don't know how, but maybe I got turned around while having to snap branches. Perhaps I just went in a big circle, regardless I was getting desperate. As I began yelling at the top of my lungs. Screaming out hoping that someone would hear me. I hollered until I was out of breath, I didn't hear anything in reply. I fell to my knees, feeling completely defeated. Something wasn't right, I didn't know where I was but it wasn't a nature trail. It felt like I was an ant trying to find my way out of a maze, like someone was toying with me. This was still earth right, not some gateway to hell?

My breathing got harder, this time out of sheer terror. I started to hyperventilate, swearing the woods were closing in around me. I wanted to see my wife again, my children…even my grouchy boss. I didn't want to die out here!! I stood up once more and slapped myself to fight the panic. I had to make it out, there was no other option…so I ran. I ran and didn't stop, tearing through the thorns and vines ignoring every sting. My heart was beating so fast, but I wasn't stopping until I found a way out. As the adrenaline flowed I forgot how exhausted I was. I kept coming back onto that godforsaken trail but I wasn't giving up. I closed my eyes and kept running, not letting even death knock me down.

After what seemed like forever, I ran into something hard. So hard that I let out a yell and hit the ground. As I opened my eyes, I was met with a ticked off policeman. He let out a pained groan before shining his flashlight in my face. As our eyes met, his jaw dropped. He quickly grabbed his walkie talkie and called for backup. The officer explained to me that I had been missing and my wife called them for help. When he told me how long I'd been gone, I nearly fainted. The man said that I had vanished for four days straight; and that my family was worried sick. He said that search parties had been formed and signs were hung up.

He told me they had started to lose hope before I ran into him. Back at the station I was reunited with my beautiful family. I hugged my kids so tight and gave my wife the biggest kiss. With tears in their eyes, they begged for an explanation. When I told them what happened, I could tell they didn't believe me. But seeing my cut up legs and sweat soaked clothes was a pretty good argument. The cops would even give me a breathalyzer test to see if I was drunk. When it came back negative, everyone was confused. Since my explanation wasn't winning them over, I decided to show them the trail. The next day my wife and two officers followed me to the path. I knew I wasn't crazy or a drunk, and they were about to find out.

But as we arrived, I want you to guess what happened. The path wasn't there, instead only thick woods. The breath left my lungs, I absolutely couldn't believe it. Where did it go, it was right here yesterday…what was going on? While I stood speechless, my wife and the cops gave me an odd look. My wife told me that I must've been tired; that my job was getting to me. She said I needed to take some time off and relax. But I shook my head and persisted, this couldn't be happening.

What happened to me, where had I gone for all that time…nothing made sense. I was brought home and told to rest, everyone gave me sympathetic looks. As time went on things went back to normal, but I'd never forget. Something strange happened in those woods and I never got any answers. One thing was for sure, I ended up joining a gym like a normal person.

[Part 2]

When I turned 18, I didn’t come home to cake or presents. Instead, all my things were scattered outside, waiting for me like a final insult. I knocked and knocked, my fists growing numb against the door. Nothing. Just glares through the blinds tilted up like they couldn’t stand the sight of me for another second.

I’d always known they hated me, that I was just an expense—meds, psychologist visits, all the things they couldn’t afford. Now I had proof, sitting right there on the curb. The doctors always told them it would get better, that I’d improve, but to them, I was just broken. My mom used to say there was no way I could have schizophrenia—“It doesn’t run in the family.” They could never accept it, and to me, it was just who I was.

I gathered up what little I had. No plans, no idea of where to go. Maybe I could get government assistance, but something else pulled at me—a need to escape, to wander until I found... something. I didn’t know what it would be, but somehow, I knew I’d recognize it when I saw it.

So I walked, never staying in one place for long. Until I found it. An old, rusted sign with faded letters that seemed to buzz under my gaze, like a jolt of electricity sparking through me.

“Welcome to Rosen, Virginia.”

I glanced at the crumpled paper map I’d been carrying. There was no “Rosen, Virginia” on it. Part of my mind screamed, turn back, leave this place, forget you ever saw it. But something about it felt… right. The road leading into town was cracked and aged, each step drawing me deeper. Halfway in, the pavement gave way to cobblestone, rough and uneven beneath my feet. Questions raced through my mind, but somehow, I felt destined to be here. I passed the sign and kept going, the trees around me shifting as I got closer. At first, the leaves only seemed to darken slightly. Then, as I moved deeper, they turned black as pitch. To be honest, I thought my schizophrenia was playing tricks on me. I was wrong.

As I stepped into the outskirts of town, an unexpected calm settled over me. It was quaint, quiet—a place untouched by the chaos of other towns. People moved leisurely along the streets, but nothing felt crowded or messy. And though I wasn’t used to friendly faces, here, everyone seemed warm. Even the ones who scowled or usually would’ve ignored me instead offered a nod or a polite smile. Then, it hit me—there were no cars. Not even a gas station in sight, just quiet streets stretching through town, as if the place had been untouched by time. I reached what felt like the center of town and saw a building that seemed to belong there, nestled among the quiet streets. An old wooden sign hung outside, creaking gently in the breeze: “McAlastar’s General Store.” I slowly pushed open the door, a small bell ringing as I entered.

“Welcome to—oh, hun! Are you okay? You look awful!” The woman behind the counter gasped when she saw me.

“Oh, thanks...” I muttered, feeling a flush rise on my cheeks. “Yeah, I’m fine. Do you live in the town? I have a few que—”

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she interrupted, her voice warm but firm. “I live above the store. There’s a shower, and I can get you a change of clothes.” She smiled, her hand gently resting on my shoulder, and before I could protest, she was already guiding me toward the staircase. There was no fighting her, and as much as I tried to resist, I couldn't help but notice how right she was. I was a mess—my hair tangled in knots, my clothes ripped and shredded, worn beyond recognition. I never really cared before. She opened the door and ushered me inside. The place was cozy, nothing like the worn exterior. It had a more rustic charm, warm and inviting in a way that felt strangely comforting. She left me in the living room, occasionally peeking her head around the corner to make sure I was still there. The sound of rushing water filled the space, and soon she returned, her hand gently guiding me toward the bathroom.

“Alright, I’ve got some clothes for you. I wasn’t sure of your size, so I just estimated. The water’s hot, take as long as you need. I’ll be in the store when you’re done.”

I wanted to say something, ask a dozen questions, but before I could stammer out even one, she had already closed the bathroom door behind her. I’d just met her, didn’t even know her name—and yet, she was being so kind. Too kind. It felt... off, somehow.

I spent what felt like forever in the shower, letting the hot water cascade over me. It had been so long since I’d had the luxury of something as simple as a shower. I almost wanted to cry. Halfway through, the pipes made a strange noise, and the water pressure dropped to a weak trickle. I stared up at the showerhead, my disappointment settling in. Then, without warning, the water turned black. A thick, viscous fluid leaked out, pooling around my feet. A cold shiver ran down my spine. The liquid was... wrong. It didn’t feel like anything I’d ever encountered before. I held my hands under the showerhead, the dark substance collecting in my palms. Everything inside me screamed to stop, to get out, to run—but something about it was mesmerizing. I shut my eyes tightly, hoping the feeling would pass. Then, just as quickly, the flow of water returned, washing the dark liquid away, as though nothing had happened.

I hadn’t been managing my schizophrenia. I’d run out of meds a month ago, and now, every strange thing felt like it could just be another episode. I convinced myself that’s all it was—that the black water was a hallucination, that it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. I turned off the water, the finality of the action grounding me, and slipped into the first clean set of clothes I’d worn in what felt like forever.

I stepped out of the apartment slowly, trying to avoid making any loud noises. My mind was running in circles, debating whether or not to mention the black liquid in the pipes. Would she think I was crazy? But then again, by all definitions, I was crazy. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. I had no real proof of anything, only a mind that liked to play tricks on me. I slowly entered the shop, it was empty, except for her. She appeared to be in her late thirties, her straight black hair framing her face in a way that seemed almost too perfect. Her dress... it screamed “religion” in a way I couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was just me, but it felt like something a very conservative Mormon woman would wear—plaid white and blue, the skirt falling all the way to her ankles. It was so different from the clothes she had set out for me. I couldn’t help but wonder—whose clothes was I wearing?

"Did you have a nice shower? You look so much better,” she said, her smile wide, but there was something about it... too practiced. Like she’d given it a hundred times before, each one a carefully placed mask over something else.

I shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “Yeah, thanks,” I muttered, trying not to sound too defensive. Her smile widened even further, but there was something pitying in it—like I was just another lost soul she had to fix. The way she looked at me made my skin crawl, like I was a broken thing.

The bell on the door jingled, and I looked over, half expecting someone else to walk in. But no one did. It was just us. Just her. "You’ve been so kind," I said, trying to shift the focus away from her pity. "I don’t even know your name."

“Oh, I’m Esther McAlastar," she said, her voice syrupy sweet. "It’s my pleasure to help, dear. You’re so far from home, I can only imagine how lost you must feel.”

Her words hit me like an accusation, as though she knew exactly what was going on in my head. I didn’t respond right away, not sure how to take her words or if I even wanted to. Instead, I glanced around the shop, trying to distract myself from the weight of her stare. But everything in here seemed wrong. The shelves were too orderly, the air too still, like everything was frozen in time. And there it was again—the faintest, inexplicable feeling that something was off.

“Uh, yeah… Is there an issue with the water here? It was all goopy for a second.” I managed to sputter out, feeling frozen in place, my voice barely a whisper against the thick silence of the store.

Esther’s smile never faltered, but there was a subtle shift in her gaze when I asked, something fleeting, a crack in her perfect facade. “Oh, don’t mind that,” she said easily, her tone too smooth. “I think it’s because of the drilling they do up in the mountains. Sometimes it seeps into the water here. Our potable water is fine though.”

I nodded, forcing myself to swallow the lump in my throat. “Right. Of course.” So it actually happened, but still... My brain could’ve exaggerated it. I had to think logically, right? There was nothing unusual about this town—nothing that really stood out. Maybe I was just worn out, or of course my mental state wasn’t exactly the best. The longer I stayed, the more certain I became: I was fine. I was most likely safe. I could make it through this.

“What is your name, hon? You look distressed—can I get you some tea?” Her voice snapped me back into focus.

“Magdalena. You can call me Lena. Tea… that sounds nice, thank you.” I offered a faint smile, but it quickly faded as my mind returned to the clothes. “Are these clothes yours? I don’t mean any offense, but... they don’t look like something you'd wear.”

“Oh no, certainly not. Some of the ladies around town like to wear less traditional clothing, so I keep a few things available for them.” She smiled as she walked toward the kitchenette, her hands moving with practiced ease as she began preparing the tea.

“Traditional?” I echoed, my voice sharp with confusion. “Is this an Amish town? I noticed the lack of cars, but there’s still electricity and running water…” The words slipped out before I could stop them. My brain raced ahead of me, the pieces of this strange place not fitting together, not making sense.

“Oh, no, not Amish,” she said with a light chuckle, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “This town is just... different. It’s a bit old-fashioned in some ways, but we’ve got all the modern conveniences. The lack of cars, well, that’s more of a community choice. People here prefer to walk, or bike, or use the old carts for short trips. Makes it feel... peaceful, you know?”

She continued with her task, the sound of the kettle boiling filling the silence between us. I could tell she was trying to make it sound simple, but the oddity of it all pressed down on me like a weight, something too heavy for me to ignore. It made sense in a way, it was logical, but why did it feel so wrong?

I shifted uncomfortably, watching her hands move smoothly as she prepared the tea. The clink of the spoon against the cup was unnervingly sharp. “And the water... the black liquid? You said it was from drilling?” For a moment, her hands froze, fingers hovering over the kettle handle. It was barely noticeable, but it was enough to make me swallow hard. She didn’t meet my eyes, her gaze fixed on the teacup in front of her. The smile she gave was too wide, too forced.

“Yes, yes, drilling up in the mountains,” she replied quickly, her voice a little too smooth. “We have to be careful, of course, but it’s not a big issue. It’ll clear up eventually.” She quickly picked up the kettle, the soft hiss of the steam rising sharply as she poured it into the teacup. The noise filled the room, almost too loud in the quiet, and I couldn’t help but notice how perfectly calm she seemed, even in the face of something so unsettling.

She steadily poured the cup of tea, her movements deliberate and smooth, then passed it over to me with a soft, almost maternal smile. The moment the warm liquid touched my lips, something inside me relaxed. A deep, unexpected calm settled over me, as if the lingering tension in my mind had simply been... washed away.

I took another sip, the gentle warmth spreading through me. It was subtle at first, but as I drank, the unease I’d carried since arriving here seemed to melt, leaving behind a strange sense of clarity. The black liquid in the pipes, the odd lack of cars, the unsettling familiarity of this place—it all made sense now. It didn’t feel out of place anymore. Everything felt... normal.

I looked around the cozy room again, but this time, the old-fashioned decor seemed charming rather than outdated. The stillness of the town no longer seemed eerie, but peaceful. The tightness in my chest that had once made my skin crawl now felt like a distant memory. For the first time since I’d arrived, I felt like I belonged here, as if this town and I had always been one and the same.

"Thank you," I said, a little surprised at how easy it was to smile back at her.

“Are you planning on being here long? I could always use a hand around the shop.” Esther’s voice lingered in the air, soft and melodic, like a spell weaving through the room. Her offer felt natural, the warmth in her voice making it hard to resist.

“I don’t know right now," I admitted, sipping the tea slowly. It was more than just warmth—it settled deep into my bones, easing the tightness that had gripped me. "I like it here, but I’m not used to settling in one place for long.”

I looked around the shop again. The neat shelves, the way the light filtered through the windows, the soft creaks of the wooden floor—it all seemed so familiar, so right. It felt like a place I could stay forever. Her smile no longer felt like pity, but like genuine care, the kind you’d get from someone who had known you forever. It was unnerving, in a way, how quickly it all happened. How quickly I felt like I belonged.

“I understand,” she said, moving to tidy up a stack of books on the counter. Her hands were graceful, almost delicate. “It can be hard to stay in one place. But sometimes... a place finds you, whether you realize it or not.”

The words hung in the air, strange and haunting. A chill ran down my spine, but the warmth of the tea dulled it, pushing it down into the pit of my stomach. I couldn't tell if she was being cryptic on purpose or if I was overthinking things again. But either way, something about the way she spoke, the way she looked at me, made me feel like this place wasn't just a stop on my journey. It was something more. Something I couldn’t name. “Maybe you’ll stay, after all,” she added, her voice so quiet it was almost as if she were talking to herself.

I stayed. Of course, I stayed. She offered me her guest bedroom and a job at the shop, and I couldn't resist. For months, it felt like paradise. The routine became comforting: waking up in the warm, familiar space above McAlastar's General Store, making tea with Esther, helping around the shop, learning more about the town, and listening to the locals as they stopped by. It was quiet here, peaceful, and everyone seemed so happy.

I began to learn about the town’s history—an old Christian town, deeply rooted in faith, but not like anything I’d been familiar with before. It wasn’t Mormon, but some other denomination I couldn’t quite place. There was always a subtle tension when the subject came up, as if it was a secret they weren't supposed to talk about too openly. But it was there, woven into every interaction, every prayer, every gathering.

Esther kept asking me to come to one of the services. She spoke of the beauty in the rituals, how the sense of community was what made it so special. But no matter how many times she invited me, I couldn’t bring myself to go. I had a weird relationship with religion, one that I didn’t fully understand. My parents had been religious—at least, they’d tried to force it on me. I hated the hypocrisy, the way it was more about control than faith. The thought of sitting in a room full of people singing praises felt... wrong.

I would smile politely, thank her, but always make an excuse not to go. Esther never pushed too hard, but she always seemed disappointed when I declined. It made me wonder if my reluctance was the only thing that set me apart from the rest of the town.

Everything else about Rosen felt perfect, though. Too perfect. The people were kind, the pace of life was slow, and I hadn’t had a single bad encounter since I arrived. But there was still something about this place that kept me on edge.

At night, the town would grow quiet. The only sounds would be the chirping of crickets and the occasional creak of the old wood beneath my feet. In those moments, I could hear the whispers in my head—faint at first, and then louder, almost as if someone was speaking directly to me. I tried to ignore them, telling myself it was just the isolation, or maybe just a side effect of my mind playing tricks on me after everything I’d been through. But the whispers never stopped.

It all changed when the man from the lake walked in. He stumbled through the door, muttering to himself, his clothes soaked through as though he'd just crawled out of the water. His face was pale, his eyes wide with terror. As he approached the counter, he stopped and stared at me, his breath coming in quick, uneven gasps.

“Welcome to McAlastars!” I greeted him, trying to sound as cheerful as possible despite the unease creeping up my spine.

He looked up at me with a look of pure horror. His face twisted, almost in disbelief, as he flopped his arms onto the counter like he was trying to steady himself. His hands trembled, and I noticed the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Have you seen it?” He whispered, his voice hoarse, almost as if the words were being dragged from his throat.

“Seen what?” I questioned, a flicker of panic rising in my chest. The man’s eyes darted around the store, as if the walls themselves were closing in on him. I took a step back, unsure of how to respond.

“It...” His words broke off as he began sobbing uncontrollably, his whole body shaking with fear. His sobs were raw, as though whatever he had seen was too much for him to process.

I stood frozen for a moment, trying to make sense of what was happening, my heart racing. Before I could ask anything more, Esther appeared in the doorway, her expression shifting from concern to something more controlled. She moved swiftly, placing a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Come on now, let’s get you somewhere safe,” she said softly, but there was an edge to her tone that I hadn’t heard before. She guided the man out of the store with surprising strength, her demeanor firm and unyielding despite her gentle words. I watched them go, my mind reeling. What had just happened? What had he seen?

I turned to the counter, trying to calm my racing thoughts, but a sinking feeling settled in my stomach. The whole town had always been a little strange, but this was... different. The man’s terror was palpable, and whatever he had seen—whatever he was afraid of—wasn’t something that could easily be dismissed.

“Who was that?” I asked Esther, still unsettled by the man who had just stumbled into the store. I’d been in this town for five months now, and I thought I knew everyone. His sudden appearance felt like a crack in the veneer of the place.

“Oh, him?" Esther waved it off with a slight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “He’s just a bit... troubled. Lives up by the lake, hardly comes into town. Best not to worry about him.”

“There’s a lake?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, my mind racing. I had never heard anything about a lake in the five months I’d been here, yet

Esther seemed to freeze at the mention of it. She paused for a fraction too long, the smile faltering. “Yes... but please, don’t go there,” she added, her voice tight, the warmth from before evaporating.

I raised an eyebrow at Esther’s sudden shift in demeanor. Her usual warmth seemed to tighten, like a thin veil over something darker. I couldn’t help but feel that there was more to the lake than she was letting on.

“Why? What’s wrong with the lake?” I pressed, trying to gauge whether I was overthinking things or if there was genuinely something sinister going on.

Esther hesitated, glancing away as if the answer was caught in her throat. She seemed to weigh her words carefully before speaking again, her voice dropping a little lower.

“It’s... not a place you want to visit. Trust me.” Her smile, once so inviting, was now a little too strained. “It’s just... people who live near there, they get strange. They’re not like the rest of us.” Her words hung in the air, heavy with something unsaid. I couldn’t help but feel the chill creeping down my spine, and for the first time in months, the sense of unease returned full force. I couldn’t let it go though. Something about the lake had stirred something in me. The way she avoided my gaze, the way she was so insistent—it wasn’t just the man’s rambling that was unsettling, it was her reaction too.

“I’ve never heard anyone talk about a lake here,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, though I could feel the growing tension between us. “How come?”

She gave a soft, dismissive laugh, but it was empty, like she was trying to convince herself more than me.

“People talk about it,” she said, “but they don’t go there. It’s just... better left alone, okay?” Her eyes flicked toward the door, her shoulders tense as if she was expecting something—or someone—to come barging in.

“Better left alone…” I repeated, trying to make sense of her words. What had she meant by that? Was the lake dangerous? Or was there something more to it? But before I could press her further, the atmosphere shifted once more. Esther quickly finished tidying up the counter, the conversation hanging between us like a cloud, thick and full of meaning. What was this lake?

Alana cried loudly into Jeanette's chest as she rubbed her curly head tenderly. She sat Alana down in the chair and instructed her to practice her breathing exercises. Alana did so between sobs and hics. Daniel stood frozen at the front door, his hands pressed tightly against it listening to the many incoherent voices outside. They seemed to be whispering and screaming at the same time.

Jeanette walked over briskly to check on Jeremy and Alexis. Alexis stood frozen in place, shaking and crying. Jeanette guided her gently to the sectional and sat her down. She instructed Jeremy to get a few glasses of water. Jeremy jumped and then complied as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. His mouth had gone dry. He could neither cry nor speak.

Jeanette went over to the blonde young woman and brown haired young man. She crouched down and inspected them for injuries. The young woman was shaking violently. The young man had tears streaming down his handsome face.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" Jeanette asked in a quivering voice.

"I...I don't think so." The young woman responded sobbing loudly.

The young man shook his head no. Jeremy handed Alexis a cup of water with a shaking right hand. She accepted it and started taking small sips.

"Remember, breathe slowly, in and out...steady yourself. You too" Jeanette reminded Alexis and instructed the young woman who was beginning to hyperventilate.

Daniel finally pulled himself from the door. His eyes looked wild, some of his hair laid scruffily on his forehead. He paced back and forth anxiously grabbing his head.

"May I know your names?" Jeanette asked softly.

"I'm Sophia." The young woman responded trying to breathe in and out.

"I'm Eric." The young man said swiping tears from his face.

"Daniel, help me get them on the sofa please." Jeanette asked.

Daniel walked over nervously and helped Jeanette lift Sophia from the floor. Eric got up by himself on shaky legs. They walked them over to the sofa and sat them next to Alexis. Jeremy handed them cups of water on a tray. Jeanette forced them to take a few sips to help them calm down a bit. Jeremy sat the tray on the dining table and picked up Alana who was still crying softly. He hugged her tightly, allowing her to rest her head on his right shoulder. Jeanette sat on the ottoman in front of Sophia and held her hand gently.

"Can you tell us what happened?"

Sophia let out a heavy breath, "My friends and I run an online channel where we search for supernatural phenomenon across the country. We heard a legend about this town a few years ago that something called "the culling" happens every twenty years. We didn't have much details but heard some crazy, supernatural stuff happens. We wanted to investigate and record some stuff for our channel...we didn't expect this!"

Sophia started crying hard again. Jeanette gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

"What the hell is that? I mean what was that out there?!" Daniel finally spoke.

"We don't know either...It attacked us in our RV. We tried driving away but it blew out our tires. It grabbed my friend Melissa first but she got away initially...Now both her and Jake are gone..." Eric responded grievously.

"We tried knocking on other's doors for help, but no one...no one would help us!" Sophia said through sobs.

"It's okay, your safe now..." Jeanette said feeling unsure.

"Eric, help me! Please open the door!"

A feminine voice yelled out from outside the door. Eric and Sophia jumped up from the sofa and stared at the front door, eyes wide.

"Melissa?!" Eric screamed.

"Eric, I'm scared! Please help me! Open the door!"

"Melissa!" Eric cried out running towards the door.

Daniel grabbed him harshly by the harm, snatching him back.

"Is Melissa the young woman that was grabbed out there?!" Daniel asked sternly.

"Let me go!" Eric demanded

"Yes! That was Melissa" Sophia responded shocked.

"Melissa is DEAD! We all saw it! You won't open that door!" Daniel said grabbing Eric's arm harder.

"But...but don't you hear her too?" Eric asked looking towards the door.

Alexis and Jeanette both stood up and stared towards the door in fear.

"That's not Melissa." Jeanette said shivering.

"Please! Help me, open the door!"

The voice rang out louder. A loud knocking started, vibrating the whole wall. Alexis screamed as she looked wide eyed at the kitchen doors causing everyone else to turn that way. The translucent entity slowly crept up the glass doors, waving it's tendrils like hundreds of cobras swaying to the vibrations of the pungi as it climbed higher and higher. Jeremy hid Alana's face and instructed her to cover her ears as the many voices grew louder and louder.

"OPEN THE DOOR!"

Many voices screamed.

"OPEN THE DOOR!"

Everyone covered their ears.

"OPEN THE DOOR!"

"Eric please, I need help! OPEN THE DOOR!"

Melissa's desperate voice returned pleading as the doors shook violently.

"Why is this happening?!" Sophia yelled out with her hands pinned tightly to the sides of her head.

"I'm hurt, help me! Open the door!" It was now Jake's voice that pleaded desperately.

Jeremy sat in the corner with Alana between the dining table and counter. He held her tightly while she cried. Her small hands covering her ears. He begin singing her favorite song loudly in an attempt to drown out the voices. Jeanette grabbed Alexis and sat back down on the sofa. She held her, leaning her head on her shoulder. Daniel looked out of the glass kitchen doors furiously. He let go of Eric's arm and ran upstairs taking two steps at a time.

"What are you doing?!" Jeanette yelled but no response.

The voices continued their demand, sometimes in unison, sometimes in the voice of Melissa or Jake. Sophia ran to Eric and pulled him away from the door and made him sit back on the sofa. She lifted his hands to his ears and covered them. He closed his eyes as tears streamed down his cheeks. Daniel returned after a few minutes sweating heavily and nearly falling down the stairs. In his hands he held a king size bed sheet, a hammer and a box of nails.

"Help me with this somebody!" Daniel demanded as he ran towards the kitchen doors.

Jeremy stood up slowly, still holding Alana, he walked over and sat her on Alexis's lap. Alana wrapped around Alexis like a baby koala. Jeremy ran to Daniel. He tried to ignore the entity as their presence at the door made it swerve and rattle violently. Standing on the top of his toes he held the sheet in place over the door while Daniel nailed it in place creating a covering. The entity let out a deafening shriek causing Daniel to drop the hammer and grab his ears.

Everyone held their ears tightly as Alana screamed to the top of her lungs. Jeanette grabbed Alana's face and mouthed to her to breathe in and out. Alana looked into her mom's eyes and started her breathing exercises between hics and sobs. Alexis hands were pinned so tightly to her ears that her face and palms had become red. Sophia held her ears. Her pretty face was hidden by her curls that were tossed wildly across her head as she rocked vigorously back and forth. Jeremy ran from the door, his hands pinned tightly to the sides of his face and joined his sister on the sofa. Daniel crouched down holding his ears tightly. Jeanette winced in pain from the noise as she continued to instruct Alana to breathe.

The doors shook violently, the voices screaming incoherently and boisterously.

"OPEN THE DOOR!"

A deep and inhuman voice screamed out demandingly and then suddenly there was silence.

Don't Open the Door Pt. 3 By: L.L. Morris

My husband is not someone who takes initiative when it comes to our relationship. I mean, he's known to make timely grand gestures, but he's not someone who books a weekend getaway unprompted; wedding anniversary or not.

So, I was really surprised when Dan told me that we would be staying at the Claremont Club and Spa Hotel. Even more surprising was the fact that he knew I wanted to stay there at all. I had thrown it out there one day as a filler comment. One of those choppy conversations where we just made sounds at each other and never expected to retain anything said by the other. But he did.

We had tried and failed at the whole anniversary thing before. Five times, actually. Our first anniversary was during the early days of covid, the next year we had our son, the following year our son came down with croup, the week before our third anniversary I gave birth again; this time to twins, and last year we were simply too exhausted to even imagine doing anything for ourselves. So, needless to say, it's been a challenging task to celebrate our marriage.

But this year, it seemed like we were actually going to be able to do it. I made sure contingency plans were in place. I may have even went overboard because I had two backup sitters in line should my parents get overwhelmed by our three under three.

Dan reached over to offer a comforting hand during our drive into the Berkeley hills. He could see that I was holding my phone in a way that I was anticipating the dreaded call asking us to turn around because something went wrong. This is what gong 0 for 5 does to someone. I had been stripped of positive expectations. I even started thinking us not being able to celebrate our anniversary was a bad omen for our marriage.

It wasn't Dan's initial joke that almost ruined my mood, but the follow-up. As we were pulling up to the hotel, he made a joke about the building looking like the architectural version of a Karen. I didn't get it at first, but he pointed out the hotel's exterior was painted in the whitest of pure whites, it sat atop a hill in a wealthy neighborhood looking down on Oakland, and has a very unwelcoming barb-wired fence running along the property line. I told him it's been a half-decade-long struggle to even be able to have this getaway with him; and that I didn't want stupid jokes, I wanted relaxing and romantic. He told me I sounded like a Karen. He was right, and that was more annoying than the fact I was sounding like a Karen.

We entered the lobby and it still didn't feel like reality to me. I was fully expecting us to have to leave at any moment. But with each step we took towards our room, I grew more and more comfortable. Which, I might add, was a lot of steps, because he booked us the Tower Suite. A suite that sat lonely at the very end of a repetitive and luminal hallway. By the time we got into the room, climbed up our private set of stairs, and took in the panoramic views framed within the columns of the outdoor top floor tower, I had completely let my guard down. We were really doing it. Finally, we were celebrating our anniversary.

We packed light but carried a lot of baggage into the room with us. Recently we had been at odds over what seemed like a million little things, but the bigger problem for me was that he felt so distant and that was never good historically. When you get married they warn you that marriage will have days that are not so easy. What they don't tell you is that not only are some days not so easy, but they are actively really damn hard. The pressures of life and parenting had been beating us up for a while now. And I mean, even before that, we were high school sweethearts who roller-coastered our way to a wedding in our thirties. So, it wasn't always cake and confetti with us.

At times, our current relationship felt like we were busy putting out fires at such a rapid pace, that we had no bandwidth for each other. Me, being at home, juggling the feedings, diaper changes, naps, and emotional breakdowns of my three babies. While also keeping our house in order and figuring out dinner every night. Him sitting in bumper-to-bumper commutes, working a mind-numbingly boring job, then walking through the front door and jumping right into baths and bedtimes. By the time we are finally able to sit down at the end of the night, I turn off my mind and turn on trash TV, as Dan decompresses into his phone for what feels like literal minutes. Then it's time to get up and go to sleep so we can do it all over again tomorrow.

I'll be honest, at this point in life, my wick was so ridiculously short. I had never been this overworked, this hormonal, this depersonalized, this alone, (and t.m.i warning), but this sexually abandoned. Since the birth of our first child three years ago, sex has felt like a bi-annual event. So, I was optimistically looking forward to the possibility of making it a bi-nightly event this weekend.

We started our stay with an open-ended poolside session, even though neither of us being big swim people. I enjoyed the sun and he enjoyed the nearby TV that was playing college football as his phone chimed with score notifications. I was deep into my first book in years and every now and then would come up for air. Every time I did, it seemed like the other guests had cycled out and been replaced by new ones. All except one woman. In the distance, behind Dan's shoulder, was a woman. Not overtly lingering and honestly, minding her own business, but there she constantly was. Out of focus and in the background every time I looked over to Dan. Her face was obscured by hair and sunglasses, and even if it wasn't, my eyesight is bad enough that I wouldn't be able to see her clearly anyway. What I could make out was her everlasting grin. She never dropped the corners of her mouth. It was annoying, to be honest. How could someone be that happy? I mean, she had every right to be where she was, doing what she was doing, but I just couldn't shake the feeling that she was notable for some ominous reason. She felt off.

The sun was setting over the bay and we were watching from our tower. The cotton candy sky reflecting off the ocean should have been more than enough to hold my attention, but I found myself looking away. Looking to where we were just sitting moments ago. To where the familiar woman was. I actually wasn't able to see her due to the trees blocking my vantage point, and I don't even know if she was still there for sure, but I just felt her there somehow. Dan sweetly touched my lower back, inviting me back into the moment with him.

Our dinner reservations were pretty late. Luckily, the restaurant was in the hotel. A really swanky joint. Cozy midcentury modern decor hid under the lowly lit lights. Yelp said the food was great but the atmosphere was better, and I couldn't agree more. It was so far away from our everyday life that it was perfect. I don't know about Dan, but for that hour or so, I felt like a previous version of myself. I wasn't carrying the weight of responsibilities, wasn't facing a mountain of future to-do's, wasn't plopping my sad canned spaghetti onto plates. This was nice and I felt a little guilty about how much I liked it.

It didn't take long for Dan and I to be reminded that deep down, under the pile of daily life, we still had a spark. We fell right back into each other with ease. I don't know if it was a result of being romantically pent up or not, but he was as flirtatious as he's ever been with me. It was like a new side to him that I never met. So new, that it almost felt alarming. Regardless, I was excited for the first time in a very long time.

We were waiting on our entree when I started people watching. I like to imagine who strangers are and what led them to where they were. Sometimes at the end of nights, I'll search the location tag on Instagram and see if I can find anyone I recognize to see how close my assumptions of them were. It's a nosy habit, I know, but in my defense, on a normal day, Dan isn't exactly engaging. He's prone to getting lost in his phone. It's actually annoying, to be honest, and quite enraging when one of his buddy's text earns an actual smirk out of him and I just have to sit there out of the loop, smirkless.

At this point, our food still wasn't at the table and I've assigned every booth and table their own names, traits, and relationships. I came to the realization that I was out of strangers when I noticed a whole new crop of people. Behind Dan's side of the table was a mirror on the wall, positioned just right, so that I could see the bar patrons. I pan down the bar stools playing a game of tech, tech, douche. Then I get to the last person, and she is smiling directly back at me. I instinctually look down in fear of being caught and convince myself that she was probably looking at something else. I give it a few beats to work up courage, and then look back up.

She is still locked onto me. It is intense, to say the least. My embarrassment doesn't last long because I recognize her. It is the woman from the pool. It's frustratingly dim in the restaurant and I can't make out her face exactly, but I know it's her. Her empty smile made me feel like her presence was intentional. And although smiles are usually a symbol of friendliness, hers looked like it was only for show. It's at this exact moment, that Dan scoots out of his seat to use the restroom.

After I watched him walk away into the darkness of the bathroom entrance, I looked back to the mirror to see, nothing. She was gone. I can't tell you if I was relieved or scared at this. On the one hand, I didn't have to look at her, which was nice. On the other, she was lurking who knows where doing who knows what, and that was pretty terrifying for some reason. Her energy did not feel right to me.

On our way back to the room, I remembered that we only had one towel left in the room. I told Dan that I would grab some more from the front desk and that he could go on without me since I wasn't ready to call it a night yet. I was feeling tense and they had the fireplace going in the lobby, so my immediate plans included a glass of wine in one hand and my book in the other. He half-heartedly offered to stay with me, to which I assured him I was more than fine.I Goldilocksed my way into the comfiest chair they had for an hour or so. Reading, and sipping, and reading, and sipping, and pretending to read while I eavesdropped on any conversation within earshot; before finally finishing my glass and getting up to go back up to the room.

A ringless young lady dutifully listened as a golden-aged, ringed, man bragged about how often he stayed at the expensive hotel. When that didn’t get the reaction he wanted, he pivoted to telling her how the hotel was haunted. Haunted by a woman. How she lurks around still and no one knows why. I couldn't help but think about the woman I had been seeing all trip. He said she was harmless and was probably just someone who unfortunately passed away on the premises and couldn't move on for whatever reason. I know most people would be spooked by this. I'm not most people. Did I like possibly dealing with a ghost girl? No. But what this phantom lady wasn't going to do, was take away the only free night I'd had in years. So, I quickly evicted her out of my thoughts, told the bartender to fill up my glass, and stopped at the front desk for water bottles and towels, before heading back to Dan.

I was approaching a "T" in the hallway; where going right continues on to other rooms, and left was where our suite was located. Ours was the only suite on that wing. One of the bottles rolled off of the towels I was holding and fell to the ground.4.I struggled down to grab it, trying not to drop anything else or spill my precious wine in the process, when I caught a motion in front of me. I looked up through my eyebrows and saw the ends of long hair and sheer fabric suspended in air, wrapping around the corner; trailed by a hand sliding its fingertips on the wall. All headed towards my room. I heard our door close before I could catch up. I figured it was housekeeping. Maybe Dan forgot that I was going to get towels and called down for them.

I walked in and Dan was freshly showered, still donning his towel. That was a bit uncomfortable for me considering there was a guest in our room. I gave him a look and he asked "What?" I snapped back "Are you really walking around naked with a stranger in our room?" He was caught off-guard, "what stranger?" I read his face for a moment. Dan has an incredibly dry sense of humor and I don't always know when he's joking. I realized he wasn't. "The woman," I said. "The one who just came to the room? I saw her in the hallway and heard our door. Did you call housekeeping or something?" He started to get dressed and matter of factly said "No, I didn't."

I instantly started to feel uneasy at the thought that someone was intruding on us. We started looking around and couldn't find any trace of anyone other than us. I called down to the front desk and asked if housekeeping had come. After a long hold, they said they hadn't sent anyone up. I even had them check the cameras, to which they confirmed no one entered the room before me. News that I could try to rest my anxiety with.

After a nice, warm, and relaxing shower with my wine glass(don't judge me), I got ready for bed. Dan was already in the covers but moved over to make room for me when he saw me. I got in bed next to him and he fit his body around mine. I forgot what this felt like. I didn't want to move because it was so perfect. I was getting ready to dust off the sensual side of my brain when I heard it. I waited for a second sound to be sure. Seconds later my hunch was confirmed. He was snoring.

I tried to sleep, I really did. And no matter how hard I rationalized, the feeling of someone being in my space prevented me from closing my eyes for long. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I didn't see housekeeping. It was her. The woman. It had to be. Her existence was sticky. I couldn't get her out of my head, no matter how hard I tried.

It's three in the morning and I'm in a full on spiral. With each snore, I'm starting to resent my husband more and more for leaving me alone. Why does he get to peacefully sleep in bliss while I'm so distressed? It didn't seem fair. It's never seemed fair.

From the nightstand, Dan’s phone screen lit up the room for just one second and that's when I noticed it. It was blending into the shadows at first, but I could definitely make out a silhouette in the corner. Her silhouette. She was in my room and looking at me. I think maybe she could see that I was now aware of her because she washed away into the darkness as soon as the phone screen went black.

This was it. The straw that broke me. I felt so discombobulated and uneven. I couldn't trust my own emotions. I had no idea that I could produce as many tears as were flooding my face. By now Dan had woken up. I almost wish he hadn't. I tried to tell him that the woman was back. She was in our room. To my surprise, he responded a little combatively. Probably because this was his first night of really good sleep in a long time and I had prematurely ended it. He told me that there was no woman. That I had already looked, he looked, the front desk looked, and it was all in my head. He asked how many glasses of wine I'd had since dinner, as if wine was a hallucinogen. I started to feel like I didn't have the support of my partner. He was denying seeing the woman at all. Even though I knew she was here.

I hid my face into my hands in full breakdown. I think that's when Dan truly started to wake up. He didn't fully know what to do or how to react. He rubbed my back and apologized profusely, trying to get me to calm down. That didn't help. I felt alone. I felt scared. I felt crazy.

He kept throwing out possibilities of why this was all happening. “You’re stressed,” ”you’re overworked,” “you’re tired.” All that did was make it worse. I wanted to scream for him to shut up. And I was going to. I really was. But when I looked up at him, there she was!

Arms draped over his shoulders, head tilted, and eyes peeking through at me from behind his neck like a shy animal. I physically flinched at the sight. I couldn't tell at first when only her eyes were visible, but as she slowly veered from behind him, I could see she was wearing the most pervasive smile. As if she was taunting me. I started hyperventilating and instinctually fled the room. I bounced back and forth between hallway walls trying to find my balance. Dan chased after me. My next memory is being in an emergency room bed. Dan says I wouldn't calm down and eventually passed out. The ambulance picked me up and here we were waiting on bloodwork and tests.

The doctors said I was having a pretty intense panic attack caused by stress. The daily grind probably caught up to me and I crumbled under it. They say panic attacks are more common than people realize. Mine being severe, I had to get follow-up treatment to prevent any more. After some weeks I felt pretty back to normal. I had learned a few techniques to help when I was feeling anxious. Dan eventually joined some of the sessions as well. And as sad as it sounds, life moved on. You either have to catch up and move on with it, or you get left behind to struggle. I chose to repair and move on.

Through the recovery, Dan picked up the slack to lighten my load. He was extremely remorseful of how alone I felt throughout the ordeal. He made it a point to get better about connecting and checking in with me. He was as great as he could be. I also found comfort in knowing our kids were so young, that we were able to hide it all from them. They would grow up having no idea about Mommy’s breakdown or the woman that haunted me at the Claremont Hotel.

My therapist still asks, and I think I've gotten good at lying, because when he does ask if I still see her; I say no pretty convincingly. The truth is, I do still see her. All the time. She lives in my peripheral now. Off to the side, out of focus, in the background. At the end of the grocery store aisle, across a crowd at my son’s tee ball games, in the reflection of Dan’s eyes when he leans in to kiss me. Sometimes I actually forget she's there. I know she is, but I don't give her the power anymore. Eventually, she will just fade away.

Or that's my hope, at least.

I recently got my license last week and had been browsing online for some shotguns. Found one I liked, pump-action, wood stock, 12 gauge, second hand. Discounted. It was my lucky day. I bought it on the spot and drove down to the store to pick it up. Showed my ID, got cleared, grabbed some shells on the way out.

But when I picked up that gun for the first time I felt an itch. An itch near my neck. Just gave it a quick scratch, no big deal. But on the car ride home though I couldn't help but occasionally glance at it in the seat next to me, the itching now starting to grow in my palms. I had no choice but to pull over, I couldn't possibly drive like this. It'd been a few minutes ar that point just sat there, writhing in agony, the itching in my hands growing by the second. I gazed at the shotgun for just a moment.

And it began to fade. Little by little. I reached for it, this itch, no longer like the feeling of grinding bone. And then it was in my hands. Oh how I could tell you the comfort I felt in the wooden grip, the way the layer of varnish on the stock reflected the sunset just outside. But it wouldn't last. The itch began to seep in once again as I let out a cry of pain. I could feel it crawling from my hands, slowly reaching up towards my elbows, my shoulders and then my chest. I felt like I couldn't breathe. This sensation now like that of my skin being torn to shreds. And then it reached my jaw. All this pain now rested, concentrated in my jaw. At this point I'd had enough. I had now long forgotten about the world outside my car, my mind was fixated on one problem. And one solution.

Before I knew it the cold metal of the barrel was pressed harshly against the underside of my chin, the front sight scraping against my neck. The itching started to fade again. But my index finger began to pull tighter, teasing the trigger, ever closer. Click! Chamber empty. The itching had now ceased completely. I tossed the shotgun into the back and threw myself out the car door. I was unable to stand or support myself as I lay limp on the ground, conscious and fighting the urge to vomit. I was alive. I felt alive.

The newest iteration of Choice was on the market and it was all anyone would talk about. ‘Obsessed’ was the proper word, and to my own embarrassment I was not immune to the gossip.

Choice was a drug–a legal pharmaceutical–touted as magic in a bottle when it was first revealed in 2005. Somehow, through scientific wonder far beyond my understanding, it could alter a person’s DNA to match their current appearance even if said person had undergone cosmetic changes. Nose jobs, hair removal, teeth whitening…Choice raised the chance that a child would be born with features matching their parents’ topical looks upon conception and not what the parents had been born with.

I mean, at the time there were so many problems in the world yet this was what researchers had focused upon? But once stronger, cheaper iterations rolled out over the years, using Choice to blindly alter your genetics became as normal as getting a haircut. It was a means of escapism from their real-world woes and just as powerful as drugs or sex or whatever else people picked as their poison to relax and unwind.

Now your child could be born with green hair, or the same slim nose you’re so proud of post-surgery, or ears that were already pre-pierced without all the blood and pain.

There were holdouts of course. People who could not accept the strange path humanity had taken. Yet as time wore on and both surgery and Choice became normalized, these holdouts became the minority and eventually seemed to vanish as their descendants were swayed by society’s grip on ‘normalcy’.

Surgeries grew more intense. Split tongues like a snake or babies born with bumps along their forehead that would one day grow into horns, similar to the implants the father had, for example. The flesh of infants became the newest canvas for artists as their tattoo ink distorted the newborn’s melanin to absurd tints and multi-hued stretches of color.

Only took nine months to see the results. It was avant-garde. It was art. Eventually those children grew up with their own ideas, likes, and wants, pushing their bodies further to outdo their seniors. Skin was shaped like clay on the pottery wheel. Body parts were added or removed on a whim. What was once considered radical or strange became the standard through subsequent generations as full transformations swept across the country. Newer variations of Choice hit the market specifically tailored to raise the percentage of success for certain modifications.

Children were born.

Surgeries had.

Choice was injected.

Children were born.

Surgeries had.

Choice was injected.

My triple-jointed thumb and its rough, shark-like skin scrolled through the ads on my phone’s reinforced screen as I toured the news. There was an ad for a new horror movie where kids were being born ‘blank’, immune to the genetic changes their parents tried to induce at the cost of their sanity. I shivered at the idea, a chill rolling over my elongated spine. How terrifying, to be born traditional in this day and age. No son or daughter of mine would ever suffer such a fate, as I quickly tapped to confirm my new order of medicine.

I barely read the fresh disclaimer speaking of the recent increased risk of malformation in babies that damaged their DNA to the point they were born as blobs of twisted bone and skin and muscle. It was a one-in-a-million chance I could have a kid with congenital full-body teratoma, and it really wasn’t that big of a deal anyways. They still wouldn’t be traditional and that’s what mattered. They would be normal and not know otherwise.

Choice was injected.

Surgery was had.

…children would be born.

Every single day, the same dreams. I am forced to relive the same memories whenever I close my eyes. Over forty years have passed since then, but my subconsciousness is still trapped in one of those nights. As sad as it sounds, life moved on and so did I. As much as I could call it moving on, after all, my life’s mission was to do away with the source of my problems. To do away with the Man Made from Mist.

Or so I thought. I’ve clamored for a chance to take my vengeance on him for so long. The things I’ve done to get where I needed to would’ve driven a lesser man insane; I knew this and pushed through. Yet when the opportunity presented itself, I couldn’t do it. An additional set of terrors wormed its way into my mind.

A trio of demons aptly called remorse, guilt, and regret.

I’ve tried my best to wrestle control away from these infernal forces, but in the end, as always, I’ve proven to be too weak. Unable to accomplish the single-minded goal I’ve devoted my life to, I let him go. In that fateful moment, it felt like I had done the right thing by letting him go. I felt a weight lifted off my chest. Now, with the clarity of hindsight, I’m no longer sure about that.

That said, I am getting ahead of myself. I suppose I should start from the beginning.

My name is Yaroslav Teuter and I hail from a small Siberian village, far from any center of civilization. Its name is irrelevant. Knowing what I know now, my relatives were partially right and outsiders have no place in it. The important thing about my home village is that it’s a settlement frozen in the early modern era. Growing up, we had no electricity and no other modern luxuries. It was, and still is, as far as I know, a small rural community of old believers. When I say old believers, I mean that my people never adopted Christianity. We, they, believe in the old gods; Perun and Veles, Svarog and Dazhbog, along with Mokosh and many other minor deities and nature spirits.

What outsiders consider folklore or fiction, my people, to this very day, hold to be the truth and nothing but the truth. My village had no doctors, and there was a common belief there were no ill people, either. The elders always told us how no one had ever died from disease before the Soviets made incursions into our lands.

Whenever someone died, and it was said to be the result of old age, “The horned shepherd had taken em’ to his grazing fields”, they used to say. They said the same thing about my grandparents, who passed away unexpectedly one after the other in a span of about a year. Grandma succumbed to the grief of losing the love of her life.

Whenever people died in accidents or were relatively young, the locals blamed unnatural forces. Yet, no matter the evidence, diseases didn’t exist until around my childhood. At least not according to the people.

At some point, however, everything changed in the blink of an eye. Boris “Beard” Bogdanov, named so after his long and bushy graying beard, fell ill. He was constantly burning with fever, and over time, his frame shrunk.

The disease he contracted reduced him from a hulk of a man to a shell no larger than my dying grandfather in his last days. He was wasting away before our very eyes. The village folk attempted to chalk it up to malevolent spirits, poisoning his body and soul. Soon after him, his entire family got sick too. Before long, half of the village was on the brink of death.

My father got ill too. I can vividly recall the moment death came knocking at our door. He was bound to suffer a slow and agonizing journey to the other side. It was a chilly spring night when I woke up, feeling the breeze enter and penetrate our home. That night, the darkness seemed to be bleaker than ever before. It was so dark that I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. A chill ran down my spine. For the first time in years, I was afraid of the dark again. The void stared at me and I couldn’t help but dread its awful gaze. At eleven years old, I nearly pissed myself again just by looking around my bedroom and being unable to see anything.

I was blind with fear. At that moment, I was blind; the nothingness swallowed my eyes all around me, and I wish it had stayed that way. I wish I never looked toward my parent’s bed. The second I laid my eyes on my sleeping parents; reality took any semblance of innocence away from me. The unbearable weight of realization collapsed onto my infantile little body, dropping me to my knees with a startle.

The animal instinct inside ordered my mouth to open, but no sound came. With my eyes transfixed on the sinister scene. I remained eerily quiet, gasping for air and holding back frightful tears. Every tall tale, every legend, every child’s story I had grown out of by that point came back to haunt my psyche on that one fateful night.

All of this turned out to be true.

As I sat there, on my knees, holding onto dear life, a silhouette made of barely visible mist crouched over my sleeping father. Its head pressed against Father’s neck. Teeth sunk firmly into his arteries. The silhouette was eating away at my father. I could see this much, even though it was practically impossible to see anything else. As if the silhouette had some sort of malignant luminance about it. The demon wanted to be seen. I must’ve made enough noise to divert its attention from its meal because it turned to me and straightened itself out into this tall, serpentine, and barely visible shadow caricature of a human. Its limbs were so long, long enough to drag across the floor.

Its features were barely distinguishable from the mist surrounding it. The thing was nearly invisible, only enough to inflict the terror it wanted to afflict its victims with. The piercing stare of its blood-red eyes kept me paralyzed in place as a wide smile formed across its face. Crimson-stained, razor-sharp teeth piqued from behind its ashen gray lips, and a long tongue hung loosely between its jaws. The image of that thing has burnt itself into my mind from the moment we met.

The devil placed a bony, clawed finger on its lips, signaling for me to keep my silence. Stricken with mortifying fear, I could not object, nor resist. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I did all I could. I nodded. The thing vanished into the darkness, crawling away into the night.

Exhausted and aching across my entire body, I barely pulled myself upright once it left. Still deep within the embrace of petrifying fear. It took all I had left to crawl back to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. The image of the bloodied silhouette made from a mist and my father’s vitality clawed my eyes open every time I dared close them.

The next morning, Father was already sick, burning with fever. I knew what had caused it, but I wouldn’t dare speak up. I knew that, if I had sounded the alarm on the Man Made from Mist, the locals would’ve accused me of being the monster myself. The idea around my village was, if you were old enough to work the household farm, you were an adult man. If you were an adult, you were old enough to protect your family. Me being unable to fight off the evil creature harming my parent meant I was cooperating with it, or was the source of said evil.

Shame and regret at my inability to stand up, for my father ate away at every waking moment while the ever-returning presence of the Man Made from Mist robbed me of sleep every night. He came night after night to feast on my father’s waning life. He tried to shake me into full awareness every single time he returned. Tormenting me with my weakness. Every day I told myself this one would be different, but every time it ended the same–I was on my knees, unable to do anything but gawk in horror at the pest taking away my father and chipping away at my sanity.

Within a couple of months, my father was gone. When we buried him, I experienced a semblance of solace. Hopefully, the Man Made from Mist would never come back again. Wishing him to be satisfied with what he had taken away from me. I was too quick to jump to my conclusion.

This world is cruel by nature, and as per the laws of the wild; a predator has no mercy on its prey while it starves. My tormentor would return to take away from me so long as it felt the need to satiate its hunger.

Before long, I woke up once more in the middle of the night. It was cold for the summer… Too cold…

Dreadful thoughts flooded my mind. Fearing for the worst, I jerked my head to look at my mother. Thankfully, she was alone, sound asleep, but I couldn’t ease my mind away from the possibility that he had returned. I hadn’t slept that night; in fact, I haven’t slept right since. Never.

The next morning, I woke up to an ailing mother. She was burning with fever, and I was right to fear for the worst. He was there the previous night, and he was going to take my mother away from me. I stayed up every night since to watch over my mother, mustering every ounce of courage I could to confront the nocturnal beast haunting my life.

It never returned. Instead, it left me to watch as my mother withered away to disease like a mad dog. The fever got progressively worse, and she was losing all color. In a matter of days, it took away her ability to move, speak, and eventually reason. I had to watch as my mothered withered away, barking and clawing at the air. She recoiled every time I offered her water and attempted to bite into me whenever I’d get too close.

The furious stage lasted about a week before she slipped into a deep slumber and, after three days of sleep, she perished. A skeletal, pale, gaunt husk remained of what was once my mother.

While I watched an evil, malevolent force tear my family to shreds, my entire world seemed to be engulfed by its flames. By the time Mother succumbed to her condition, more than half of the villagers were dead. The Soviets incurred into our lands. They wore alien suits as they took away whatever healthy children they could find. Myself included.

I fought and struggled to stay in the village, but they overpowered me. Proper adults had to restrain me so they could take me away from this hell and into the heart of civilization. After the authorities had placed me in an orphanage, the outside world forcefully enlightened me. It took years, but eventually; I figured out how to blend with the city folk. They could never fix the so-called trauma of what I had to endure. There was nothing they could do to mold the broken into a healthy adult. The damage had been too great for my wounds to heal.

I adjusted to my new life and was driven by a lifelong goal to avenge whatever had taken my life away from me. I ended up dedicating my life to figuring out how to eradicate the disease that had taken everything from me after overhearing how an ancient strain of Siberian Anthrax reanimated and wiped out about half of my home village. They excused the bite marks on people’s necks as infected sores.

It took me a long time, but I’ve gotten myself where I needed to be. The Soviets were right to call it a disease, but it wasn’t anthrax that had decimated my home village and taken my parents’ lives. It was something far worse, an untreatable condition that turns humans into hematophagic corpses somewhere between the living and the dead.

Fortunately, the only means of treatment seem to be the termination of the remaining processes vital to sustaining life in the afflicted.  

It’s an understanding I came to have after long years of research under, oftentimes illegal, circumstances. The initial idea came about after a particularly nasty dream about my mother’s last days.

In my dream, she rose from her bed and fell on all fours. Frothing from the mouth, she coughed and barked simultaneously. Moving awkwardly on all four she crawled across the floor toward me. With her hands clawing at my bedsheets, she pulled herself upwards and screeched in my face. Letting out a terrible sound between a shrill cry and cough. Eyes wide with delirious agitation, her face lunged at me, attempting to bite whatever she could. I cowered away under my sheets, trying to weather the rabid storm. Eventually, she clasped her jaws around my arm and the pain of my dream jolted me awake.

Covered in cold sweat, and nearly hyperventilating; that’s where I had my eureka moment.

I was a medical student at the time; this seemed like something that fit neatly into my field of expertise, virology. Straining my mind for more than a couple of moments conjured an image of a rabies-like condition that afflicted those who the Man Made from Mist attacked. Those who didn’t survive, anyway. Nine of out ten of the afflicted perished. The remaining one seemed to slip into a deathlike coma before awakening changed.

This condition changes the person into something that can hardly be considered living, technically. In a way, those who survive the initial infection are practically, as I’ve said before, the walking dead. Now, I don’t want this to sound occult or supernatural. No, all of this is biologically viable, albeit incredibly unusual for the Tetrapoda superclass. If anything, the condition turns the afflicted into a human-shaped leech of sorts. While I might’ve presented the afflicted to survive the initial stage of the infected as an infallible superhuman predator, they are, in fact, maladapted to cohabitate with their prey in this day and age. That is us.

Ignoring the obvious need to consume blood and to a lesser extent certain amounts of living flesh, this virus inadvertently mimics certain symptoms of a tuberculosis infection, at least outwardly. That is exactly how I’ve been able to find test subjects for my study. Hearing about death row inmates who matched the profile of advanced tuberculosis patients but had somehow committed heinous crimes including cannibalism.

Through some connections I’ve made with the local authorities, I got my hands on the corpse of one such death row inmate. He was eerily similar to the Man Made from Mist, only his facial features seemed different. The uncanny resemblance to my tormentor weighed heavily on my mind. Perhaps too heavily. I noticed a minor muscle spasm as I chalked up a figment of my anxious imagination.

This was my first mistake. The second being when I turned my back to the cadaver to pick up a tool to begin my autopsy. This one nearly cost me my life. Before I could even notice, the dead man sprang back to life. His long lanky, pale arms wrapped around tightly around my neck. His skin was cold to the touch, but his was strength incredible. No man with such a frame should have been able to yield such strength, no man appearing this sick should’ve been able to possess. Thankfully, I must’ve stood in an awkward position from him to apply his blood choke properly. Otherwise, I would’ve been dead, or perhaps undead by now.

As I scrambled with my hands to pick up something from the table to defend myself with, I could hear his hoarse voice in my ear. “I am sorry… I am starving…”

The sudden realization I was dealing with a thing human enough to apologize to me took me by complete surprise. With a renewed flow of adrenaline through my system. My once worst enemy, Fear, became my best friend. The reduced supply of oxygen to my brain eased my paralyzing dread just enough for me to pick a scalpel from the table and forcefully jam it into the predator’s head.

His grip loosened instantly and, with a sickening thump, he fell on the floor behind me, knocking over the table. The increased blood flow brought with it a maddening existential dread. My head spun and my heart raced through the roof. Terrible, illogical, intangible thoughts swarmed my mind. There was fear interlaced with anger, a burning wrath.

The animalistic side of me took over, and I began kicking and dead man’s body again and again. I wouldn’t stop until I couldn’t recognize his face as human. Blood, torn-out hair, and teeth flew across the floor before I finally came to.

Collapsing to the floor right beside the corpse, I sat there for a long while, shaking with fear. Clueless about the source of my fear. After all, it was truly dead this time. I was sure of it. My shoes cracked its skull open and destroyed the brain. There was no way it could survive without a functioning brain. This was a reasoning thing. It needed its brain. Yet there I was, afraid, not shaken, afraid.

This was another event that etched itself into my memories, giving birth to yet another reoccurring nightmare. Time and time again, I would see myself mutilating the corpse, each time to a worsening degree. No matter how often I tried to convince myself, I did what I did in self-defense. My heart wouldn’t care. I was a monster to my psyche.

I deeply regret to admit this, but this was only the first one I had killed, and it too, perhaps escaped this world in the quickest way possible.

Regardless, I ended up performing that autopsy on the body of the man whose second life I truly ended. As per my findings, and I must admit, my understanding of anatomical matters is by all means limited, I could see why the execution failed. The heart was black and shriveled up an atrophied muscle. Shooting one of those things in the chest isn’t likely to truly kill them. Not only had the heart become a vestigial organ, but the lungs of the specimen I had autopsied revealed regenerative scar tissue. These things could survive what would be otherwise lethal to average humans. The digestive system, just like the pulmonary one, differed vastly from what I had expected from the human anatomy. It seemed better suited to hold mostly liquid for quick digestion.

Circulation while reduced still existed, given the fact the creature possessed almost superhuman strength. To my understanding, the circulation is driven by musculoskeletal mechanisms explaining the pallor. The insufficient nutritional value of their diet can easily explain their gauntness.  

Unfortunately, this study didn’t yield many more useful results for my research. However, I ended up extracting an interesting enzyme from the mouth of the corpse. With great difficulty, given the circumstances. These things develop Draculin, a special anticoagulant found in vampire bats. As much as I’d hate to call these unfortunate creatures vampires, this is exactly what they are.

Perhaps some legends were true, yet at that moment, none of it mattered. I wanted to find out more. I needed to find out more.

To make a painfully long story short, I’ll conclude my search by saying that for the longest time, I had searched for clues using dubious methods. This, of course, didn’t yield the desired results. My only solace during that period was the understanding that these creatures are solitary and, thus, could not warn others about my activities and intentions.  

With the turn of the new millennium, fortune shone my way, finally. Shortly before the infamous Armin Meiwes affair. I had experienced something not too dissimilar. I found a post on a message board outlining a request for a willing blood donor for cash. This wasn’t what one could expect from a blood donation however, the poster specified he was interested in drinking the donor’s blood and, if possible, straight from the source.

This couldn’t be anymore similar to the type of person I have been looking for. Disinterested in the money, I offered myself up. That said, I wasn’t interested in anyone drinking my blood either, so to facilitate a fair deal, I had to get a few bags of stored blood. With my line of work, that wasn’t too hard.

A week after contacting the poster of the message, we arranged a meeting. He wanted to see me at his house. Thinking he might intend to get more aggressive than I needed him to be, I made sure I had my pistol when I met him.

Overall, he seemed like an alright person for an anthropophagic haemophile. Other than the insistence on keeping the lighting lower than I’d usually like during our meeting, everything was better than I could ever expect. At first, he seemed taken aback by my offer of stored blood for information, but after the first sip of plasmoid liquid, he relented.

To my surprise, he and I were a lot alike, as far as personality traits go. As he explained to me, there wasn’t much that still interested him in life anymore. He could no longer form any emotional attachments, nor feel the most potent emotions. The one glaring exception was the high he got when feeding. I too cannot feel much beyond bitter disappointment and the ever-present anxious dread that seems to shadow every moment of my being.

I have burned every personal bridge I ever had in favor of this ridiculous quest for revenge I wasn’t sure I could ever complete.

This pleasant and brief encounter confirmed my suspicions; the infected are solitary creatures and prefer to stay away from all other intelligent lifeforms when not feeding. I’ve also learned that to stay functional on the abysmal diet of blood and the occasional lump of flesh, the infected enter a state of hibernation that can last for years at a time.

He confirmed my suspicion that the infected dislike bright lights and preferred to hunt and overall go about their rather monotone lives at night.

The most important piece of information I had received from this fine man was the fact that the infected rarely venture far from where they first succumbed to the plague, so long, of course, as they could find enough prey. Otherwise, like all other animals, they migrate and stick to their new location.

Interestingly enough, I could almost see the sorrow in his crimson eyes, a deep regret, and a desire to escape an unseen pain that kept gnawing at him. I asked him about it; wondering if he was happy with where his life had taken him. He answered negatively. I wish he had asked me the same question, so I could just tell someone how miserable I had made my life. He never did, but I’m sure he saw his reflection in me. He was certainly bright enough to tell as much.

In a rare moment of empathy, I offered to end his life. He smiled a genuine smile and confessed that he tried, many times over, without ever succeeding. He explained that his displeasure wasn’t the result of depression, but rather that he was tired of his endless boredom. Back then, I couldn’t even tell the difference.

Smiling back at him, I told him the secret to his survival was his brain staying intact. He quipped about it, making all the sense in the world, and told me he had no firearms.

I pulled out my pistol, aiming at his head, and joked about how he wouldn’t need one.

He laughed, and when he did, I pulled the trigger.

The laughter stopped, and the room fell dead silent, too silent, and with it, he fell as well, dead for good this time.

Even though this act of killing was justified, it still frequented my dreams, yet another nightmare to a gallery of never-ending visual sorrows. This one, however, was more melancholic than terrifying, but just as nerve-wracking. He lost all reason to live. To exist just to feed? This was below things, no, people like us. The longer I did this, all of this, the more I realized I was dealing with my fellow humans. Unfortunately, the humans I’ve been dealing with have drifted away from the light of humanity. The cruelty of nature had them reduced to wild animals controlled by a base instinct without having the proper way of employing their higher reasoning for something greater. These were victims of a terrible curse, as was I.

My obsession with vengeance only grew worse. I had to bring the nightmare I had reduced my entire life to an end. Armed with new knowledge of how to find my tormentor, finally, I finally headed back to my home village. A few weeks later, I arrived near the place of my birth. Near where I had spent the first eleven years of my life. It was night, the perfect time to strike. That was easier said than done. Just overlooking the village from a distance proved difficult. With each passing second, a new, suppressed memory resurfaced. A new night terror to experience while awake. The same diabolical presence marred all of them.

Countless images flashed before my eyes, all of them painful. Some were more horrifying than others. My father’s slow demise, my mother’s agonizing death. All of it, tainted by the sickening shadow standing at the corner of the bedroom. Tall, pale, barely visible, as if he was part of the nocturnal fog itself. Only red eyes shining. Glowing in the darkness, along with the red hue dripping from his sickening smile.

Bitter, angry, hurting, and afraid, I lost myself in my thoughts. My body knew where to find him. However, we were bound by a red thread of fate. Somehow, from that first day, when he made me his plaything, he ended up tying our destinies together. I could probably smell the stench of iron surrounding him. I was fuming, ready to incinerate his body into ash and scatter it into the nearest river.  

Worst of all was the knowledge I shouldn’t look for anyone in the village, lest I infect them with some disease they’d never encountered before. It could potentially kill them all. I wouldn’t be any better than him if I had let such a thing happen… My inability to reunite with any surviving neighbors and relatives hurt so much that I can’t even put it into words.

All of that seemed to fade away once I found his motionless cadaver resting soundly in a den by the cemetery. How cliché, the undead dwelling in burial grounds. In that moment, bereft of his serpentine charm, everything seemed so different from what I remembered. He wasn’t that tall; he wasn’t much bigger than I was when he took everything from me. I almost felt dizzy, realizing he wasn’t even an adult, probably. My memories have tricked me. Everything seemed so bizarre and unreal at that moment. I was once again a lost child. Once again confronted by a monster that existed only in my imagination. I trained my pistol on his deathlike form.

Yet in that moment, when our roles were reversed. When he suddenly became a helpless child, I was a Man Made from Mist. When I had all the power in the world, and he lay at my feet, unable to do anything to protect himself from my cruelty, I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t shoot him. I couldn’t do it because I knew it wouldn’t help me; it wouldn’t bring my family back. Killing him wouldn’t fix me or restore the humanity I gave up on. It wouldn’t even me feel any better. There was no point at all. I wouldn’t feel any better if I put that bullet in him. Watching that pathetic carcass, I realized how little all of that mattered. My nightmares wouldn’t end, and the anxiety and hatred would not go away. There was nothing that could ever heal my wounds. I will suffer from them so long as I am human. As much as I hate to admit it, I pitied him in that moment.

As I’ve said, letting him go was a mistake. Maybe if I went through with my plan, I wouldn’t end up where I am now. Instead of taking his life, I took some of his flesh. I cut off a little piece of his calf, he didn't even budge when my knife sliced through his pale leg like butter. This was the pyrrhic victory I had to have over him. A foolish and animalistic display of dominance over the person whose shadow dominated my entire life. That wasn't the only reason I did what I did, I took a part of him just in case I could no longer bear the weight of my three demons. Knowing people like him do not feel the most intense emotions, I was hoping for a quick and permanent solution, should the need arise.

Things did eventually spiral out of control. My sanity was waning and with it, the will to keep on living, but instead of shooting myself, I ate the piece of him that I kept stored in my fridge. I did so with the expectation of the disease killing my overstressed immune system and eventually me.

Sadly, there are very few permanent solutions in this world and fewer quick ones that yield the desired outcomes. I did not die, technically. Instead, the Man Made from Mist was reborn. At first, everything seemed so much better. Sharper, clearer, and by far more exciting. But for how long will such a state remain exciting when it’s the default state of being? After a while, everything started losing its color to the point of everlasting bleakness.

Even my memories aren’t as vivid as they used to be, and the nightmares no longer have any impact. They are merely pictures moving in a sea of thought. With that said, life isn’t much better now than it was before. I don’t hurt; I don’t feel almost at all. The only time I ever feel anything is whenever I sink my teeth into the neck of some unsuspecting drunk. My days are mostly monochrome grey with the occasional streak of red, but that’s not nearly enough.

Unfortunately, I lost my pistol at some point, so I don’t have a way out of this tunnel of mist. It’s not all bad. I just wish my nightmares would sting a little again. Otherwise, what is the point of dwelling on every mistake you’ve ever committed? What is the point of a tragedy if it cannot bring you the catharsis of sorrow? What is the point in reliving every blood-soaked nightmare that has ever plagued your mind if they never bring any feelings of pain or joy…? Is there even a point behind a recollection that carries no weight? There is none.

Everything I’ve ever wanted is within reach, yet whenever I extend my hand to grasp at something, anything, it all seems to drift away from me…

And now, only now, once the boredom that shadows my every move has finally exhausted me. Now that I am completely absorbed by this unrelenting impenetrable and bottomless sensation of emptiness… This longing for something, anything… I can say I truly understand what horror is. I can say without a shadow of a doubt that the Man Made from Mist isn’t me, nor any other person or even a creature. No, The Man Made from Mist is the embodiment of pure horror. A fear…

One so bizarre and malignant it exists only to torment those afflicted with sentience.

Travis tightened his grip on the chainsaw, its metal teeth biting into the thick trunk of an ancient cedar. The forest stretched endlessly around him, shadows dancing between the trees under the indifferent gaze of the moon. The cool air carried the scent of pine and damp earth—a familiar aroma that had become his solace in the solitude of these nights.

He moved with practiced precision, each cut deliberate, the steady rhythm of his work a counterpoint to the stillness enveloping them. His team worked in silent coordination, their breaths visible in the crisp night air, merging with the mist that clung to the ground. The forest was alive yet quiet, a living entity watching them as they cleared the deadwood to prevent inevitable wildfires threatening this secluded expanse.

Travis glanced around, the dense canopy above filtering moonlight into scattered beams that danced on the forest floor. The trees stood tall and imposing, their silhouettes stark against the night sky. The profound stillness was broken only by the mechanical whir of the chainsaw and the occasional rustle of nocturnal creatures settling into their hidden lives. He found comfort in the isolation—a stark contrast to the crowded chaos of the city life he had left behind.

“Keep it steady, Travis,” Marcus called from across the clearing, his voice low and steady. Marcus was the unofficial leader of their small crew, his presence a calming force amidst the repetitive grind of their work. Travis nodded, returning his focus to the task at hand, the saw moving in and out of the wood with mechanical regularity.

As minutes turned into hours, the forest seemed to hold its breath. The darkness was thick, almost tangible, pressing in from all sides. The only light came from their headlamps and the intermittent glow of the moon. Travis’s muscles ached from the continuous motion, but fatigue was a welcome companion, masking the underlying tension that had settled over him since dusk.

He paused for a moment, leaning against a tree to catch his breath. The night was unnervingly quiet, the usual sounds of the forest muted as if nature itself was wary of disturbing their work. Travis scanned the perimeter, eyes adjusting to the darkness, searching for any signs of movement that might indicate the presence of wildlife—or something else.

“Everything good on your end?” Marcus inquired.

“Yeah, all clear,” Travis replied, pushing off the tree and returning to his position. He felt a prickle of unease but dismissed it, focusing instead on the rhythm of his work. The predictability of it all was grounding, keeping his mind occupied and away from the creeping sense that something was amiss.

The night deepened, the temperature dropping as the moon climbed higher. Travis’s thoughts wandered to times past, memories that seemed a world away. The forest had become his refuge, a place where he could disconnect from the world and lose himself in the simplicity of his labor. Yet tonight, that simplicity felt fractured, the air charged with an unspoken tension.

A sudden sound pierced the silence—a high-pitched whine that echoed through the trees, unlike any natural noise Travis had ever heard. It was mechanical, out of place in the organic stillness of the forest. He froze, the chainsaw halting mid-air, the log suspended in the glow of his headlamp.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Marcus stopped, listening intently. “Hear what?”

“That sound.” Travis gestured toward the source, but the whine seemed to emanate from all directions—a disorienting cacophony clashing with the night’s natural symphony.

Before Marcus could respond, the whine intensified, growing louder and more insistent, reverberating through the ground and into Travis’s bones. The air seemed to shimmer, the once-clear night distorted by an unseen force. Travis felt a strange pressure building around him, the trees bending slightly as if pushed by an invisible hand.

“Something’s wrong,” Marcus muttered, his usually steady demeanor faltering as he scanned the darkness. But there was nothing visible—no sign of machinery or anything else that could produce such a sound.

Travis’s heart began to race, the unease now a tangible presence pressing down on him. He tried to rationalize it, attributing the sound to distant machinery or perhaps an equipment malfunction. But deep down, he knew something was off, something beyond his understanding.

Without warning, a blinding flash of light erupted from above, engulfing the entire clearing in a stark, white brilliance. The force of it was overwhelming, pressing him back against the trunk of a tree. The chainsaw clattered to the ground, the noise lost in the roar of the light. Travis shielded his eyes, but the brightness was relentless, disorienting him further.

Time seemed to stretch and compress all at once. The light intensified, wrapping around him like tendrils of pure energy, pulling him away from the forest floor. He felt himself lifted, the ground slipping away beneath his feet as gravity lost its hold. Panic surged through him, his rational mind scrambling to make sense of the impossible.

One moment he was surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of the forest; the next, he was engulfed in an abyss of light and silence. The transition was jarring, the sudden shift from reality to the unknown pushing his sanity to the brink. He tried to call out, but his voice was swallowed by the intensity of the light, his screams lost in the overwhelming force.

In an instant, the light faded as suddenly as it had appeared, plunging Travis into darkness. The sensation of being lifted vanished, replaced by the oppressive weight of confinement. He was no longer in the forest but in a cold, metallic chamber. The walls were smooth and featureless, illuminated by a faint, artificial light that cast harsh shadows.

Travis’s body ached, every movement restricted by unyielding metal cuffs. He tried to pull away, to find a way out, but the restraints were unbreakable, their grip firm and merciless. Panic gave way to desperation as he struggled, his mind fraying under the strain of the unknown.

The silence was suffocating, broken only by the faint buzz of machinery that surrounded him. He could feel a mask covering his face, muffling his cries and distorting his vision. The mask was cold and alien, its presence a stark reminder that he was no longer in his world.

Travis’s thoughts raced, trying to piece together what had happened. The change was so sudden, the transition from the forest to this sterile chamber leaving him disoriented and terrified. The separation from everything he knew was instantaneous and absolute.

As seconds dragged on, the reality of his situation began to sink in. He was alone, taken by a force he couldn’t comprehend. The rational part of his mind fought to maintain control, to find a way out, but the fear and confusion were overwhelming. He couldn’t understand what was happening, why he had been taken, or what awaited him in this cold, unfamiliar place.

His breathing became erratic, his heart pounding in his chest as the enormity of his predicament settled over him. The initial panic gave way to a numbing fear, the rationality he clung to now slipping through his fingers.

In the depths of his terror, a faint realization dawned on him. This was no ordinary abduction. The precision, the technology—it was something beyond human, something orchestrated with a purpose he couldn’t fathom.

His head throbbed with a dull ache, each pulse resonating through his skull like the distant echo of a chainsaw. Disoriented, he attempted to move, only to be met with the unyielding resistance of the restraints that held him firmly in place. Panic surged through him, a visceral fear clawing at his rational mind, urging him to comprehend the inexplicable reality he now faced.

The chamber was a testament to hyper-minimalist design, every surface gleaming with an unsettling cleanliness that contrasted sharply with the organic chaos of the woods he had left behind. Smooth, seamless panels of silver material stretched out in every direction, their pristine surfaces reflecting the cold, artificial light emanating from hidden sources. The lighting was uniform and harsh, creating an atmosphere of clinical detachment that only amplified Travis’s sense of isolation.

He took a deep breath, the air crisp and sterile, carrying a faint metallic tang. His lungs burned as he struggled to steady his breathing, the initial surge of adrenaline gradually giving way to a sinking realization of his predicament. The silence around him was oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of machinery that seemed to monitor his every movement with indifferent precision.

Travis’s eyes scanned the room, searching for any clue that might explain his sudden transition from the serene isolation of the forest to this cold, unfeeling chamber. The space was vast yet claustrophobic, its emptiness pressing in from all sides, leaving him feeling both exposed and confined. There were no signs of life—no furniture, no tools, nothing to suggest the purpose of this place beyond its function as his holding cell.

He flexed his wrists, the restraints digging into his skin, leaving faint red marks that served as a stark reminder of his captivity. The cuffs were made of a material that felt impossibly strong, yet there was no visible mechanism to tighten or loosen them. Every movement he attempted was met with an unyielding grip, the restraints holding him firmly in place like shackles.

Travis’s mind raced, attempting to piece together the fragmented memories of his abduction. The high-pitched whine, the blinding flash of light, the sensation of being lifted into nothingness—all too disjointed to form a coherent narrative. He remembered the forest, the rhythmic chopping of wood, the voices of his team, and then nothing. It was as if his entire existence had been ripped away in an instant, leaving him adrift in an incomprehensible void.

His gaze fell upon the panels adorning the walls, their smooth surfaces displaying streams of data that Travis couldn’t decipher. Symbols and fluctuating patterns danced across the screens, their meaning lost to him but undeniably important to those who had brought him here. The technology was far beyond anything he had ever encountered, its sophistication a testament to an intelligence that dwarfed human understanding.

“Where am I?” he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible under the mask. The question hung in the air, unanswered, as Travis grappled with the enormity of his situation.

He attempted to focus on his surroundings, trying to find patterns or clues that might offer an escape. The hyper-minimalist design offered no distractions, no hiding spots or weaknesses. Every surface was uniform, every panel identical, leaving him with no obvious vulnerabilities to exploit. It was a marvel of engineering—efficient and impenetrable—a testament to advanced technological prowess.

He reached out a tentative hand, fingers grazing the surface of the nearest panel, hoping to trigger some form of response. The screen flickered momentarily, the symbols shifting and changing with increasing speed before returning to their original state. Frustration bubbled within him, the futility of his attempts evident in his clenched fists. There was no apparent way to communicate, to send a message to his captors, to the world outside his containment.

Travis’s rational mind struggled to maintain composure, to find logical explanations for the impossible situation he found himself in. But logic failed him; the situation defied all known principles of reality. He was a man out of his depth, thrust into a scenario that made no sense, governed by rules he couldn’t fathom. The spartan environment offered no comfort, no sense of familiarity—only the stark reality of his abduction pressing down on him.

He closed his eyes, attempting to block out the sterile surroundings and the relentless hum of machinery that seemed to monitor his every vital sign. But even in darkness, he couldn’t escape the oppressive atmosphere of the chamber. The isolation he had once found solace in was now his greatest enemy, the vast emptiness of his sudden prison amplifying his sense of loneliness and vulnerability.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm despite the overwhelming fear threatening to consume him. He had always valued the isolation of the forest, the way it allowed him to disconnect from the chaos of the outside world. Now, that same isolation was a sentence—a void that stripped him of his sense of purpose and left him adrift in an incomprehensible environment.

Travis’s mind began to fray under the strain of his circumstances, the rational part of his brain struggling to maintain control while fear threatened to overwhelm him. The oppressive silence of the chamber pressed in on him, each breath a reminder of his captivity. He strained his ears, hoping to catch any sound that might signify a change in his circumstances, but the room remained unnervingly quiet.

Without warning, the chamber’s lighting flickered briefly before stabilizing, casting an even, harsh glow across the sterile environment. The smooth panels on the walls began to shift subtly, creating an entrance where none had existed before. The movement was silent, almost imperceptible, yet it signaled the arrival of something new.

From the narrow opening emerged figures that defied expectation. They were shorter than the average human, their slender bodies moving with an unnatural grace. Their large, bulbous heads loomed above them, disproportionately sized compared to their diminutive frames. The most striking feature was their vast, black eyes with barely visible irises, which seemed to pierce through Travis with an unsettling intensity.

The creatures moved with precision, their every action methodical and seemingly devoid of emotion. Their skin was smooth, ashen gray, devoid of any distinguishing marks or features aside from their expressive eyes. They wore minimal attire—tight-fitting suits that accentuated their otherworldly forms. Despite their lack of verbal communication, an air of authority surrounded them, instilling an immediate sense of dread in Travis.

One of the greys approached, extending a slender, three-fingered hand that hovered just above his restrained form. There was no attempt to speak; instead, Travis felt a wave of thoughts and emotions wash over him—a form of psychic communication that bypassed the need for words. The messages were clear: remain calm, comply with the procedures, your cooperation is essential.

Travis’s heart raced as he attempted to comprehend the unspoken directives. The lack of spoken language only heightened his fear, making the interaction feel even more alien and incomprehensible. The grey creatures showed no signs of empathy or malice, but their presence alone was enough to terrify him. The vastness of their dark eyes seemed to hold secrets he could not fathom, depths that mirrored the isolation he now felt.

The lead grey gestured toward a section of the chamber that began to reconfigure itself into a specialized containment unit. Smooth panels slid silently aside, revealing a sleek, metallic structure.

Another grey moved to assist, every movement fluid and precise as they began the process of transferring Travis into the containment unit. The restraints tightened slightly, adjusting to his body with an almost surgical precision. Travis struggled instinctively, but the cuffs held firm, the material unyielding against his attempts to break free.

As he was secured, the psychic communication intensified—a flood of information and directives that left him feeling even more disoriented. Images flashed before his eyes: schematics of the containment unit, data streams flowing across the chamber walls, glimpses of the ship’s vast interior. The information was overwhelming, too much for his mind to process all at once.

Travis’s resistance waned as the greys methodically completed the containment process. The chamber’s environment shifted subtly, the air growing colder as the unit sealed around him. The final panel slid shut with a soft click, isolating him within the containment unit. The greys paused for a moment, their dark eyes lingering on him before they turned and retreated back through the entrance.

The chamber returned to its previous state of minimalistic design, the only indication of the recent activity being the sealed containment unit now holding Travis. The oppressive silence returned, broken only by the faint hum of machinery that continued to monitor his vital signs.

Travis sat in silence, the reality of his situation settling over him like a heavy blanket. The isolation he had once sought in the forest was now amplified a hundredfold, trapped within the cold, high-tech confines of this alien vessel. The presence of the grey entities—their silent authority and the terrifying efficiency with which they operated—left him feeling utterly powerless and alone.

He closed his eyes, attempting to steady his racing heart and quell the panic threatening to overwhelm him. The memories of the forest—the rhythmic chopping of wood, the peaceful solitude—seemed like distant echoes from another life, another world. Now, he was a prisoner in an alien vessel, surrounded by beings who communicated through thoughts and observed him with an unblinking gaze.

Travis’s mind raced with questions: Who were these beings? What did they want from him? Why had he been chosen as a high-threat subject? The lack of answers only deepened his fear, leaving him grappling with the enormity of his abduction and the uncertain fate that awaited him.

His attempts to cling to rational thought began to falter under the relentless pressure of his circumstances. The sterile environment became a catalyst for his mental unraveling. The vast emptiness of the chamber mirrored the void he felt inside, each unanswered question a heavy weight dragging him further into despair.

His breathing became erratic, each inhale sharp and shallow, his chest tightening with the effort to calm himself. The oppressive silence felt like a physical force, pressing down on him, making it difficult to think clearly. Memories of the forest, once his sanctuary, now taunted him with their simplicity and peace—a stark contrast to the chaos brewing within his mind.

Travis’s thoughts began to spiral, jumping from one frantic question to another without any semblance of order. The rational part of his mind struggled to maintain control, but the fear was too overpowering. Images from his abduction replayed in his head—the high-pitched whine, the blinding light, the feeling of being lifted into the void—each memory a fragment that refused to be pieced together.

He felt his grip on reality slipping, the edges of his consciousness fraying as panic took hold. His mind, once sharp and focused, now felt like it was being pulled apart, each thought unraveling into chaos.

His breathing became futile as his body reacted instinctively to the overwhelming fear. His pulse pounded in his ears, each beat a thunderous reminder of his helplessness. The once steady rhythm of his mind, honed by years of solitary work in the forest, was now replaced by the frantic beating of a primal heart fighting for survival.

His eyes fluttered open again, a new wave of panic washing over him. The greys’ presence seemed to grow larger in his vision, their dark eyes boring into him with an intensity that made his skin crawl. He could feel their thoughts pressing against his own—a silent assault that left him reeling. The lack of verbal communication only made their presence more menacing, their intentions inscrutable, their power absolute.

Travis’s mind began to regress, slipping into a more instinctual state as fear took over. The rational explanations he had clung to were slipping away, replaced by a raw, unfiltered panic that left him gasping for breath. A cold sweat began to issue from every pore. The isolation that had once been his refuge was now a prison, each second stretching into an eternity of fear and confusion.

He tried to move again, to break free from the restraints, but his efforts were met with the familiar unyielding grip. His body tensed, muscles straining against the cuffs, but the material remained unbreakable. Frustration bubbled up, transforming into a primal rage that surged through him, his mind no longer able to contain the torrent of emotions threatening to consume him.

Travis’s vision began to blur at the edges, the containment unit’s harsh lines merging into indistinct shapes. The dark eyes of the greys still haunted his thoughts, their silent gaze a constant presence that refused to let him escape. The room seemed to close in on him, the sparse design amplifying his sense of imprisonment.

His thoughts became a jumbled mess—a cacophony of fear, anger, and desperation that drowned out any remaining semblance of rationality. The symbols on the walls, once a potential key to understanding, now seemed like mocking reminders of his confusion. Each pattern, each sequence, was a testament to his inability to understand or control his situation.

He felt his mind teetering on the brink, structured thoughts giving way to a chaotic frenzy of panic. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his body trembling uncontrollably as fear threatened to overtake him completely.

Travis’s final coherent thought was a desperate, primal urge to survive—to escape the relentless grip of fear that held him captive within the cold, high-tech confines of his captivity.

Without warning, the chamber’s lighting flickered once more before stabilizing, the harsh glow intensifying and casting deep shadows across the sterile environment. Travis’s eyes darted toward the entrance, his primal instincts on high alert. A faint movement at the threshold caught his attention—one of the greys was returning.

The figure emerged silently, its large black eyes fixed intently on Travis. It moved with the same unnerving precision as before, each step measured and deliberate. The minimal attire clung to its slender form, emphasizing its otherworldly nature. There was no warmth in its gaze, only an unyielding focus that sent a chill down Travis’s spine.

He felt a surge of fear clawing at his chest, his shattered thoughts struggling to keep pace with the overwhelming panic threatening to consume him. He could sense the grey’s intentions through the psychic communication—preparing him for examination. The message was clear, yet its implications were terrifying.

His mind began to unravel, structured thoughts giving way to a chaotic storm of fear and desperation. “N-no, no,” he stammered, swearing profusely as the reality of his situation pressed down on him.

Travis’s eyes widened, the darkness within them deepening as his fear reached a boiling point. His body tensed, muscles straining against the unyielding restraints, every fiber of his being screaming for freedom. The grey approached, its presence towering over him—an embodiment of his darkest nightmares.

“Stay calm,” the grey’s thoughts echoed in his mind, but Travis couldn’t comply. The rational part of his brain had long since been overshadowed by primal panic.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping down his temples and pooling beneath his restraints. The once-pristine cuffs now showed signs of deterioration, the material weakening under the strain of his desperate attempts to break free. Travis’s mind felt like it was being pulled apart, each second stretching into an eternity of fear and confusion.

The grey reached out a slender hand, its three-fingered grip closing around Travis’s arm with mechanical precision. “Cooperate,” the psychic message reinforced, but Travis’s mind was no longer receptive to logic or reason. His thoughts fragmented, slipping into a state where only survival mattered.

“Let me go!” he growled, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness of the chamber. The lack of verbal communication only intensified his sense of isolation, leaving him to grapple with his fear in complete silence.

His eyes darted around the chamber, searching for any sign of weakness or opportunity. The minimalist design offered no distractions, no escape routes—only the cold, unfeeling walls that seemed to close in on him. His vision grayed at the edges, intense fear causing his eyes to dilate uncontrollably as his panic reached its zenith.

A faint hissing noise signaled that the restraints were beginning to fail, the material of the cuffs tearing from the caustic action of his sweat and the relentless pressure of his desperation. Travis could feel the last threads of rationality unraveling as he succumbed to the overwhelming fear dominating him.

With a final, desperate surge of strength, he pulled against the restraints, his muscles straining as the cuffs began to give way. The sound of tearing metal echoed softly in the chamber. His heart pounded, each beat a reminder of his quickening loss of control.

As the restraints finally gave way, Travis felt a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. The containment unit’s walls seemed to disintegrate around him, the once-impenetrable barriers now smoke and silver dust. He stood unsteadily, his legs weak from the effort, but the freedom was intoxicating—a brief respite from the fear that had held him captive.

But freedom came at a cost. The chamber’s lighting surged, the harsh glow intensifying as alarms began to blare, the sound piercing the silence with alarming urgency. Travis’s wide eyes darted around the room, meeting the unblinking gaze of the returning greys, their own dark eyes now filled with a mix of frustration, determination, and panic.

"Anna. Everything ready?"

"Yes, one minute."

At the break of dawn, in a valley south of the Andes Mountains, Anna opens her eyes upon hearing her name. The wind sways the covers of each shelter and caresses each branch and leaf of the native forest around her. In its passing, it creates a velvety melody that hopefully few in this land had to know. The same one that has lulled those who, like Anna, believed they would find something more than solitude and cold in these mountains.

Yaruto, one of the five great guardians of the White Eagles Mountain, waits outside in silence while Anna prepares to answer his call.

Anna didn't sleep all night. Her body shuddered, shook, and froze, finding no rest. And now, hearing Yaruto's call, Anna is about to jump into the infinite void of definitive decisions. However, for an instant, while she remains inside the tent, Anna is all possibilities at once. In the darkness of her temporary shelter, she feels the weight of each version of herself fighting to survive: the one who could turn back and return home, the one who yearns to discover the mountain's secrets, the one who fears and the one who desires what's to come. Once outside, nothing protects her from encountering her destiny.

Before leaving, Anna checks the list she received the night before for the third time, confirming that nothing required is missing from her backpack: a change of clean, light-colored clothes, a towel, a swimsuit, a water bottle, and a pen and paper for taking notes.

Once sure she has everything under control, Anna adjusts her hiking boots, wraps herself in her rain jacket, and goes out to meet the tall guardian, Yaruto, in the middle of the common camping area.

Yaruto, a young man with an athletic build whose long black hair rests on his traditional wool poncho, signals Anna to keep quiet while announcing on his radio: "I have her. We're heading to the river. Over."

As is typical of the weather in this area, it hasn't stopped raining for days, and when it does, temperatures play with below zero. What was a green field a couple of weeks ago has now turned into a muddy mess.

Yaruto moves ahead of Anna, skillfully dodging the tension ropes holding the tents. At first, Anna tries to follow Yaruto's exact footsteps, but the effort to match his strides costs her speed and presence. The tension of stretching and contracting like this, just to match Yaruto, feels terribly uncomfortable. Anna has always carved her own path. She thinks, "following others' footsteps is for when you don't want to leave traces. I came here to draw my own path." So Anna tries walking only on her toes, just as she did in her ballet classes; and walking on tiptoe, she finds her right rhythm.

On the way to the river, a discrete and seemingly coordinated movement across the mountain is revealed to her before morning breaks: dozens of guardians and community servants head with conviction in different directions. Their faces remain serene despite the skin-biting cold. Their steps are firm even though their clothes tremble in the icy wind. Anna is amazed by the precision of each movement, the way each person seems to merge with their task, as if they had forgotten there exists a world beyond their duties. In the dawn's dimness, these figures move like well-trained shadows, with a uniformity she interprets as deep devotion, though something in the rigidity of their movements reminds her of the marionettes her father used to collect.

This transformation, for Anna, is the fruit of the silent power wielded by the mountain's leader. It manifests in rituals that no one explains but everyone follows: entering the freezing river before starting the day –as a "welcome" to the camp–, the books arranged like relics in each communal cabin, the reverent glances residents exchange when someone mentions receiving a message from him. There's something deeper and she feels that with each step, she advances toward discovering it.

Once through the general camp, Yaruto leads Anna to the shamanic activities and purification zone. In this area are the temazcales (sweat lodges), thermal bath tubs, and bonfires; activities in which Anna has participated almost every day since she arrived at the Mountain a month ago.

This place is also the main access to the calmest flow of the river, where everyone must bathe to purify themselves from the city before entering and being formally accepted into the camp. The snowmelt river crosses the entire nature reserve, its constant current not only carries away the dust from the outside world, but also, Anna notices, the last vestiges of resistance from those who immerse themselves in it. She has seen the pattern repeat: the initial shock, the moment of panic, the final surrender, "it's like being born again," the residents say, though no one mentions that in every birth, something must also die.

Crossing the river, Yaruto guides her to cross a bridge whose access is usually restricted for camp visitors; she has seen the bridge and its gate dozens of times, but until today, she had never set foot on it.

Taking the first step, memories assault her: the vertigo of her first time on a roller coaster, the moment before opening her university acceptance letter, the instant before her first kiss. Always the same mix of terror and yearning, of wanting to flee and wanting to dive deeper.

For a moment she doesn't know if what she feels is fear or excitement, but finally concludes that "it's something special, and therefore, must be good." After all, the best experiences of her life always began with that sensation.

On the other side of the bridge, the space reduces to the essential: a solitary cabin that dominates a small clearing, flanked by a wooden pergola and a circle of stones for fires. A simplified replica of the general space, but here everything seems closer, more intimate, as if the outside world had contracted to this single moment.

Anna barely begins to absorb the strange geometry of the place when Yaruto, suddenly anxious, hurries toward the cabin. The sound of the key in the lock startles her. "Quick, we're running late," he orders, and his head points to the darkness waiting inside.

Anna, without hesitation, crosses the cabin's threshold.

Yaruto closes the door behind her.

The darkness receives her like a second baptism, more intimate and definitive than the river's. If the icy water cleanses the body, Anna thinks in this thick darkness, her vulnerability demands she purify something deeper: the fear of uncertainty. The air inside is denser as if it held all the sighs of those who have completed this double initiation.

In the darkness, surrendered to the unknown, along with her determination to emerge triumphant from that day and her familiarity in the deepest darkness, she manages to find everything necessary in her backpack and change immediately.

Ready and before leaving, Anna, in a breath and in total stillness, thinks about how interesting it becomes to listen in complete darkness: "Perhaps when we cannot trust our eyes, we should pay attention to what we hear, perhaps that way, some secret will be revealed to us."

To be continued…