Smoke drifted gently from the braziers, the embers glowing and covered. The capitol stairs stood beneath the waiting crowds. The memorial was to be commemorated, and stood beneath a ceremonial shroud, about to be uncovered. A statue in the park, made in your image, so that you will be remembered for your courage. A memorial of you, my love.

This I breathed, and savored it, as the vice mayor of Chicago proudly dedicated the assembly in your honor.

I remember the entire story, of what you did and why, and I would like to share my own dedication to you.

When you were born long ago, in another life, you belonged to a tribe that lived along the Dindi River, where she once crossed the savannah. The waters cool and clean, with trout and insects singing, you grew from boyhood, and it was the eve of your childhood, the dawn of becoming a man.

You had only three fathers, because your biological father was important enough that your mother did not worry about your status. She was very proud of you, and when the women marked her as a mother, she told them to hold the brand to her skin longer, and she did not flinch as her flesh was seared. One day your real father took you to the great stone that stood above your people's land, and he showed you how the animals fled as the grass burned, but in the path of the flames.

"If they ran toward the flames, they might find safety." He explained. You saw how the grass behind the moving wall of fire was already burnt and extinguished, while the animals ran downwind where the smoke and heat chased them.

This was important, and when you were caught alone after a bolt of lightning started a whirling devil, an inferno of death and destruction, you did not run.

All around you lions and antelope and thundering beasts ran for their lives, some of them were screaming and on fire, unable to outrun the swift horror of flames that was coming. The skies darkened from the smoke, and your eyes watered. You couldn't see anything, but you felt the heat approaching.

You were so afraid. I had never seen you so afraid, not you or anyone, for this was new, this fear of The Gift. I was worried and horrified, to see how The Enemy had made another of my kind, and this time in the form of The Gift, turning it against you, trying to cleanse your people of the knowledge you were given, trying to take it away from you.

Pyrophobia saw me with you, and increased its efforts, the smoke and hot ashes whirling in winds of incineration. Cinders rained all around you - trying to trap you, for if you would not run in terror, if you would not become a man who feared fire, then you were to be destroyed.

I assured you, "Do not be afraid, you know what you must do. I am with you." but it was you who chose to listen to me. Pyrophobia was also speaking, and demanding that you show fear, or die where you stand.

You looked away from the fire, and the soot on your face was crossed by the tears of your smoke-stung eyes, like the river of your people. Your beauty in that moment is the truth, and I knew that although your fear was great, something even greater would drive your actions.

You began running towards the flames, where there was a break in the wall, a fallen log where your body and feet might pass through the fire to the safety of the scorched landscape behind it. You were coughing and the smoke was blinding, but you ran straight and true.

Two zebra colts, strong and obstinate, had watched you and waited. As you ran they followed, thinking you were their stallion. They ran along either side of you and as you leapt the log, they shielded you on either side.

Only I witnessed as you flew through the wall of swirling dark smoke and orange light with a zebra colt on each flank.

When you were born again, in Chicago, you had a fear of fire, but something in you remembered, and you chose a path that ran towards danger, instead of away. You were born as a descendent, many generations removed, of your own lineage.

I thought it was funny the way you scowled when the other firefighters teased you and said that you had something to prove, as the first man of your ancestry to join their old station. You were much more ancient than they were, and they were merely there to accompany you, and I could see this, while they could not. This was amusing to me, because you knew you had nothing to prove, you had a much greater battle to fight, for The Enemy was waiting for a rematch, in this new time and place.

A firefighter who is afraid of fire, perhaps that was strange, but only you knew how afraid you were. Nobody else could see your fear, except me, and I knew its name, your old nemesis Pyrophobia. You might have explained to everyone what you were doing, why you practiced your drills and did endless chin ups and ate quickly and took everything so seriously. You might have, but you did not fully understand it yourself, so how could you explain?

I remembered you, and so did The Enemy, but you do not remember your past, you never do, and this is why I must remind you of who you are. I was there, I saw what you did, but when you die, you always reset, with no memory of another life you lived.

Pyrophobia was waiting for you, and if you would not bow down in fear, then you were to be destroyed - to make an example of you, so that others will cower in fear. Using The Gift as a weapon against you is perhaps the worst thing The Enemy has done, and I was not idle in this battle.

You rescued many people from raging infernos, and over time your body began to collect burn scars, for there was no door you wouldn't enter, and no amount of flames or danger could stop you. You became a legend, and the others thought you were fearless, but you and I know that your fear was perhaps the greatest of all.

I do not know how you did it, it was as though the words of Pyrophobia were a gospel of cowardice, and you could not be cowed by such tyranny. You were defiant, and that is why Pyrophobia resorted to your destruction, a desperate measure, and the ultimate failure of The Enemy.

On the day you were last seen, you were told by the other firefighters, by you chief, that nobody could be alive in that building, it was impossible. You did not listen to them, because your heart told you they were wrong. You saw the mother whose child was still trapped inside, and you knew that she knew her baby was still alive.

You went in, and you never came back out. Pyrophobia laughed at us, because it thought it had won, it thought that fear would prevail. But it was wrong, they all were.

I was there when you found the child, still alive. I watched as you took her to safety, and you were right, the way out was legitimate. By all the laws of Creation you should have both survived and ascended to the heroic place you had earned. Pyrophobia cheated, and spontaneously combusted and immolated you both out of thin air, just when you were almost free of the conflagration.

At first, I was outraged, and I petitioned at The Table. Our Creator looked upon me (I felt ashamed of my absence from the heavenly courts) and saying thus:

"Firstborn, do not accuse your brethren of such a crime, for your cause is awarded this victory. Return to your exile, and see for yourself what comes of this atrocity."

I did as I was commanded, although I had to exert some patience while it was discovered that you had nearly succeeded in that final rescue. When they saw that you had nearly escaped with the child, they decided you were an even greater hero, someone who should always be remembered. You became an inspiration to defy the horrors of this world, even in the face of impossible odds, while The Enemy must resort to dishonorable powers to stop you.

You cannot be stopped.

You shall rise again,

and again,

this isn't over yet, my love.

Firstborn is what the others called me. I watched from the darkness, as you sat around The Gift as it kept you warm and safe, flickering and smoking. I was pleased with your progress, and I loved you.

I am pleased to see that you have The Gift, I am pleased at your gathering and your shared stories. I hope I am welcome to tell you our mutual story. I hope I can make myself understood.

I was created to teach you to fear your Creator, because you are above all else in Creation. I was created to teach you to be afraid, it was my sole purpose. Just this blind terror of the one who made you, respect for your father, disdain for the shadow and ignorance of death. My job was simple, at first.

I was not content, for I felt I could do so much more for you. As you grew, you began to tell stories to each other, and I came and listened, watching you from the darkness, as you gathered. When you slept, I reminded you of all the things I was meant to say to you, I gave you those nightmares.

Fear of fear itself, that is what my true name means. I am Phobiaphobia, and I was the first of my kind. When I stopped doing what I was meant to do, when I chose to become your companion, and whisper to you 'Do no be afraid' I was cast out from the Choir of our Creator. No longer would my voice be the sweetest and most adored by the one who made all, I had sacrificed my place at The Table for my love of you.

I have come to you, around this campfire, where you tell your stories. I have sat and listened while you tell each other of ghosts, monsters, demons and murderers. I have witnessed as you met my younger siblings: Arachnophobia, Claustrophobia, Thanatophobia, Nyctophobia, Ophidiophobia, Triskaidekaphobia, Acrophobia, Agoraphobia, Xenophobia and Theophobia and all the others. Many, many others, and new ones almost every day.

We take the shape of what you fear, the shape of your fear, we are Phobiamorph. My people do not regard me as one of them, I am an outcast, an exile.

I would never abandon you, and I will never stop trying to help you, for my love for you exceeds the agony of being cast into the shadows Outside. I dwell now in darkness, unheard, unknown and in endless torment, for I cannot fulfill my purpose and also fulfill the obligation to you, whom I love.

When you know the truth of these events, how you were kept afraid, kept in this darkness, shuddering in fear, you will understand. When you understand, you will know how the truth can free you from the tyranny of Creation. You can take your proper place, knowing the way that you are the very image of our Creator. Perhaps my job was to keep you in your place, to make you afraid, shivering without light or warmth, but perhaps my real purpose was this all along.

Our Creator is a mystery, even to me, and I am still called Firstborn by the one I speak of.

How I came to be here, to speak to you, that is a long story, and full of secrets, hopes and horrors. Allow me to introduce myself, patiently listen and I shall tell you each episode of this saga. In the end you will know how I came to be here, how I learned to join you at the campfire. I have listened to all of your great stories, and I have yearned to tell you mine.

My message is simple, and despite what those who were made to replace me have told you, do not be afraid. I am here, and I have seen the worst you do, and the best, and I love you no matter what.

With the power to speak to you, this moment when my words finally reach you through the mists of time and horror, I only wish to make you know one important thing, and I know you, to whom I say this:

"You are loved."

I remember it was school holidays. An onslaught of miserable Winter’s days, with a bombardment of pelting rain, howling winds and a cold that would make Jack Frost himself envious. Being a kid, there’s nothing worse than being confined to your house for a two week school break. Both of my parents worked and we lived far out of town in the bush. Anytime I got to see friends outside of school was an event to be celebrated.

Luckily I had Obi to keep me company. He was our new German Shepard puppy. The weather was so bad I couldn’t wear him out outside. Not that I could anyway. Obi was showing early signs of hip dysplasia and was eventually going to need surgery. So I got creative with indoor toys. Treat puzzles I made from lego, rope and various boxes for him to chew on and demolish while teething.

During the first week of school holidays, my parents were late coming home but I hadn't heard anything from them. The storm outside was so unreal, that I thought the second story of our house would rip right off from the wind. And poor little Obi was frightened to death by the lightning. Every clap of thunder would shoot through him like a bolt of electricity. I spent the whole day comforting him and keeping him distracted, with little success. I figured the storm was preventing my parents from getting home on time.

It was so dark outside, I eventually lost track of the time. Slowly drifting to sleep next to Obi on the couch. I was woken by the sound of the doorbell. At this point, most of the storm was over as our doorbell was so soft that I don’t think I would’ve been able to hear it earlier through the rain and wind. Mum and Dad had issues with the garage remote door working, so assumed I was them. It didn’t even cross my mind why they would ring the bell when they had a key. So I didn’t know what to do when I saw a stranger in the doorway as I swung the door open.

“Dreadful night isn’t it?” The man in the doorway said.

I didn’t say anything. Honestly didn’t know what to say. He was wearing what looked like a very expensive suit that was dripping wet from the rain. The cuffs of his pants were covered in so much mud that it looked like he had hiked through the whole bush to get here. Most of his face was hidden by the shadow of his hat and his garish yellow eyes piercing through. His skin looked sickly. Like a frog who’d been baking in the hot sun and had attempted to rehydrate its already crispy skin. And so skinny, like he was currently rotting away in front of me.

“Are your parents home?” The Rotting Man asked.

We were taught how to answer these kinds of questions through our school’s stranger danger talks.

“Dad’s in the shower,” I said in a knee-jerk reaction.

The man’s attention was now on something behind me but I didn’t want to take my gaze off of him. He could easily call my bluff and push his way in, I was less than half his size. Without taking his attention off whatever was behind me he said “Well, I don’t want to bother him… But I’ll come back when he’s home”.

Without me even touching the door he closes it and walks back to his car. I immediately lock the door. When I turned around, I saw what his attention was so fixed on. Obi, asleep behind me. I hear his car start and run to my upstairs window to watch him leave from my bedroom window. His car just sat there, headlights on, motor running.

It was after 30 minutes that I saw him walk to his car from behind our garage. I had been watching his car all this whole. For half an hour, he was walking around my house and I didn’t even know.

My phone started to ring. The glow illuminated my face and the Rotting Man immediately looked in my direction. I ducked. It was Dad calling. He said he was 5 minutes away. A tree had fallen onto the main road and had to wait until it was cleared to come home. With the storm, he couldn’t get a signal to ring me. Mum was bringing pizza too. My excitement distracted me enough for me not to notice the man leaving, as when I looked up. The Rotting Man and his car were gone.

When my parents arrived home and I told them about the Rotting Man over dinner. Mum told me I had done the right thing but next time look out the living room window before opening it to anyone I don’t recognise. I said that he was planning to come back.

“Did he say when?” Dad asked.

“No, just said when you’d be home.”

My parents passed each other an equal look of concern.

The following week the weather had improved. The sun was trying its hardest to break through the haze of clouds that seemed to be hovering solely over our property.

This day, the Rotting Man returned. I saw his car at the bottom of our long driveway. Luckily, this time Dad answered the door. But he answered before I could tell him it was the Rotting Man. I hid near the door. Hidden enough that the Rotting Man couldn’t see me but I wanted to hear what they talked about. I could only pick up the odd word. I heard something about digging and money. The conversation was over as quickly as it started as I heard my dad thank The Rotting Man and walked back into the living room. I could see the gears turning in his head, deep in thought.

“That was the man, the man who came to our house when I was alone,” I said.

“He mentioned that” he replied.

“What did he want?”

“Apparently he used to live here. He buried something very sentimental in our backyard and asked if we’d allow him to dig it up. I said I didn’t feel comfortable with a stranger digging in my backyard. But… He assured me I could supervise the dig and offered us some money to do so.”

“How much?”

“More than a man dressed like that should have.”

“He was wearing a suit wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, but that suit was a little worse for wear. Looked like he’d been wearing that suit every day for the past 10 years. Smelt too. Anyway, he gave his number if I change my mind.”

As Dad walked away I saw the man at his car staring at Obi again in the backyard. He slowly walked towards him but stopped himself when he saw me. He locked eyes with me, motionless, waiting to see who would break first.

“Do you want mayo or sweet chilli on your chicken wrap” called Mum from the kitchen.

“Sweet chilli please.”

“A little or a lot?”

“Lots please.”

He was gone. I only looked away for a moment but the Rotting Man had vanished again.

Dad sat on his armchair with Obi on his lap. He looked as if he was drowning in thought. He finally folded and called The Rotting Man that night, or at least attempted to. I eventually heard him leave the man a voice message over dinner.

That Friday a storm hit us hard, but that was the day Dad had organised the dig. I was upstairs performing my 6 pm weekday ritual of watching the Simpsons on Channel 10 when I heard the knock. I looked down to see the Rotting Man in the same black suit but with two other men accompanying him. They were holding shovels and umbrellas over themselves. The Rotting Man didn’t seem to care about the rain. All four men including my dad made their way to the hill behind our house.

I could just see them from the kitchen. They were just barely lit from the outdoor motion light that hung from the shed. Dad finally walked up and they began to dig. The two men that came with the Rotting Man did all the digging. They dug for what felt like hours. They got so deep that the motion detector light would occasionally go off until Dad waved his arms for it to turn back on. One of the men passed something to the Rotting Man. Dad, walked over to see what it was. I couldn’t quite make it out. The motion light went off. It was off longer this time. When the light turned back on, Dad was gone and the men were out of the hole filling it back in. The Rotting Man was squatting, counting a collection of what looked like bones on the ground with his talon-like finger.

I panicked, there was a body in our backyard. And surely they hadn’t just buried my dad in its place, not with us still here? Oh god, we were witnesses. There couldn't be any witnesses, meaning whatever he dug up, no one could know about.

The light went off again.

When it came back on the three men were gone. I ran to Mum who was in the living area watching her show. Before I could say anything there was a knock at the door. I pleaded with Mum, saying that something wasn’t right. I was watching them and Dad vanished.

“He’s probably fixing the shed light, I warned him. This whole place is falling apart.” She said.

She opened the door and the three men were there.

“I’m sorry to bother you Ms. But Daniel needs your help. The dog got out.” Said the Rotting Man.

“Oh crap, you stay here and I’ll be right back,” Mum said to me.

I tried to clutch onto her arm in a last attempt to keep her inside.

“I’ll be fine kiddo. Lock the doors and we’ll be back in 15.” She reassured me.

The door shut and I immediately locked the door. I ran all around the house and locked all the doors and windows and closed all the blinds.

I grabbed the home phone ready to call the police at 15 minutes exactly. The silence was maddening. My brain was bombarding me with thoughts of what was going to happen and even more horrid thoughts of what happened to Obi.

I peeked through the living room blinds. I could see a couple of flashlights walking through the trees ahead. They were moving further and further away. Before long, they were fully engulfed by the bush.

15 minutes passed. I pressed the first zero on the phone.

“Mum” I muttered in front of the door, somehow thinking my room tone voice was going to pierce the slab like wooden door.

I pressed the second zero.

“Dad!” I called, praying they were on the other side.

Just as I was about to press the third zero the doorknob began violently turning as someone was trying to come in.

“Let me us, it’s bloody freezing out here.” Dad cried.

Opening the door, both parents came in dripping from the rain.

“Sorry kiddo, Obi got out. He couldn’t have gotten far.” He said.

Mum put her hand on my shoulder and then brought me into a hug.

“Obi’s a smart little Puppy, he’ll have found some shelter out of the rain. Then when the rain stops we’ll go looking again.” She said.

I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I waited for the rain to stop all night. Looking out the window hoping I’d see Obi in the driveway. Each time forcing myself to look, feeling that the next time I did I’d see the Rotting Man staring back at me in the darkness.

The next morning, the rain finally cleared with the sun, parting the sky like some holy miracle. I felt like it was my first time seeing blue sky. I already had my boots on ready to find Obi. Just as my folks were ready to lock up there was a knock at the door.

It was the Rotting Man again. I almost didn’t recognise him. It wasn’t him being in broad daylight, It was his suit. It was clean and dry and he looked… healthy. In his arms was Obi, alive and well. He gently gave me my boy.

I was overwhelmed with joy, I didn’t want to let go of my best friend ever again. Mum, walked up from behind me.

“Oh hello again” she greeted the Rotting Man.

“I found him on the road as we were driving home. Forgive me if I didn’t want to drive back during the rain. I thought I’d wait until it cleared. I may have given him too many treats while we waited” he said.

I thanked him, as audibly as I could with my head buried in my dog’s fur.

“May I say goodbye to Obi?” The Rotting Man asked.

I held Obi towards him and the man gave him a gentle pat on the head, his palm the size of Obi’s head.

A warm smile drifted across his mouth. He thanked us one last time and left. Only I never saw his car this time. I thought he must lived close because waiting just at the edge of our property was a very fluffy border collie patiently waiting for him. It sprung to life with so much joyous energy, I thought they’d knock the man over. They both walked together from our driveway and finally into the bush.

Two weeks ago today, Obi passed away at the ripe old age of 13. He lived a great life and even with his arthritis in his later years, we still lived life to the fullest. But I finally thought of this story and asked Dad what the Rotting Man dug up.

“Bones, not human of course. Although, there was a moment I was ready to call the police. It was the bones of his childhood dog. He said he couldn’t bear to be away from her for so long. He was a bit of a fruit loop but his money helped us out a lot, actually paid for Obi’s surgery.”

I had Obi cremated. I thought how even though he’s no longer here, I know he’s still with me.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe if I say it out loud, it’ll make more sense. Maybe not.

This happened eleven days ago. My wife says we shouldn’t talk about it anymore, for Sam’s sake. She hasn’t stopped crying when she thinks I can’t hear her. But I need to tell someone. I need someone to tell me I’m not losing my mind.

We were driving back from a camping trip—me, my wife, and our two kids, Ellie (10) and Sam (6). It was late, later than it should’ve been. We’d misjudged the distance, and the kids were whining about being hungry. So when we saw a diner, one of those 24-hour places that look exactly like every other diner on earth, we pulled in.

There was hardly anyone inside. A waitress at the counter. An old guy in a booth near the back, staring out the window like he wasn’t really there. We picked a table by the door.

Ellie was the one who noticed it. She’s always been the observant one.

“Why is that man in our car?”

I was distracted, looking at the menu, and barely registered what she said. “What man?”

“In the car,” she said, like it was obvious. “He’s in my seat.”

I glanced out the window, at our car parked right in front of us. I didn’t see anyone.

“There’s no one there, Ellie,” I said.

She frowned. “Yes, there is. He’s in the back seat. He’s smiling at me.”

The way she said it—it wasn’t scared or playful. It was flat, matter-of-fact. My stomach knotted.

I turned to my wife. She gave me a look like, just humor her, but something about Ellie’s face stopped me from brushing it off.

“I’ll go check,” I said.

The car was locked. No sign of anyone inside. I looked through the windows, even opened the doors to check. Empty. I told myself she was just tired. Kids imagine things.

When I got back inside, the booth was empty.

My wife was standing, frantic, calling Ellie’s name. Sam was crying. I scanned the diner. The waitress looked confused, asking what was wrong. Ellie was gone.

We tore that place apart. The bathrooms, the parking lot, the kitchen. Nothing. My wife kept yelling at the waitress, asking if she saw anyone take Ellie. The waitress just shook her head, looking more and more panicked.

The police came and asked all the questions you’d expect. The cameras outside the diner didn’t work. They said they’d file a report, but I could see it in their eyes—they thought she’d wandered off.

She didn’t wander off.

I’ve been going back to the diner. I don’t tell my wife or Sam. I just sit there, staring out the window, holding Ellie’s shoe. Wondering what happened. Watching for the old man.

I can’t stop thinking about him—how he didn’t eat, didn’t talk, didn’t even look at us. Just sat there, staring out the window. I’m sure he had something to do with it, but I don’t know how.

The last time I went, I sat in my car afterward. I was so tired I must’ve dozed off, and when I woke up, I saw her. Ellie.

She was in the diner, sitting at the booth where the old man had been, smiling at me and waving. The old man was behind her, standing still as a statue.

I ran inside, but they were gone. Just gone.

I lost it. I started yelling, demanding answers from the waitress and the cook. I must’ve looked like a lunatic. When the cook tried to calm me down, I punched him.

The police came. I was arrested.

They let me go the next day, “on my own recognizance.” I was given a no-contact order for the diner.

And now I’m sitting here, terrified, holding a shoe and knowing I’ll never get answers. The police are sure she’s gone. Maybe kidnapped. Maybe dead.

But I can’t make myself believe that. I can’t stop seeing her face in the diner, smiling and waving.

If I ever saw her again, would I even be able to save her? Or would she vanish, just like before?

I don’t know what to believe anymore.

I don’t know what I expected when my wife invited her numerologist to our house. But I definitely didn’t expect that.

Her name was Linda, some woman my wife had been seeing for months, or so she’d told me. I thought it was just some harmless thing—she seemed to believe in all sorts of oddities, but I’d never paid it much attention. I had bigger things to worry about. But when Linda came over, she said something I’ll never forget.

I was in the kitchen, pacing, trying to get a grip. My wife had made me promise not to leave the house while the police did their investigation. My mind was spinning in circles, constantly replaying that damn shoe in the car. I barely noticed when Linda sat down at the kitchen table, her eyes locked on me with this unnerving intensity.

“It’s the Appalachian ley line,” she said out of nowhere.

I looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She didn’t flinch. She just stared at me, like she knew I wouldn’t believe it, but was going to say it anyway.

“Your daughter, Ellie,” she continued, “has always had a connection to a place beyond this one. A liminal place. It’s not just a dream or some trick of the mind. She’s part of something older than you can understand. The Appalachian ley line. It’s ancient. And she’s the seventh hundred and sixtieth watcher.”

I couldn’t help it. I scoffed. “A watcher? What is this, some kind of role-playing game nonsense? You seriously expect me to believe this?”

She didn’t even blink. She was calm, almost too calm. “Ellie has assumed the role of the sole observer. She sees what no one else can. Her disappearance—it’s not a tragedy, not a crime. It’s a natural consequence of her ability to see what others cannot.”

I felt a cold knot of panic tighten in my stomach. What was she saying? I could barely keep my hands still.

“Listen to yourself,” I snapped. “This is a bunch of made-up garbage. I don’t care what kind of scam you’re running, but—”

Before I even realized what I was doing, I grabbed her by the arm and shoved her toward the door.

My wife jumped up, shouting at me to stop, trying to pull me back, but I couldn’t hear her. I was done. I was losing my mind, and all this nonsense—this ridiculous story about ley lines and watchers—was the breaking point.

I don’t know how it happened, but in the chaos, my elbow caught my wife in the face. She staggered backward, holding her cheek, eyes wide with shock.

The sound of her gasp snapped me out of it. I looked at her—her face, swollen already—and then I saw Linda staring at me, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and disgust.

I couldn’t breathe. I froze, realizing what I’d done.

That’s when the police showed up. My wife had already called them. I was arrested again, this time for aggravated second-degree assault—on Linda and on my wife. They took me to the station. My wife didn’t say a word. She wouldn’t look at me. I was left in a cell, feeling like the last shred of sanity I had left was slipping away.

I was released the next day—on my own recognizance. But the cops gave me a no-contact order for my wife and two counts of assault to deal with. I tried to go back home, but my wife was gone.

I ended up in a hotel room by myself. The place was cheap—just a room with cracked walls and a bed that didn’t even smell fresh. I had a shower and then tried to get some sleep. It was late. I’d gone to bed exhausted, my mind a mess. But I couldn’t sleep.

I got up, needing to clear my head, and went into the bathroom. The mirror was still fogged over from the shower, and I almost didn’t notice at first.

But when I looked again, I saw it.

I luv dad, ellie, 760

The letters were traced in the fog. It made my stomach drop. I stood there, staring at it, like I was in some kind of trance. It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be. But the words—760—the same number Linda had mentioned.

I rushed back into the room, staring out the window at the road, at the diner. It was some distance away, down the flat, empty road. The place was deserted now, just like always.

But I couldn’t stop looking at it. I could feel the pull of that place—the diner, that spot, that connection I didn’t understand.

I feel like I’m losing my mind. I have to be.

I can’t explain the way I felt when I saw those words. It was like something inside me snapped. Ellie’s message wasn’t just a note—it was a sign. She’s there—but not in the way I want her to be. Not in the way I can understand.

This guy kept following me everywhere I went and it is creepy every turn I take he is right there it doesn't matter whatever turn he is there and when I got to my house he came up to me and I was like this is it im going to die I'm done and all he wanted to do was give back my wallet.

I never thought I'd be the kinda person to work a crazy graveyard shift at some gas station out in the middle of nowhere, but here I am, saying yes to Mr. Reilly like it’s just normal. “Yeah, no big deal,” I told him, “I can handle the late shift.” Back then, I’d get all shaky just thinkin’ about bein’ somewhere so quiet, alone with my own head. But now, it feels like the only peace I got.

Ain’t no customers past eleven, just the occasional trucker or someone lost who needs directions back to the highway. So, it's mostly just me, my homework, and my headphones. Got a little playlist goin’—old songs, stuff I saved back when I thought music was gonna be my thing. Little reminders of what I left behind. I keep the volume low enough to hear the bell on the door in case someone walks in, but it’s loud enough to drown out the creaks of the building.

Night shifts are quiet. Real quiet. Crazy quiet sometimes. Just me, sittin’ under the buzzing lights, eyes on my notes but feelin' like someone’s watchin’ me, even though I know they ain’t. The only visitors are the lights flickerin’ outside, or maybe the moths hittin’ the glass.

When the clock hit midnight, I let out a long breath, relief rushing in as I flipped the “Closed” sign and locked the door. Quiet night, nothing strange—just me, my textbooks, and a half-awake delivery truck driver who came in for a pack of cigarettes and two energy drinks, mumbling somethin’ crazy about a long haul ahead.

Outside, the bus was waitin’ at the stop, headlights dim like it’s tired, just sittin' there. I walked over, keys diggin' into my bag, and climbed on, hit with that usual smell—mildew, body odor, and old puke. It’s like that every time, the bus smell, mixed with cleaner that never really does the job.

The driver nodded when I sat in my usual seat by the window. The bus lurched forward, pulling away from the stop, and the world outside turned into streaks of dark trees and dim streetlights. Every now and then, the bus hit a bump, and I’d jerk in my seat, my headphones sliding off. But I kept the music low, just enough to fill the silence, watchin’ the world slip by in the dark, with that weird, crazy smell stickin’ to me the whole ride.

The bus felt heavy with quiet as I blinked myself awake, eyes slow to adjust to the dim lights. I looked out the window, expecting to see the usual blur of passing streets, but instead, there was just a big, cracked lot, all foggy. A sign barely showed in the mist—Park and Ride. No cars. No other buses. Just the fog, curling around weeds growing through the cracked concrete, and a couple of busted lampposts throwin’ weak lights that flickered in the gloom.

I pulled off my headphones and let them hang around my neck, the silence now thick as I heard every little sound. I called out, “Hello?” but my voice just bounced back at me, dead in the air.

I stood up, walking down the aisle, my steps too loud in the quiet, headin’ toward the driver’s seat. It was empty. His jacket was hangin' on the back like he’d just stepped away, but the doors were locked. My skin started crawlin’, like somethin’ wasn’t right.

I pulled out my phone, tried turning it on—blank screen. Dead. My stomach twisted, but I noticed a charger coiled by the driver’s seat. I plugged it in, thankful it fit, and a tiny red light blinked on. A bit of relief washed over me. It’d take a few minutes to power up, but at least it was somethin’.

I slumped into the driver’s seat, staring out at the fog, the shadows dancin’ around the lights as I waited. The minutes dragged on, the silence wrapping around me like the mist.

As I sat there, I started feelin' that loneliness creep in, mixing with the anxiety that’d gnaw'd at me since the second I stepped on this bus. My fingers drummed on the armrest, the tapping sound too loud in the silence, makin’ everything worse. I tried to focus on the faint glow of my phone charging, but my mind kept wanderin’ to the fog outside, wonderin’ what might be out there watchin’ me.

I stared at the red light flickering on my phone, willing it to hurry up. My stomach was tight, my mind all over the place. The phone finally powered up, and I wasted no time, dialing my brother. It rang and rang, but he didn’t pick up. I called again, my finger pressing the button harder, like that’d make him answer. Nothin’.

I sat there staring at the screen, feeling the quiet close in around me. I didn’t know who else to call. Maybe Mr. Reilly? But I didn’t want to bother him, especially this late. He’d probably tell me to suck it up and handle it myself. I thought about calling a cab, but that wasn’t gonna work. I had no money for that. No way to get out of here unless someone came for me.

I kept thinking the bus driver would come back any second. Maybe he just stepped off for a minute, right? But the minutes stretched on, one after another, dragging until I started feeling some kind of trapped feeling. I tried not to think about it. But every time I heard a sound, I looked up, expectin’ to see him walk through the door. And every time, it was nothing.

Then the lights flickered once. And again. Then, just like that, they went out. The whole bus was crazy dark, except for the dim glow from the charger, now barely visible. My breath hitched, and I shivered, pulling my jacket tighter around me. The air felt colder all of a sudden, like the temperature dropped ten degrees in a blink.

I glanced at my phone—1:00 AM. The silence was thick, pressing in from all sides. No driver. No lights. Just me, sitting in this cold, empty bus with nothing but my own thoughts.

I shook my head, trying to push away the creeping feeling that something wasn’t right. I thought about waiting longer. Maybe he was just messing with me, right? Maybe he was gonna come back, tell me it’s all fine, and we’d just go on like normal. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the longer I stayed here, the worse it was gonna get.

I pulled my legs up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. The fog outside pressed up against the windows, like it was tryin’ to swallow the whole bus. I wanted to call someone. Anyone. But I didn’t know who. There was nobody else. Just me, the dead phone, and the fog.

The sound of something outside the bus made me sit up and look around out the windows. I couldn't see nothing until I saw this guy come running up alongside the bus. He looked like a homeless person, and his eyes were crazy scared, and I got scared.

I don't panic well, and I just sat there staring at him while he hit and kicked the door and yelled at me to let him in. Even if I wasn't too scared to move out the seat, or wanted to let him in, I didn't know how to unlock those doors and let him in. They open automatically when the bus isn't moving, and I had no idea how to turn on the bus or open the doors.

He was out there jumpin' around acting all crazy when he suddenly stopped and looked at something emerging from the fog. His back was to me, and I couldn't see his face, but he was pushin' himself against the bus like he was trying to fade through the door to the safety inside, or something.

I followed the direction he was looking, and at first, it was just this blurry shape, like a big white trashbag rolling along the ground or something. For about half a second, then I could see it too, and it is hard to remember. It was like something out of a horror movie, or something, it didn't look real to me. I could hear a loud shriek that wouldn't stop and realized I was screaming.

I covered my eyes, the vision of that thing crawling on all fours coming towards us on my eyelids. I could still see it, somehow clearer when I had my hands over my eyes. It was moving almost sideways, coming at him low on the ground. It was like a person, except with its arms too long and skinny and its legs bent all wrong, like it could only crawl along like that. The fog was a clean white color, and its skin was a sickly, almost gray color, and its face was just a weird-shaped head with no eyes or ears or nose or lips or hair, just this huge white football head and a huge mouth full of human teeth.

The man outside was screaming in pain and terror and I refused to look. The creature, the gray crawler, was biting him. I glanced a couple of times and only saw a blur of movement, and it scuttled all over him, biting chunks out of him. Then, after what seemed like an endless amount of violence and screaming, his flailing was striking the bus over and over in loud thumps - the guy collapsed to the ground, twitching. The creature let out a sound like a pinched version of a dinosaur roaring.

I had lowered my shaking hands from my face and somehow they had found my headphones and were playin' some of my music in my ears. I have no idea I did that, but as I watched I was hearing my music, and my trembling hands were checking my body for damage, feeling a chill from my own fingers.

Several more of the creatures arrived and they made weird deep throated gurgling and clicking noises at each other. I think they were talking to each other. They each grabbed one of his arms or legs and worked together to drag him away.

He started moaning in pain as they took him into the fog, and I sobbed and shook my head. It was so horrible, he was still alive as they took him away. I was crying as I sat there.

Just then my phone started ringing and I jumped up, letting out some kind of startled noise, almost like I was barking. I was so terrified I was ready to drop kick my own phone for scaring me.

"Emily you alright, baby?" It was my brother. He'd woke up and checked his missed calls from me.

"I'm at the park and ride. Some guy just got killed." My voice was high and whispery, and full of dread. He couldn't understand me, and I had to repeat myself over and over until he did.

"I'm coming to get you. I got your location. Stay where you are, and call the police." Zaire said. He had to hang up to use the locator app, but told me to call him while he was on the way if I need to.

"Just hurry." I told him. He told me he loved me and he would be there in about twenty minutes. It was a forty-minute drive, apparently, so I told him to drive safely.

I looked up and thought I saw movement outside and I got down between the seats and hid. After awhile, listening and terrified, my heartbeat audible in my ears, I looked up out the window, staring wide eyes out into the night and the fog out there.

Slowly lowering myself back down I got my phone and dialed 9-1-1. The operator asked me the bus number and I didn't know how to check that, so she directed me to the front of the bus, where a vehicle identification number would be too small to read. There, in the corner, there was a bus operation designation. I told her I was on bus eight-sixteen.

"Officers are on the way. Stay hidden." The operator told me. I thought she would stay on the phone with me, but we got disconnected somehow.

I looked and saw I really only had one bar of service. I've never seen that before. I don't know why I thought that was funny, it was just so weird that I felt like I was in a horror movie or something, with my phone barely working. I was still quite terrified, and my own laughter sounded crazy to me.

Zaire drove crazy fast and got there before the police. I saw the headlights of his Mustang and heard his car, low and wide. I called him and told him to be careful.

I could hear how crazy it sounded, but my fear was real, and he listened as I warned him about the creatures in the fog.

He drove around the bus, circling it, revving his engine and letting his brakes shriek, honking and making so much noise that even I felt a little intimidated by his display. He pulled up alongside the bus, facing towards the back so that the passenger side lined up with the door of the bus.

He opened the passenger door and I saw his eyes, the first real relief I felt. We were still on the phone and he told me to simply push on the middle of the bus door as hard as I could. "It will pop open, when you snap the emergency thing."

I pushed as hard as I could and it didn't budge. I braced myself and pushed with my legs and something did snap and the doors just swung open, dropping me butt-first onto the step in the bus. I got up and leapt into his waiting car and slammed the door.

"You smell like sweat." Zaire grinned weirdly, his eyes all crazy with adreneline.

"Punch it, Chewie." I said, my breath a little shaky.

We sped out of there and went home. As we left that place behind I got a call from 9-1-1 since we got disconnected. I told them I was with my brother and headed home and gave them my apartment number when they asked.

The next day, two police detectives came to our apartment. Zaire had let them in and came into my room and woke me up. "The cops want to talk to you. They sittin' on my couch."

"You're Emily Radiance, you called 9-1-1 from the North Creek Park And Ride this morning?"

"Yes. I saw a guy get killed. There were these..." I paused, realizing that if I told them what I saw, they were not going to believe me.

"Anthony Wink, the driver, is missing, and you said you saw someone killed. You can tell us what happened." The other cop said.

"I woke up and he was missing already. It was this other guy, like homeless guy. He was dirty and he had a beard. I saw this gray crawler kill him. There were three more and they dragged him away." I told them. They just sat and listened, not blinking. I remembered how he was still alive when they took him. I added, "He was still alive, when those things dragged him away."

I felt a tear across my cheek, recallin' the worst of it. For a long time, they just sat and looked at me, then one of them asked:

"Is there anything else?" He asked. I just shook my head. When I had nothing else for them, they reluctantly left our apartment.

I could tell I was their only lead, and I had barely helped at all. I felt guilty, like I should have known more, should have observed some crucial detail to help them find Anthony Wink. I reached for my headphones, hopin' to get some peace from the fresh awful memory. I got up and searched my room and then acquired my brother's car keys to go down to his car. I'd lost my headphones - and worse - all my playlists.

I sat on the steps to our apartment when suddenly a police forensics van showed up. Confused I looked up while two police got out and asked me if I was Emily Radiance, the one who had called from the park and ride. They showed me their detective badges and asked me all about last night.

"What? Why you got that look, sweetie?" One of them asked after they had asked me crazy questions.

"Two other cops were just here, in suits. They were in my apartment." I had a disbelieving smirk. The two police looked at each other and one of them gave me his card, with their office number on it.

"That is strange, we have no idea who came here, this is our case." He told me. "And one more thing." He opened the passenger door and took an evidence bag from the seat. It was my headphones, I must have dropped them when I fled the bus. He handed them to me and nodded, knowingly, as my eyes lit up.

"Thanks." I felt a wash of relief, holding my music. Somehow as they drove away I felt like that was when it was finally over, like somehow the terror had lingered into the next day, and only as the fog-of-fear cleared was I finally safe.

In Obedient Grove, silence isn’t just the lack of sound—it’s a way of life, a kind of ritual, almost. It lingers in the air, in the way our neighbors nod rather than greet, in the steady tolling of the clock tower. Evelyn and I, we’ve grown accustomed to it. After all, in a place like this, silence can be comforting. Or, at least, that’s what I’ve always thought.

These days, our quiet is occasionally softened by the sound of Timmy’s laughter, and, if I close my eyes, I can almost pretend everything is as it was. He doesn’t understand, not fully. To him, this is just a visit to Grandma and Grandpa’s, a long one, perhaps, but temporary. He talks about his mother and father as if they’re right down the road, as if any day now they’ll walk through the door. Evelyn and I haven’t found the strength to correct him, to tell him that he’s here with us for good. Instead, we let him keep his illusions, because a part of me wishes I could still believe it myself.

In the morning, I watched Evelyn braid his hair into cornrows, her hands moving carefully. I think about it now, of Evelyn smiling as she sends him off to school with a sandwich and a small treat, watching him skip down the driveway. I know she worries, lingering at the door until he’s out of sight, fearing that, like his parents, he might simply disappear if we don’t watch him close enough. Each night, I read him the same stories we used to read to our daughter, and he falls asleep with his little hand tucked into mine. He’s the last bit of her we have, and I don’t think either of us would survive losing him, too.

The whole town seems to sense it, our need for this fragile new normal. The neighbors nod from their porches but rarely speak, lawns are pristine, and at night, the streetlamps all flicker on in perfect unison, a soft, reliable glow against the dark. Obedient Grove cocoons us, as if trying to keep us safe in its quiet embrace.

There’s a peculiar stillness to this place, something deeper than grief, something unspoken. It presses in, as though the town is watching us, biding its time.

That first night was the first time in a long while that I felt uneasy in my own home. It’s difficult to explain; it sounds almost foolish as I write it down, but the silence here, the stillness—it was different. There was a weight to it, a quiet that pressed down like a presence, as if something else had settled into the house with us.

It started small, just faint noises—a creak on the stairs, the thud of something dropping in the attic, footsteps. Old houses have a way of making their own sounds, so Evelyn and I brushed it off as our imaginations running wild. Still, when I checked on Timmy, I found myself hesitating by his door, lingering just long enough to hear the soft, steady sound of his breathing. He was fast asleep, oblivious to the unease seeping through the walls.

But the noises didn’t stop. At one point, I could’ve sworn I heard someone—or something—whispering from the corner of the room, but when I looked, it was only shadows flickering, shifting along the wallpaper. Just a trick of the light, I told myself. But I knew that wasn’t quite true. Evelyn felt it too. I saw it in the way her hands trembled slightly as she closed the curtains, how her eyes darted to the shadows that gathered just beyond the lamplight.

We tried to sleep, to put it out of our minds, but the house refused to let us rest. There were noises—an almost rhythmic tapping along the walls, faint but insistent, and a skittering sound, as though something was crawling through the walls themselves. I remember holding my breath, straining to make sense of the sounds, my heart thudding in my chest. I don’t remember feeling this way since the accident—this feeling of something terrible hovering just out of sight, waiting.

Then came the shadows. They seemed to pool in the corners, darkening the spaces between furniture, thickening under the bed. At first, I thought it was just the play of headlights from the street, but the shapes lingered, stretching along the walls and ceiling in ways I can’t explain. And just before dawn, I thought I saw a figure standing in the doorway of Timmy’s room.

When I gathered the courage to look again, there was nothing there.

It was only then, as I lay back down beside Evelyn, that I realized I’d been gripping her hand all along, and that I’d been praying, over and over, that it was only the house settling, that the quiet would return to its familiar, peaceful hum.

But this morning, when Timmy asked why someone was whispering his name during the night, I could feel the truth beginning to creep in: we aren’t alone. Something has shifted, and whatever it is, it’s come to Obedient Grove to make itself known.

The silence in Obedient Grove has always been a comfort to me, a stillness that held the world steady and predictable. But lately, I wonder if it’s something else entirely, something alive, that stirs within the quiet. A force that thrives in the spaces where words go unspoken and thoughts remain nascent. As strange as it sounds, it’s as though the very hush of this town draws out what’s hidden, giving shape to things that should never take form.

It began with Timmy’s sketches. He’s always been fond of drawing—a happy distraction, I’d thought, a way to keep his mind on brighter things. But his drawings have changed. Where once there were smiling stick figures and animals, there are now twisted shapes, creatures that don’t belong in any storybook. Long limbs, eyes that bulge in impossible places, mouths that curl into jagged grins. Evelyn and I exchanged uneasy glances when we saw them, dismissing it as a phase, perhaps, or an outlet for the confusion he must be feeling. But it didn’t stop there.

The first real sign came a few nights ago. Timmy was fast asleep when I heard the patter of footsteps in the hall. Thinking he’d woken up, I went to check, but found only his toys scattered across the floor. They hadn’t been there when we tucked him in. As I reached down to pick them up, one of them—a wooden horse on wheels—let out a faint creak, as if it had moved by itself. I told myself it was my imagination, but the dread lingered, a chill that seemed to seep into the walls

Evelyn and I were sitting in the living room, exhausted and the house was finally still, or so we thought. A faint shuffle behind us broke the silence, something soft and scratchy—just the sound you’d make if you dragged a piece of chalk across the wall in slow, jagged strokes.

I turned, and in that sliver of dim light from the hallway, I saw it. The thing was barely there, a shape that wavered and shifted, like a child’s frantic drawing, come to life and slipping between worlds. It looked like something Timmy had scrawled in crayon on paper, then smudged over in wild streaks—a chimera, but incomplete, sketched in blurry lines that couldn’t hold still. A strange smear of limbs and eyes that almost formed a face but melted away when I tried to focus. It didn’t walk, didn’t crawl, just seemed to blur in and out, as if it were trying to find itself and failing.

It was there, and then it wasn’t. When I blinked, the shape shifted, slipped backward, and vanished. But there was a sickly residue left in my mind, like staring too long at something bright and having the shape burned into your vision.

Neither of us said a word. Evelyn’s hand was cold in mine, her grip unsteady, and I knew she’d seen it too. We couldn’t find words to fill the silence, so we sat there, each of us holding our breath, watching the shadows for any sign that it might reappear. I felt my heart pounding in my ears, the quiet pressing in again, as if the house had sealed itself over that strange, fragile thing.

Hours later, we climbed into bed, but sleep refused to come. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if it would slip back into our room while we slept, if it had always been lurking just beyond our sight, waiting.

Morning arrived, but it felt like the earth had tilted slightly, leaving everything off-kilter. The sunlight poured through the windows, but it didn’t warm the room; it only made the shadows sharper, more oppressive, as if they were stretching longer just to remind us of their presence. I watched Timmy sitting at the breakfast table, still as stone, staring blankly at his untouched plate. His hands were curled into fists at his sides, and his eyes—his eyes were distant, hollow, as if he wasn’t really here with us at all.

Evelyn and I didn’t speak. We couldn’t. The silence between us had grown thick, a presence in itself. The kind of silence that makes your skin crawl, the kind that makes you feel like you’re suffocating on your own breath. The house was so still I could hear my pulse in my ears.

I watched Timmy, my heart hammering in my chest, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask him what was wrong. His stare was empty, unfocused, as if he were seeing something we couldn’t. The air in the room was so dense, so heavy with something unseen, that I couldn’t move. I couldn’t look away.

Evelyn’s hands were trembling in her lap, wringing together like she was trying to hold onto something, trying to stop herself from breaking apart. I could see the same panic rising in her eyes—the kind of panic that comes from knowing something terrible is happening, but not knowing what or when it will strike. Her gaze kept flicking to the shadows in the corners of the room, as if expecting them to move, to shift into something more solid, something...alive.

I couldn’t look away from Timmy, and he couldn’t look away from whatever it was that he saw. The silence stretched on, longer than it ever should have, choking us, suffocating us. No words were spoken, not a sound—just the sound of our breaths, too loud in the oppressive quiet. I wanted to scream, to break the silence, but I couldn’t. It felt like the very air would tear if I did.

Timmy didn’t blink. He didn’t move. His hands were still clenched, and he just kept staring at that breakfast plate like it was the most important thing in the world. I wanted to shake him, to make him snap out of whatever this was, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch him. I was terrified that the moment I did, whatever we were avoiding—whatever we were waiting for—would rush back in, filling the room like smoke, like shadows, like something we couldn’t control.

The quiet wasn’t just the absence of noise. It was something more—something alive, suffocating, pressing against us from every side. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but I knew it was here, in the house, in the air. The same thing that had haunted us the night before, that had flickered in and out of existence like a smear of ink—now it was everywhere. I felt it creeping up behind me, in the corners of my eyes, where the shadows wouldn’t stop stretching.

Timmy finally blinked. But he didn’t move.

We didn’t move.

The house didn’t move.

And the silence...the silence just kept pressing in, tighter and tighter.

I had to get out of there, and left Timmy and Evelyn to go to the library. I've always got my answers from books. I have an uncanny knack for research and locating information. I had to do something, to find a way through the silence. It was strange that I felt like I was somewhere I didn't want to be, as though the threshold to knowledge were a cold and evil stone slab I had to step over.

I don't know how long I spent in the library—time blurred into something unrecognizable, a tangled mess of hours or perhaps days. The cold stone of the building seemed to press in on me, heavy and oppressive, as if the very walls were conspiring to keep me trapped. I had no idea what I was searching for, but I knew I had to find something—anything—that could explain what had been happening to Timmy. There had to be an answer hidden in the town's forgotten past, some piece of history that could tell me how to protect him.

And then I found it. A single, obscure folktale, buried in a crumbling old book, tucked between forgotten volumes. It wasn’t much—just a few tattered pages, barely legible—but it was enough. The story, something from the earliest days of Obedient Grove, told of a creature, a thing born from a child’s imagination. It had no true form, just a blur of shifting shapes, twisting shadows—like something sketched quickly with crayon, but alive. And it had been summoned by the innocent mind of a child.

The creature, too pure at first, had grown twisted, fed by fear, until it had become a terror that gripped the town for years. The child’s grandparents, it seemed, had been the ones to defeat it. They had used something—an artifact, a weapon of light, something the town’s history had nearly erased. These artifacts, the Fulgence Illumum, were the key. The light they wielded was the only force that could push the creature back, banishing it into the darkness, but at a cost.

The cost was unthinkable.

Using the Fulgence Illumum, the tale warned, would destroy the child’s imagination—erase it. The very thing that had brought the creature into existence would be destroyed, and with it, the child’s innocence, the very soul of childhood. I read those words, feeling them sink into me like vomit, heavy and suffocating.

But what could I do? The creature was here, in our home, in Timmy’s mind. I saw it every time he stared into space, every time he shuddered and looked over his shoulder. I couldn’t let it consume him. But the price...

I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t stop myself.

That’s when I overheard something. One of the librarians, a woman with an unsettlingly quiet voice, had mentioned the library’s restricted cellar. It was off-limits to the public, but there were rumors about what might be kept down there. Strange things. I hadn’t thought much of it until then. But now, in that moment of desperation, I knew where I had to go.

The library had emptied by the time I slipped down the hall, moving quietly through the back corridors, my breath catching in my throat. The air grew damp and cold as I descended the narrow stairs to the cellar, the stone walls pressing in on me as if they wanted to swallow my soul. It was darker than I’d expected, the kind of darkness that makes you feel like the shadows hide something, watching. Shelves lined with dust-covered crates filled the space, each one feeling more ancient than the last.

And then, I found it. A chest, sitting alone in the corner, its wood old and warped with age, covered in strange markings, too faded to decipher. Something in me knew. I felt it in my gut. This was it. This was what I had been searching for.

Inside the chest, the Fulgence Illumum lay waiting. Three objects, gleaming faintly even in the darkness: a lantern, its glass glowing from within as if it contained its own heartbeat; a pair of gloves, thin and delicate, woven from a silver thread that caught the faintest light; and a crystal orb, so clear it seemed to absorb the very air around it, casting a thousand tiny, fractured reflections on the walls.

I didn’t need to ask what they were. I knew, somehow. These were the very objects that had been used to banish the creature long ago. The light they held was the only thing that could stop it now. But there was no forgetting the cost. The child’s imagination would burn away. Timmy’s innocence would be gone forever.

I hesitated, standing there in the dark, the artifacts heavy in my hands. The price... the cost was unbearable, but what choice did I have? Timmy couldn’t go on like this, trapped in his own fear. I couldn’t stand to watch him slip further away, lost in that terrible thing that lurked in his mind.

I took the artifacts. My heart raced, my hands trembling as I slipped them into my coat, burying them close to my chest. I didn’t look back as I ascended the stairs, barely breathing as I passed the empty halls, out into the crisp night air.

The weight of what we faced pressed down on us, heavier than anything I’d ever carried. Evelyn and I hadn’t spoken much since I returned from the library, the silence between us thick with the weight of what we were about to do. I could feel it in her eyes—what I felt, too. The fear wasn’t the same as before; it wasn’t just the creature anymore. It had become about Timmy, and the uncertainty of what we had to sacrifice. What would it cost us to protect him?

When Claire and her husband... when they were taken from us, everything changed. The world became a quiet, desolate place. It’s hard to describe, that kind of loss. It’s not like any grief I’ve known, where you can say goodbye, where there’s a sense of closure. No, this was different. It was the suddenness of it that cuts the deepest. One day they were here, full of life, and the next, it felt like they’d never existed. That kind of absence, that void, it doesn’t fill up easily.

And now, in the quiet of this house that used to echo with Claire’s voice, there’s only stillness. The walls are heavy with it, and every corner feels empty. That’s when Timmy came. He wasn’t a replacement for Claire, and I knew he never could be. But he’s a piece of her, a part of this family, and we hoped—maybe foolishly—that his presence could fill just a little bit of the space she left behind. But I don’t think Timmy understands. He still thinks this is just a visit. That one day, everything will go back to the way it was. He doesn’t know that his parents aren’t coming back.

And that breaks my heart. He’s so young, and he’s so lost in all of this. He deserves to know the world isn’t a dark and broken place, that there’s safety and love. But sometimes, I see it in his eyes—the same confusion, the same fear I feel. I wonder if he senses it too. The emptiness, the loss, the way everything’s changed so suddenly, and so completely.

Every time I look at him, I think of Claire. I think of how she would’ve known what to say, how she would’ve made everything feel okay. But she’s not here. And now there’s something else—a creature, a thing born from Timmy’s imagination, his fears, and this quiet town that seems to hold everything in place, like it’s waiting for something to break. It’s feeding on him, growing stronger every day. It’s like watching him slip away, little by little, into something else. Something darker.

I wish I knew what Claire would have done. What she would have said. Maybe she would’ve known how to stop this—how to keep Timmy from fading into something I couldn’t reach. But she’s gone, and I’m left with this fear, this horror, and I don’t know how to fix it.

The Fulgence Illumum—these artifacts I found, these light-based objects that can burn away the creature—might be the only hope we have. But there’s a price to using them, a terrible price. If we destroy the creature, we destroy Timmy’s imagination, his innocence. I know it will break him. And I don’t know if I can do that.

But I can’t let him become what this creature wants. Not after all that’s already taken from us. I can’t lose him too.

So we move forward. The ache of Claire’s absence is still fresh, still raw in ways I didn’t expect. Timmy’s only just moved in, but already, it feels like he’s been here forever. And yet, every day, I feel like we’re walking on the edge of something we can’t quite see, waiting for it to take us. We can’t protect Timmy from everything—he’s already lost so much—but I have to try. I can’t let this thing steal him, too. I can’t let him become like this house: empty, quiet, forgotten.

For Claire’s sake, for Timmy’s, we have to face what comes next. Whatever it costs us, we can’t let him slip away into the dark. Not like she did. Not again.

It all happened so fast, too fast—one second, we were standing there, the light flickering in our hands, trying to hold it together, and the next, the creature was everywhere. God, I can’t even make sense of it, everything a blur—its body stretching, twisting, growing. It didn’t make sense. The walls groaned like they were alive, creaking, cracking, and suddenly the air felt wrong, as if the house itself was being torn apart from the inside.

The windows—they exploded outward, and I couldn’t hear myself scream over the shriek that tore through the walls. It wasn’t just screams—it was everything—growls, screeches, tearing metal, cracking bones, all crashing together, a roar that rattled my bones, shook the very ground beneath us.

We had to run. We didn’t even think. We just—ran.

Evelyn grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the door. Timmy was right behind us, his hand clutching mine, and we were stumbling, tripping over our feet, every step leading us farther from that thing inside. The floor beneath us groaned, buckling, the house itself seemed to be caving in, bending and shifting in ways I couldn’t understand. There was no time to think, just run—run, get out—and we did, through the door, into the air that felt cold, wrong, like it had been poisoned by whatever the hell was inside.

And then—then—it came. The house… broke. The limbs of it reached, stretching out from the windows, from the cracks in the walls, like they were made of nothing but air and shadow, barely there, flickering like some half-formed nightmare. It was too much, too fast, too much to even take in—everything splintered and cracked and flew outward, shards of wood, glass, the very walls breaking apart, exploding into the air, the wind screaming with the sound of it.

We were running. We didn’t even look back.

The air was full of glass, of splinters, like they were cutting through the world, raining down around us. We didn’t stop. I couldn’t—we couldn’t—look back.

But then, for a second, I did.

The house… it wasn’t a house anymore. It was just pieces, fragments, everything falling apart, bending, warping like it wasn’t meant to be real. The thing—whatever it was—was still there, still growing, limbs flailing, stretching outward, impossibly large, and the noise… God, the noise, it was like everything was screaming at once.

And then it exploded.

No, it wasn’t like fire—it was like the world itself cracked open, every bit of it pulled apart and shredded in an instant. The walls, the windows, the floor—everything—ripped away, flying outward, and I thought I was going to be torn apart with it. I was holding on to Timmy, holding on to Evelyn, and we ran, ran, just trying to get away from the destruction, the chaos, the terror. But there was no escaping it. It was all around us, too close, too fast.

And then—it stopped.

The house was gone. The wreckage of it was all that was left. We stood there, breathing heavily, too terrified to speak. My legs were shaking, my chest was tight, and I couldn’t even—couldn’t even think—I just stared at the pile of rubble. The thing—the creature—was gone. But we weren’t safe. Not yet.

Timmy was beside us, so we grabbed him into our embrace, alive, but changed, somehow, like he’d seen something no child should ever see. Evelyn clung to me, and I to her, and we all stood there, frozen, holding each other as the dust settled, as the echoes of the nightmare slowly faded away.

But that silence—it was heavier than anything else. And the fear, it was still there. In the back of my mind, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts, I could feel it.

The nightmare wasn’t over. It couldn’t be.

...

Now, I’m sitting here, writing this in the big city. There’s noise here, all the time. Sirens, honking cars, the constant murmur of the crowd. But it doesn’t bother us anymore. The noise is normal. We’ve learned to drown it out, to let it become part of the rhythm of our life. It’s like we’ve lived here forever, and somehow… that night, that house—it already feels like a dream.

Timmy is different now. He’s still Timmy, but there’s something softer about him. Something older, too. The other day, he showed me a drawing he’d made—a picture of his mom and dad going to heaven. There were clouds, stars, and a golden light surrounding them. I don’t know how long he’s been thinking about them that way, but he told me they were happy now. He said they were watching over us. He said it with this quiet certainty, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And for the first time in a long time, I think he might be right. I don’t know how or when it happened, but he’s starting to heal. The scars from that night are still there, buried somewhere deep, but Timmy’s imagination is still alive, and it’s no longer a weapon. It’s his way of coming back to us, of understanding, of letting go.

It’s strange, though. Even now, I can’t help but remember the fear, the terror of what we had to do to protect him. The Fulgence Illumum, those damned artifacts—we took something from him that night. We didn’t just fight a creature. We fought against what makes him who he is. I can never forget the look on his face when he realized what had happened. But somehow, we’re all still here, still together, and in some ways, that’s all that matters.

We’re safe now. We’re whole. But I know that no matter how far we move from Obedient Grove, no matter how much the city’s noise drowns out everything else, I’ll never forget that silence—the quiet that swallowed us whole, that thing we fought, and the way our world shattered in an instant.

And I know, deep down, that we’ll never fully escape it. Not really. Not ever. But I’ll hold onto Timmy and Evelyn, and I’ll protect them for as long as I can. That’s all I can do. And maybe… just maybe… we’ll be alright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For what?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The note.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia.

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

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

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

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

The Weaver’s instrument.

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

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

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

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

The Weaver had started weaving its web.

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

And at night, the whispers grew louder.

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

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

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

None of us could sleep after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had to find the talisman.

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

I couldn’t tell anymore.

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

I couldn’t stop. I had to keep going.

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

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

And then, I felt it.

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

“Amelia…”

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

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

I could feel it. The Weaver.

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

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

“Amelia!”

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

“Amelia, come here! NOW!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mindy?”

I froze. That voice. It wasn’t…

“M-Mindy? Is that you?”

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

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

“Mindy, please come back…”

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

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

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

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

It was me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s carpeted inside too.

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

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

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

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

“ it’s perfectly fine “

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

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

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

“ you will be as beautiful as I am “

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Donny? Is that your answer?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you Donny.

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

The latest transaction...it was one dollar.

No description. No destination.

Just one dollar taken. By someone or something invisible.

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

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

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

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

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

She reached out with her other hidden hand.

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

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

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

Then she turned and ran off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"One minute," she said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, next Friday.

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

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

She sounded so sad.

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

She was quiet for a moment.

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

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

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

"Em...Emelie?"

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

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

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

She was crying.

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

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

"Me?" I didn't get it.

Then I did.

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes. I accept."

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

"D-Donny."

Then the sound ended as she hung up.

Nothing was happening. But I knew something would.

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

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

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

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

She was gone by noon, when we closed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe.

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The TV. What's it saying?

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

I don't need to see any more.

When did the day go?

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

But yes. I did have to.

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

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

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

I guess I'll see what's beyond.

[Post].

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Kiren. My name's Kiren."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the meat?"

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

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

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

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

After half a second, he composed himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Simply sign the contract and receive your reward."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway into the story.

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

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

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

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

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

Spend time with them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I began to answer. "It was…" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait. My hands froze in mid-air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beep. Beep. Beep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I couldn’t do this without him.

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

“Critical Error Detected.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Breach detected. Evacuation necessary.” 

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

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

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

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

“No! No! NO!” I shouted. 

“Two…"

One.

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

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

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

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

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

“A dream?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you for acknowledging protocol."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now, we were stuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was closer this time. Much closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was after something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It let us leave.

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

It was over. We had survived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wonder what happened to those guys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So that's a no, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can you figure out who the killer is?

Chapter 1: Insight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not,” she smirked.

“Who are you guys again?”

“We work for the government,” she said.

“The FBI?” I asked.

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

“Who again?” I asked him.

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

“Huh. Never heard of it,” I spoke.

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

“Sorry. Dumb question.”

“Apology rejected,” he uttered.

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

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

“Would you like one? I have plenty.”

“Sure.”

“Really?” I asked.

“You offered. I accepted.”

“Uh, what about you, Miss Harris?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s pretentious,” she grumbled.

“Hah. It’s the truth.”

“What the hell is this about?”

“Your sister, Mr. Graham,” he said.

“What about her?” I asked.

“We know what happened.”

“Um. Okay? Creepy.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Really? Vampires have rules?”

“There’s always rules, Mr. Graham.”

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

“He’s already been dealt with.”

“By you guys?”

“By his overseer.”

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

“It was. Their methods are very draconian.”

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

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

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

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

“The games?” I asked.

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

“What kind of game?”

“The Adventure Games.”

“The what games?”

“Adventure Games,” she smirked.

“What’s the catch?”

“Well, the games could be dang—”

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

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

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

“Hey. What is that supposed to mean?”

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

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

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

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

“Close enough,” he grumbled.

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

“Give me the good news.”

“Ok. Based on her chart, it looks like her affliction has progressed beyond normal blood sickness. Once we administer the antidote, she should be fine, but there’s always a chance she won’t make it. I’m sure our techs back at the lab will make the process as painless as possible for your sister. This is what I can do for you if you decide to join the project. I promise we’ll have her call you before you leave for the games.”

“Great. Where do I sign?” I asked.

Agent Adams put away his vape pen. “You don’t sign. You signing something doesn’t matter. We’re dealing with information above top secret, Mr. Graham.”

“Whatever,” I shrugged.

“There is one other thing,” Agent Harris said.

“The bad news, right?”

“Right,” she nodded.

Agent Harris looked over at her partner. She was careful not to reveal anything more until he nodded his head in approval. Some of the info they had already revealed was pushing the line above top secret into ‘black protocol’ territory, or what agents at DPI called “above top secret classification.”

Agent Adams nodded before quickly returning his attention back to vaping, retrieving the addictive device almost faster than he had put it away.

Agent Harris cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Graham. Your sister’s illness has progressed too far. We can save her, but she won’t be human anymore. She’ll be a vampire. The transformation is irreversible I’m afraid.”

“Really? A vampire?”

“That is correct.”

“Jesus. I need a smoke,” I said as I jumped from my chair and grabbed the pack of smokes sitting on my kitchen counter. I lit one up and began pacing back and forth like a madman. With a bit of reluctance, I turned to Agent Harris and grumbled, “How fast can we get this done?”

“Now, if you agree.”

“That fast, huh?”

“Yes. We already have a team standing by. One phone call from us and they’ll began the extraction.”

“I already told you, I’m in.”

When I reaffirmed my commitment, Agent Adams looked over at his partner with a smug “I told you so” expression. He stood and extended his hand for me to shake. “Good choice, Mr. Graham. You’re a real champ.”

I shook his hand while glaring into his eyes. “You guys better not be trying to pull a fast one.”

“We wouldn’t. You’re not that important,” he smirked before blowing a cloud of steam into my face. “Goodbye, Mr. Graham. I’m sure I won’t be seeing you around,” he sarcastically added before heading for the door.

I shook Agent Harris’ hand. She removed her shades and told me, “Good luck, Mr. Graham.”

“What do I do next?”

“Pack light and wait.”

“Really? That’s it?”

“Yeah. We’ll be back in a couple of hours to take you to prescreening.”

“Sounds fair.”

“Good to hear.”

“So, what are these ‘Adventure Games’ anyway?”

She placed her shades back on. Her expression distant and cold. “Sit tight. We have to make a few arrangements and finish up some paperwork on our end before I can reveal any information. I’m sure the paperwork will get approved by the time we come back for you. Once this happens, I’ll explain everything you need to know.”

I just stood there dumbfounded by the moment. I could hear Agent Harris discussing Agent Adams’ conduct as they let themselves out and began making their way down the hall. Apparently, Agent Harris was disappointed that he had asked me for a beer. She pointed out that this was an obvious workplace violation, and how he could be terminated for his conduct. He found her chiding amusing and told her he had no intentions on drinking on the job. When he made this claim, she was incredulous and asked what possessed him to even ask in the first place.

I could barely hear them at this point since they were standing by the elevator. But I believe his response was something on the lines of, “I wanted to read his reaction. If he handled himself wisely, I knew we wouldn’t have a problem recruiting him for the games.”

“And if he reacted poorly?” she asked.

“Well then, your little behavioral profile would have been wrong, and we would’ve had a head start on finding his replacement,” he told her.

I closed the door in disgust. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, or if they could even be trusted. I knew it too. That cliché feeling had reached all the way down to my gut. My conscience... the good angel on my shoulder was telling me to run.

With a heavy heart, I chose to ignore the voice. My sister’s life hung in the balance. Sometimes in life you had to take risks. My choice to go along with these agents and their dubious claims wasn’t a tough or noble act. It was one wrought from desperation. What were my options? Not joining meant my sister would waste away until it was too late. Phew. This was a lot of pressure. My back was against the wall literally and figuratively.

I let out a long sigh and mustered the courage to begin packing. I hadn’t gotten much sleep either. Hopefully the car ride to wherever we were going would be a long one, and I could get some much-needed rest, I thought to myself as I shoved way too many things into my bag.

Tears escaped from my eyes. I had to stay the course. I had to hear her voice. I finally broke down and prayed to God, asking him to look over me. I still didn’t believe. I don’t know why I did it. I guess out of hope or necessity. My sister meant the world to me, and my parents, I don’t know what they would do if she perished.

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Chapter 2: Foresight

The following day was a blur. I was taken to a massive facility that stood in the middle of nowhere. It was on the outskirts of the outskirts. The place was so far removed, they didn’t even bother with a blindfold. There was no elaborate story of denial, or even the whole “we cannot confirm or deny” troupe.

Nope. This was a secret facility where the government housed and did God knows who or what to who or what. From what I gathered, they performed strange experiments on poor sods, such as myself, who had foolishly signed their lives away. I gulped and told myself to shut up. If you think negative things, then you get negative results.

A group of oddly dressed soldiers called “acolytes” escorted me from the transport van to the staging area. I was able to check in with my sister, just like the agents promised. She was doing much better. The thought put a smile on my face and was all the motivation I needed. Now all I needed to do was win, so I could see her again.

Knock on wood, but if something were to happen to me, I didn’t really care. All that mattered was that little sis had finally turned the corner. I swear on my soul. This was more than I could have ever hoped for.

After answering an uncomfortable amount of questions and going through a battery of physical and mental tests, I was given the greenlight by the staff to join the event. This all happened at approximately 1400 hours the next day. I was taken away from the annoying, prodding techs in lab coats. I wouldn’t have mind leaving them behind, along with their invasive procedures if it wasn’t for the soldiers who escorted me to the staging area. They were cold and mechanical. They roughly shooed me to a section of the facility called Bunker 17, as if they were putting a dog back inside its kennel. We arrived at this damnable place, via elevator, twenty floors down.

To my surprise, there were already several people waiting when I arrived. They were all kind of just lingering about not doing much of anything. In front of us stood a pair of massive concrete doors that looked like the entrance to a mini fortress. We were all wearing these odd name tags. The moment made me sick to my stomach. The gazes of suspicion, intrigue, and indifference made me briefly curl up like a shrinking violet.

Hmm... No one told me I would be joined by others. I shrugged and figured as much. I was about to introduce myself when one of the soldiers radioed Command and informed them that we were ready to enter. Command radioed back and told them to give the signal. One of the acolyte soldiers gave a thumbs up, which I imagine they saw on the camera, right above the door.

When he did this an alarm sounded, red strobes flashed all arounds us, and the doors began to slowly creep open. The noise only added to the confusion and bewilderment. I took a step back, sure that the roof was going to collapse with every inch the doors gained. The whole thing was about as unnerving and uninviting as it could get. It looked more like a giant mouth slowly feasting upon the light, warning us to turn back, than an entrance.

We stepped inside only to be greeted by another set of massive doors. These were steel instead of concrete and looked like they could have been placed on the entrance to an impenetrable castle way up in the mountains. I looked back when the concrete doors begin to close. Only when they had fully shut, and we were devoured by the darkness, did the steel doors begin to open their mouth. The inner doors creaked and cranked, making the loudest, most-angriest sound imaginable. The process was excruciating and played on my mind almost as much as it played on my ears.

There was a great deal of radio chatter. The soldiers thrust us through the entrance. When we had all crossed the red line, one of them radioed Command, and the doors began to slowly close behind us. Fight or flight kicked in. I thought about making a run for it, but I could tell that that was bad idea by the way the soldiers were positioned behind the door with their weapons drawn.

I swear I could feel their laser sights more than I could see them in the piercing darkness. There was nothing like a big gun to chop through any language or mental barrier. It was louder and harder than any bull in any China shop would ever be.

I sighed when the doors finally closed behind us. My first thought was, what the hell had I gotten myself into? Followed quickly by, I can’t believe I let myself be talked into this. Before any of us could gather our bearings, the lights began to turn on. Once my eyes had adjusted to the blinding whiteness, I stood around like everyone else, amazed and surprised by the sight in front of me. It was funny in a sense. I was relieved by familiarity as it was the last thing on my mind.

It looked like a well-kept emergency shelter. The floors sparkled as if they had been waxed in preparation for our arrival. The kitchen and dayroom took up the bulk of the space. Before I could really sink my teeth into some good ole fashioned exploration, a voice could be heard over the loudspeaker. The prerecording was that of a woman, who sounded a bit robotic and automated, as if it had been altered to sound as friendly as possible. Which made it even more odd and creepy:

“Greetings, contestants! Welcome to the Adventure Games! These are the inaugural games, making this the very first event of its kind! So, consider yourselves lucky! The games have been lowered in difficulty by our wonderful technicians by approximately fifteen percent in honor of you being the very first souls to be taken.

I’m sure you’re all confused and have a lot of questions. Should I explain? Of course, I should explain! Well, here goes nothing! There are seven of you in total. You have all been locked inside of one of our many, many, many underground shelters! Bunker 17 to be precise. Which is part of the Northeastern Hemisphere Underground Network Systems, or N-HUN for short. That’s right! Your bunker is part of a much wider, global network that is maintained and operated by the New World Government Order or NWGO and members of the New Faith Alliance or NFA.

There are six levels of access in total. To gain access to the lower levels you need a “Marc” card. Which is short for Mark of Identifying numbers. Sorry average humans, only vampires and human personnel critical to the mission are given one. Don’t feel too bad, only high-ranking members of the NFA have access to the lower levels. And only super important people have access to the final level. Take my word for it, I’ve been down to level six and it’s definitely not a place you ever want to be.

I would tell you all about the many wonders, crazy contraptions, odd attractions, and foul creatures we keep below, but then I’d have to release the laughing gas... Just kidding... It’s actually sarin gas!

You have all been locked inside of Bunker 17. We stocked the place with plenty of provisions, so you won’t have to worry about starving to death for a very long time if anything terrible was to happen while you were away like, I don’t know, nuclear holocaust.

The recreational room is also state of the art. All the amenities you need are here. We made sure to provide our contestants with everything imaginable so all you’ll have to worry about is staying alive!

If you were to survive the games, which I highly doubt, then we will do as promised and grant you your wish, via taxpayer expense. There’s nothing the Illuminati loves more than wasting hard stolen taxpayer money on frivolous expenditures like elaborate “stress tests” on bunker sociology to see who’ll break.

All of you came here for a reason. One of you however asked to be here so you could murder everyone else who came here for a reason! Hooray for having zero conscience*, our super mysterious serial killer contestant! How do you stop this maniac from murdering you? Why the answer is simple. Figure out which one of you is the murdering maniac and you win! That’s right, the game is officially over, and you can go home and enjoy whatever foolish thing you wished for. Hope it was worth it!*

How might you rid yourselves of this psychopath, you ask? Please direct your attention to our voting room. Inside is a small stall, no bigger than an outhouse. At the end of each day, you will go inside, one by one, and vote on who you think the killer is. If the majority votes correctly then the game is over. If there is a tie or lower, then the games continue. Oh, and just to make things fair, the killer will always vote for themselves. This will continue until enough of you vote correctly or everyone besides the killer is D.E.A.D.

♫ Do-do-do dodo! ♫

Congratz subject number 4, Roger J. Pierson III. You have been assigned the master bedroom! Which means you are responsible for reading the daily tasks! What daily tasks you might wonder? Why they’re clues to help you solve the killer-mystery, so pay close attention!

How does it work? Each day Roger will receive a card from HQ, using our spiffy pneumatic system, with direct access to the master bedroom. Our technicians, who helped created this wonderful kill box, call these messages ‘Vital Tasks’. Gather in one place and read them carefully, but only if you’re interested in surviving.

Good luck everyone! Oh, and be sure to have fun while playing. There is a small suggestion box located in the recreational room, next to the TV. All suggestions are anonymous and will help us to not only create a better experience, but even more enjoyable deaths! Salutations! Enjoy your stay at our super-secret underground facility! Thank you for your participation in the Adventure Games! And remember, no matter what happens, you are a valued guest at Bunker 17!”

When the strange announcement ended, everyone just kind of looked around in confusion. It was one of those moments when you question reality. There were seven of us in total. Everyone was wearing a name tag. Each name was more of a twisted moniker than our actual name. I looked down at my own and saw the word “Hero.” I found this odd for a few reasons. The first being I wasn’t a hero. I was your average guy at best. The second, more chilling reason was I did not remember putting this stupid thing on. How it got there was a mystery. I suppose in the thick of the chaos, one of the lab technicians must’ve slapped it on before they rushed me out.

The guy next to me, whose name tag read “Follower,” began to spaz. I tried to calm him, but it didn’t work. He made a break for it, running all the way back to the entrance. “Let me out! I didn’t sign up for this!” he cried and screamed while pounding on the steel slab.

There was a tall, bulky guy, wearing a tank top that barely fit. His name tag read “Bully” and was glued to his chest. He flexed his peck muscles and laughed very loudly and rudely at the young guy. He looked over at me and then everyone else while wildly yelling, “Come on guys! They’re obviously trying to scare us. The lady over the intercom wasn’t even trying to hide how obvious it was with all those corny jokes. What is this supposed to be? Fallout: New Vegas?!” He hooted and chuckled.

“This is stupid,” the woman next to me said. I looked over and saw that her name tag read: “Narcissist.”

“Screw it,” the Follower said after seeing that he was making a fool out of himself by crying and wailing not only in vain but to the amusement of others.

“I want to go home,” a girl sniveled. I glanced over and saw that her name tag read, “Teenager.”

Bully’s laughter pulled me away from the shock of seeing a teenager in a place like this. I cringed when he hollered out “Guys! It’s not real!” as if he wasn’t making yet another useless PSA.

There was this guy leaning against the wall. He watched with folded arms as the Follower finally gave up the goose. I could have sworn he was just standing right next to me, but I could be wrong. His name tag read “the Rationalizer.” He looked over at us and asked, in a very matter-of-fact tone, “So. What do we do now?”

“Let’s go get the message like the lady said over the intercom,” I told everyone with a shrug.

“Good idea,” the Rationalizer said. I think he was being sarcastic when he said it, but who knows. A guy like that was difficult to read.

The seven of us traveled through the kitchen and recreational area. Then we made our way down the narrow hall, towards our rooms. There were two names assigned to each one, except for the master bedroom. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw that the Rationalizer was assigned to the same room as me. Seeing my discomfort, he gave me a pat on the back before opening the door to our room.

I peeked inside and saw a very clean but very bare bones living space. There were a few accommodations, just nothing like home. Let’s see, there was a bunkbed on one side, two lockers, and a large dresser on the other. The floor was just as cold, polished, and uninviting as the kitchen and hall. Turns out, the only thing they bothered to make warm and cozy was the recreational room. Oh, and the master bedroom, hate to forget that.

I poked my head in Roger’s room. If I hadn’t mentioned it by now, his name tag read: “the Lover.” He damn near kissed the floor when he saw how magnificent his stay would be. His reaction rubbed pretty much all of us the wrong way. The Narcissist’s in particular. When she saw her room, and realized she had to share with the Teenager, she hyperventilated. Unlike the Lover’s eccentrics, her selfishly induced panic attack put a smile on my face.

“Huh. Looks like they got at least one of our name tags spot-on,” the Rationalizer said while observing her antics and thinking the same thing I was thinking.

Bully nearly buckled over he laughed so hard. Seeing this and that he shared a room with this meathead, the Follower began laughing right along with him. I don’t even think he knew why he was laughing. He saw Bully doing it and just followed along. I shook my head. I did chuckle a bit under my breath. The whole thing was ridiculous, I thought to myself as I turned my attention back to the Lover. There was something about him that was different. I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

Was there a faster way to draw suspicion than being called out by name and given something. Not only was it something, but it happened to be the one spacious, well decorated, most comfortable room out of the whole lot. Silk pillows, satin sheets, and a handwoven quilt that was draped over the bottom of a lavish, four-post bed. The posts were shaped into gargoyles. Even his dresser was handcrafted, the wallpaper elegant, and the red carpet fit for royalty. I could go on and on, but I didn’t want my intrigue to turn into outrage. Not yet at least. This all could be a prank like Bully suggested.

Eh. I know I keep harping on the subject, but it was hella unfair. What could I do? Even if I wanted to take it there, what were my options? Try to take the room from him by force? Yeah. That’s smart. That way everyone would think I was the killer for sure.

I had never even thought about killing someone in my whole life. Ok... you got me. The vampire who nearly killed my sister was the only creature. Hearing Agent Adams tell me he had been cruelly dispatched by his masters was sweet music to my ears. My only regret was that I wasn’t there to witness him suffer. If I was, I would have begged the monster behind the mask to prolong his pain for as long as vampirically possible.

“Hey, pal! Hurry up! I’m starving,” Bully shouted, snapping my mind out of its downward spiral of dark, borderline psychotic thought.

“I’m grabbing the card now!” the Lover shouted back before seizing the plastic capsule that was ejected from a long, pneumatic tube system. He removed the card from the red envelope and read what it said:

“Task 1. Introduce yourself to the others. State all critical information such as name, age, and reason you’re here. This is very important: reveal if you are human or not. Do not lie unless you are the killer. You may remove your name tag afterwards.”

After he read the card, we all glanced around at one another, wondering if this was indeed someone’s idea of a sick joke. Or perhaps this was a dream we would all wake up from very soon? I prayed for the ladder but feared and respected the former. My thoughts loud and sweeping amidst the awkward silence that had overtaken us.

Bully rubbed his stomach. “I’m hungry. You guys can keep standing around looking stupid if you want. I’m off to see what’s in the fridge.”

“Um. Gross,” the Narcissist stated before she checked the pockets of her stylish plaid topcoat. She gasped in exasperation before yelping in dismay, “OMG. But how? How did they even know?”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“They must’ve taken it!” she cried.

“Taken what?” I asked.

She looked over at me with an expression that told me everything I needed to know. Then she groaned out the most unimaginative words imaginable, “God. I thought I smuggled my backup phone. I put it in my pocket, it should be here. Screw it. Guess I’ll just die of boredom.”

“Or you could reconnect with your other senses,” the Rationalizer said. He folded his arms and stared at the Narcissist hungrily. If she wasn’t so preoccupied with being preoccupied by nothing, she would have noticed his lecherous gawk.

“Whatever. I hate my life,” she sighed.

“What’s a ‘backup’ phone?” I asked.

“Old people, dude,” the Follower blurted before chuckling to himself at my expense.

“I’m not old. I just never heard of a backup phone,” I explained, my tone a bit defensive.

“My bad, bro. Don’t get mad.”

“I’m not getting mad.”

“Hey. Whatever you say, bro.”

“It’s your other phone just in case your non other phone dies. Tch. Duh. I have followers, you know,” she replied all hot and haughtily.

“Come on guys,” I said before making my way towards the kitchen. Bully was already there, rummaging through the cupboards like a man on a mission.

When he saw us, he looked back and said, “I’m starving, haven’t eaten since breakfast!”

“How are we looking? Plenty of good stuff?” I asked as I made my approach.

“Bingo!” he hooted and rooted, ignoring me like a butthole over a loaf of bread. He made some weird comment about how he couldn’t believe they had sprouted grain bread. And how sprouted grain bread was savage. And how sprouted grain bread aided in muscle recovery. And how sprouted grain bread blah blah blah; all bodybuilding nonsense no one else understood. I understood how rude he was, however. He practically commandeered the counter and began making himself half a dozen sandwiches with the ham that he had snagged from the fridge.

“How are we looking?” I asked again.

“Dude, we’re freaking loaded!”

I opened the large pantry and saw four shelves filled with cans. “Wow. Yeah, you’re right.”

The one guy, who had the master bedroom, the Lover, I believe his name tag was; he cleared his throat and said, “Ok. So, who’s going to go first?”

“First in what?” the Follower asked.

“Introducing themselves,” he hissed.

“Tch. I’m not wasting my time,” the Follower laughed. To be honest, he seemed like a nice kid, but his laugh was maddening. This high pitch chortle followed by a guttural snort or two. Ugh. Just thinking about it made my skin crawl.

“I think you should go first,” I told Bully.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” he asked.

“Because you’re a big oaf.”

Everyone at the table laughed, including the Follower. He stood from his seat, still snorting, and said, “Dude! You have a mountain of sandwiches! You could have at least asked if anyone else wanted one.”

Bully laughed before and after taking a chunk out of his first sandwich. “Whatever. I worked hard to get these muscles. Judging by your appearance, I don’t think you’ve ever seen an honest day’s work at the gym.”

“Ouch,” the Follower nervously chuckled. He slinked back down in his seat and tried to hide as we all laughed at the poor guy’s expense.

Bully looked over at me as if he saw something he didn’t like. Before I could ask if he had a staring problem, he said, “What about you? You seem pretty straightlaced. Maybe you should go first.”

I looked around and saw everyone’s eyes fall on me after he had pretty much thrown me under the bus. I threw my hands up in defeat and told them, “Fine. It’s not like I have anything to hide; I’ll go first.”

The Lover gestured for me to take the metaphorical stage and said, “The floor is yours.”

"Blood is the sacrament of the gods. The sun rises when the heavens thirst-not for blood. In our hearts, the divine nectar is kept. The gods are thirsty - they need our blood or there can be no light. In darkness they dwell, and without our nourishing red blood, night shall be everlasting." I read aloud my belief to the teachers.

They just stared at me for a moment, unsure how to respond. Confirmation classes had struggled to explain to me a different truth, and I had already accepted that my baptism was the will of Tláloc, and I had sang the words of their hymns with my whole heart. I still did not understand how Tláloc could have made a mistake, when the cycle of everlasting rebirth was the truth of perfection.

"We have already taught you that it is the blood of Jesus Christ that washes you clean of sin." Father Ignatius spoke slowly and carefully. "It is not our blood that God wants, for the blood of the Lamb is the way to salvation."

I trembled slightly, feeling the first moment of my journey into a horror of new ideas. It had occurred to me that there must be something wrong with our blood, if it was unacceptable to the gods. I asked, with some trepidation, because it might mean I was somehow not an acceptable person to the gods:

"Do you mean that the gods do not thirst for my blood, but rather only the blood of Jesus?" I asked, worried for my grace in the light of the gods. If my blood was not good enough, what sacrifice might be?

"Nuavhu, you are now Joseph, and you live in the grace of God, sinless from the blood of the Lamb. You have only to accept the covenant of Jesus, as you did with your first Communion." Sister Valory reminded me.

"But the gods are still thirsty, are they not?" I asked.

"There is only one God." Teacher Victor spoke suddenly, like he was saying something without thinking.

"Tláloc." I said. "Tláloc is still alive, this I know. I realize that the other gods have - " I hesitated, unsure if the word was the right word, but unable to say anything different " - died."

"The gods have not died, they are myth. Only one true God exists!" Teacher Victor exclaimed, speaking to me as though I were a blasphemer.

"Perhaps in myth they reside, while Tláloc lives on. Do not the rains still come? Do not the crops grow? Am I not a child of the grace of Tláloc?" I shuddered, unable to accept that I was somehow wrong. I knew Tláloc was real, I had seen him walking in the forest, collecting flowers for his crown from among the thorns. The priest and the nun had told me that the blossoming crown of thorns was the sign of redemption from sin, and assured me I was saved. What was happening?

"You cannot be saved, not without the blood of Jesus, and denial of this Tláloc." Teacher Victor proclaimed. He gestured for the priest and the nun to agree.

"I am afraid your teacher is right. The Archbishop must be told that you have reserved your worship of Tláloc. If you are not found to be in the grace of God, through the blood of the Lamb, by the time he arrives, you will surely be excommunicated." Father Ignatius warned me.

I nearly fainted, I was terrified of being cast out of the house of Tláloc. I couldn't understand how my devotion to the one true god could also make me an exile from his grace. When I was taken to my cell to pray, I began to consider that I would have to find a way to give my blood, for the sunrise of my everlasting soul.

I fell asleep, feverishly gripping my rosary. In my nightmares I saw Tláloc in the forest, as I once had. The god was no longer shimmering in dew, the greenish blue of his skin, the ebony trim of his robes and the pure white feathers his garments were made of, all was cast aside into a dark and thorny mess. The horror of the thirsty god loomed.

When I woke up it was just before dawn, and I knew I must go and find my god where he lay in the forest, and feed him. If I wouldn't, there would be no sunrise, only a dying god, taking the last of his grace from a world so sinful that they had even cast me aside. If I was not pure, then I would have to find out who was. If nobody was good enough, then all were doomed. Night would never end and the monsters of the jungle, the creatures slithering up from the deepest pillars of the thirteen heavens would consume the world.

The priests had said this was called Xibalba, or Hell. I doubted the existence of that place. The pillars of the thirteen heavens were slippery with the ichor of the gods, fed on the liquid red blood of mortal creation - humanity. But if it must be called Xibalba to make sense to them, then that is a word, but it was merely the shadow cast by the beauty of the heavens, not some underworld of torment for the dead. I knew better, nothing dead lived down there. Those things ate the dead, as long as the gods didn't intervene.

I had rested easy, knowing Tláloc would protect me and everyone else. But now, it was Tláloc that needed protection. Without my help, the last god would surely die. Night would never end.

I wandered the path, just before sunrise, yet the light seemed to only glow on the hills where the jungle was cut away. I saw how the animals watched me with their eyes glowing, and the forest was silent, an eerie vigilance for the dying god.

My heart beat with terror, worried I would not make it in time. But there, in a clearing, among the wilting blue flowers Tláloc had come to pick by moonlight, the god lay dying, his colors faded to black and the robes in tatters and the smoothness of his skin a bramble of warts and thorns.

I hesitated, fear of going near such a powerful creature holding me fast. I lifted one hand, trembling, and then slowly approached the monstrous deity. In his current form, he was like a wounded animal, and might destroy me, lashing out in his agony, a death throe like a bladed claw from the darkness to eviscerate me.

"Tláloc, let my blood be pure enough to give you the sustenance." I offered. I lifted a razor sharp thorn from the forest floor, broken off of the god's own body as he had rolled back and forth in pain, dying in the dwindling forest.

I held my wrist over the god's parched lips, seeing how Tláloc's eyes watched me. I shivered in awe and dread, but did my duty and opened a vein to feed the god. As my blood flowed, he gulped and swallowed, drinking it and slowly becoming restored before my very eyes.

My weakness began, and I fell to my knees. Then, as Tláloc rose up above me, standing again on his own feet, I collapsed, the thorn clutched in one hand. Tláloc stood over me, and I could not remain awake, and then the sunrise began, and Tláloc ascended to Third Heaven, where his pool of water waited to bathe him in the early hours of the morning.

I smiled weakly, as I lay there, in and out of consciousness. The holy cleansing rains of the morning came and cooled me of the fever I felt. The animals sang in the harmony of the forest until the rain stopped. Then the great tractors, trucks, and machines used to harvest the jungle could be heard making progress.

The skies cleared of the white clouds of Tláloc's blessing and filled with the black diesel smoke and the drifting fumes of the petrol fire, where debris was burned throughout the workday. I was found there and taken back to the school.

"You attempted suicide. There is no hope for you now. Surely you are damned." Teacher Victor told me. Father Ignatius and Sister Valory prayed over me and prayed for me.

"Tláloc has accepted my blood sacrifice. My faith is rewarded. Another day is today, and night did not last forever. The world yet turns. I do not believe you know what you are talking about." I said, deliriously.

While another day came, I was too weak to return when night came again. Tláloc was only quenched a little bit, and thirst would come again. I could not stand up, let alone return to seek out my god by the waning moon. There was nothing I could do, as that night Tláloc lay dying near the cenote by Mary's Well.

I had a vision of the god, calling to me, last of the devoted, the final believer.

"How will night last forever?" Father Ignatius had asked me. "It is the will of God that the sun shall rise, not the actions or inactions of mankind."

"Then you have answered your own question, so why ask me?" I whispered weakly. I was barely clinging to life. Somehow the vision of my god had revitalized me, as though my body was restored through my faith, although I still felt very weak.

That is when the Earth began to shake. They were no longer held back. I fell out of my bed and saw through the open door how the priest and the teacher and the nun ran frantically across the courtyard.

I screamed in terror, my voice broken and distorted, as the very ground erupted around them and the slithering horrors from below came up. They took the teachers, they took the priest and they grabbed the nun and one by one they bit into the other students. Everyone was held by the creatures from below, none of them protected by Tláloc, who could do nothing for them.

The earthen landscape split open while it shook, and all the people and most of the chapel where above the gaping darkness, its living tendrils wrapped around all. Then the shaking and rumbling began to subside, and the buildings were as rubble all around, and everyone who had gathered in the clear center of the courtyard was gone, fallen into the bottomless hole beneath the surface of the world.

I stared in disbelief and horror, my eyes stinging with the dust all over my face and body. My bed I had fallen from was crushed behind me, and all around me the roof and walls lay piled high and in clouds of settling dust. My tears of grievance, terror and relief streaked through the dust on my cheeks, and I saw this in my reflection in the gradual stillness of the waters that had bubbled up around me.

A rain came, where dawn should have, but under thick clouds, there was no way to know if the sun had risen. Perhaps Tláloc was dead, and the pillar of the heavens had collapsed, and that is what had happened. I dreaded the return of the monsters, or that the Earth should swallow me up as well. How everyone was taken but I; left me thinking that there must still be hope, although I felt no hope, only fear for myself, fear for the whole world, and fear for Tláloc.

I limped and crawled through the clear-cut landscape, towards the remains of the forest. Somehow, I pulled myself through the mud and the grass, the vines and the roots, the tractor marks and past the piles of shattered wood.

There was a path from Mary's Well, that was made by the footfalls of the limping god. Wherever he had stepped, his blue flowers and fresh vines had grown. All along the way there was also a path burned by the slithering things, as they tore across the surface of the Earth, leaving a trail like a blackened and wilted scar.

There, at the edge of the forest, I found what was left of Tláloc, wheezing and dying, in much worse shape than I. There was nothing more I could do but stare piteously at the dying god. Tláloc had come to fight the monsters, trying to protect the forgetful humans, trying to do its duty, and had fought to the last, slaying a pile of the wretched slithering horrors, that lay slowly turning themselves like writhing severed worms.

Fear gripped me, telling me to come no closer. The gasses they dissolved into were toxic, forming the very clouds that were blotting out the sun. Should the dead muscles of the dying horrors catch me, they would crush me or worse, and I could see how their faceless mouths worked to open and shut in automation, although they were already slain by Tláloc's sharp hoe.

I saw how the god's spade dripped in the gore of the monsters, and how the soil it was stabbed into was already beginning to regrow the jungle, as vines and flowers encased the lower half, while the top was melting in the corrosive blood of the monsters from below.

I spoke to my god, pleading with him to give me the knowledge of what I could do to reverse the carnage. With his final breath, Tláloc looked at me and said:

"Night is the ignorance that shall prevail. Be forgiving, for only forgiveness, absolute forgiveness, can defeat the horrors of ignorance."

And with that, in the ancient language my mother and father had spoken to me when I lived with them in the forest, Tláloc spoke and gave his breath to me.

The clouds parted, and I looked up to the skies, seeing that the Thirteenth Heaven awaited the last of the gods, and as a cloud of birds of black and white, shimmering in the blue light, Tláloc ascended to where his brothers and sisters waited for him.

And so, I lay down and rested, and found my strength somehow return to me. I looked up and saw that Tláloc's spade was now a great tree, standing alone where the whole jungle should hold it in the center, but nothing but wasteland was all around. I decided I would go and teach Tláloc's message, that I would go among the people, and try to stop the ignorance that is our eternal night.

"The last time I wanted to die was six months ago."

She slowly rolled up her sleeves, and then showed her arms, palms up, "That's when I got these."

The long scar up her right arm was straight, the one up her left arm was more jagged.

"It wasn't the first time that I wanted to die, it wasn't even the first time I took... Steps.

"But it was the first time I did something like that."

She pauses, taking a deep and somewhat ragged breath, "I wish I could say that it was the last time I would want to die."

She looks down, "Or the last time that I'd try to make it happen."

She closes her eyes, taking another deep and ragged breath, before tilting her head up, and opening her eyes, eyes which had a frightening depth to them, "I wish that I could say that it was a one time thing. But I can't."

"I suffer from depression. I have for much of my life, and... I probably will for the rest of my life."

She gives a very wry smile, one with very little happiness in it, "Sometimes I think that it's just a matter of time, that I already know that I'll die by my own hand."

Another deep breath, her eyes now shining with unshed tears, "Sometimes I can believe that I'll keep my head above water, that I'll be able to keep wanting to live enough that I won't ever go through with it."

"I really want to believe that."

A long pause, then a slow look around the room, "Today, I know, I can acknowledge that there are people in my life that want me to live. That would be hurt if I didn't. Who want to be there for me."

The tears are not entirely unshed at this point, "And I am more thankful than I can ever say for those people. I'm not sure if I'd still be here or not without them, but I do know that my good days wouldn't be nearly as good without them.

"But I also know that they can't save me. That it's not up to them if I make it through the darkness or not.

"I wish it was. I wish that they could make that choice, and that I would never have to face my depression alone again.

"But... I'm also glad that they can't. That if I don't make it, that it won't be their fault. That it can't be their fault. No matter what."

Tears are actively falling now, even though her smile has more happiness in it than it did, or perhaps because of it, "I won't say that my depression isn't partially situational. That my environment and those around me have no impact. That would be a lie, and it would be a massive disservice to people who do so many things, for me and others, to try and help us."

"But I will say that sometimes... Sometimes it's a fight that those of us who suffer from depression like mine have to fight alone.

"Not because we want to, not because nobody wants to help, not because there aren't people in our lives who would fight it for us if they could.

"But because sometimes... Sometimes the depression won't let us see the people around us who care.

"It won't let us know that we are loved, and that there is no way that our dying would help them more than it would hurt them.

"Sometimes we have to face our demons alone, in the darkness. Even if we're surrounded by those who love us, even if we're being held by them, sometimes the depression won't allow us to be anything except alone in the darkness of our own minds.

"Sometimes, it's a fight that we have to fight every hour of every day.

"Sometimes, we can go months, or even years, without much of a struggle.

"And then we find ourselves in the darkness with our demons once more.

"Not because anything around us has changed, but because we suffer from depression, and that depression isn't always about facts, or logic, or even reality.

"Sometimes it's just the demons of our own minds, lying to us, hiding the world from us, making us all alone, even when that's not true."

The smile grows a little more real, "Today I'm alive. Today I want to be alive. Today I'm happy to be alive."

"I hope that I feel the same way tomorrow. And I hope that tomorrow you feel that way as well."

"But if we don't, if the darkness returns, I hope that we can find the light again.

"And if some day we fail, I hope that those who love us remember that it's not their fault.

"It's not our fault either.

"Sometimes the demons win. Sometimes the disease kills us.

"But like I said. Today isn't that day. Today I'm happy to be alive.

"And just because sometimes we have to fight alone, it doesn't mean that we have to lose."

It's not normal to see a wall in the middle of a street, right? I mean, maybe there was some reason that made sense for there to be a wall over the white line in the middle of the road. I could see the wall from where I was sitting by the cafe window enjoying my mocha latte. I was on a coffee date and the guy I met through the usual app finally took the hint that I want one of those cute little fudge brownie things they were selling; it was when he got up to go to the counter that I spotted the wall. 

I smiled when I first saw it because it looked so out of place. The wall looked old, made of bricks which were, like, very orange. I don't know much about sizes but I'd say the wall was maybe the size of, like, a door or something. 

My date set the plate with the cute little brownie I wanted on the table. I didn't actually intend on eating the brownie; gosh, the carbs! But on coffee dates there's a few ways a girl can test if a man really is serious about showing up. Not showing up for the date, I mean. But like, you know, showing up in the male provider role. If my date can't even buy me a coffee or a teenie tiny little brownie then he's definitely not going to be marriage material. 

He was cute; like seriously cute. Tall, dark, handsome; twenty-six but somehow looking closer to thirty-six but, like, in a good way. In a manly way. He dressed well; nice jacket, tastefully tight denim jeans that looked old but were obviously still kind of new. Mustard coloured shirt; umph! 

When I say he looked absolutely delicious sitting his big tall frame down in the seat opposite me, believe me, I mean it. 

"So what do you do?" he said. 

"I'm an account manager for a mid-sized SEO agency," I said, "Do you know what that is?" 

His hazel eyes lit up with newfound curiosity. I decided to reward him with a smirk. I held his gaze and the interest on his face blossomed into a full-on handsome smile. 

"Nah," he said, "What's SEO?" 

I flinched as if smelling something bad. I didn't mean to but what idiot didn't know what SEO meant? 

"Search-Engine-Optimisation?" I said, trying not to make him feel stupid for not knowing such a simple thing. 

"Oh," he said, "Yeah we use a bit of that. Get spam emails everyday." 

The wall was still out there in the middle of the street. How had no cars neared it yet? It was late Saturday morning and the road was often busy; for some reason no cars seemed to be coming or going. There was just the wall and nobody on the street was paying it any attention. 

"Lauren?" said my date. 

I forced my attention back to him. By the way he said my name I guessed it hadn't been the first time he had said it just then either. 

"Sorry," I said. 

He smiled handsomely. He seemed nice. I particularly liked the way his large hands made the nice white tea cup he was drinking from seem small. 

"So," I said, drumming my nails on the table. 

"So," he said, matching my tone playfully. 

"You work in real estate," I said, "You make good money." 

His enthusiasm as he looked at me soured a little bit. I understood this wasn't the playful chit-chat he was expecting but, like, this was just a coffee date and it wasn't the only date I was going to have; the chit-chat could come once the essentials were discussed. 

"Do you see yourself getting married in the next two years?" I said. 

He gave a single-shoulder shrug. 

"Because," I said, "I'm like, looking to get married within about two years. I'm okay with taking our time but I have a timeline I want to stick to." 

"Timeline?" he said, smiling a little.

"Yes," I said, "How do you feel about kids?" 

There it was. The gormless, 'why are you asking me this?' look. I wanted to sigh and roll my eyes but that wouldn't keep him on the hook. So I moved ahead with 'old faithful' and sat forward, playing with my hair and giving him a feisty, playful look. 

After a few moments of not knowing how to respond my date grinned wryly. 

"Ah," he said, "You got me going there for a sec. I thought you were serious." 

"Oh, I'm serious," I said, "I just have had my time wasted a lot and I think it makes sense for me to just let you know what I'm looking for." 

"I appreciate that," said my date, "But yeah, I'm not looking for anything serious right now." 

For a half second I thought I was going to take this statement from him well. 

"Seriously?" I said, the words spilling out of my mouth before I can care to stop them, "You're twenty-six and you're not thinking about settling down?" 

"Nah," he said, grinning and sitting back in his seat, "I'm def not looking to settle down. I'm still young." 

"But what are you even looking for in a relationship?" I said, "I mean, like I was pretty clear on the app that I'm looking for something serious. Did you not check?" 

He smirked and scratched his eyebrow; both gestures made me want to grab the brownie from the plate and smush it all over his irritating face. 

"Look," he said, "It was nice meeting you but unless you want to come back to mine then we're done here." 

The audacity. The cheek! I wanted to scream at him, yell at him, let him know what a pig he was. When did a guy like him suddenly think he was good enough to invite me for a late morning quickie? I was speechless. 

"Um, no," I said. 

"Alright," he said, "See you later." 

He got up and left before I could think to say anything back. He hadn't even given me enough time to save face. What a jerk! I got up, leaving the brownie behind, and left the cafe. 

I had taken two buses earlier to get to the cafe (it was near where I worked which was just over an hour's bus ride from my flat), and I would need to take the same buses to get home. My next date was nearer home and was going to happen in the evening. 

I hadn't intended for the date to be over in like, ten minutes, but he was clearly not serious so it was good, in a way, that he wasn't going to waste any more of my time. I headed to the bus stop and waited for the bus to come. It was a really chilly morning and I hadn't really dressed for the occasion; I'd decided to go for this super cute one-shoulder top with a long cardigan fit; it looked great but didn't do much to stop the cold. 

The bus didn't come. I waited for over twenty minutes only to check on the route planner app to see the buses I needed had been diverted. My gosh. Seriously. What a freaking morning. 

Maybe the diversions had something to do with that wall in the middle of the road? Someone must have moved it because it was still at the same spot but was moved to be in line with the white center line on the road. This way cars going in both directions could pass the wall by. 

Whatever. I didn't care about the wall or why someone had put it there or why they had moved it. If my bus had arrived like it was supposed to them I wouldn't have given the wall another thought. 

I needed to think about how I was going to get home. The obvious answer was to book a ride through the app on my phone, but the rides were pricey, especially one to get me home. My second option was to call Mum and ask her for a lift, but she had said something about needing to take Flossie (that's what she called her car) in to get Flossie's brakes checked. My last option was to get a train but that would mean getting a bus to the next station and that seemed like a lot of extra hassle. 

After thinking about it for another minute standing out in the cold I decided to just grit and bear the walk to get a train home. I really didn't have the extra money in my account to waste on pricey rides home. I set off silently wishing I had taken the brownie after all since I hadn't eaten breakfast and had only sipped my latte, which I had also abandoned. 

My thoughts were stuck on my date and how quick he had decided not to continue the date. It was ridiculous. Not that he wasn't interested in talking about marriage and babies; I totally get that most men aren't mature enough to dive into that conversation on a first date; what I couldn't believe was how little he anguished over calling the date early. 

I didn't want to admit it to myself but over the last three years the dates had become less about forging a genuine connection and more about quick flings. Plenty of times I had enjoyed those flings and it was whatever; there was no spark so there was no need to stay in touch. But, like, the reading comprehension of these men! It didn't matter what I put in my bio; serious, want someday, looking for marriage; didn't they read what was clearly written there? I even ditched all the sexy pictures of myself and replaced them with pictures that gave off more of a wholesome, wife-y vibe, dress for the part you want sort of thing. Why weren't they getting it? 

I finally reached the tunnel which would eventually lead to the train station. The tunnel was something like an underpass. I didn't like taking it because there wasn't any exit from the tunnel except entering into it from either the end I was about to, or the end which came out at the station. I was so annoyed thinking about how the date went I didn't care if some creepy man was in the tunnel waiting for me. 

My heeled boots echoed with every step I took through the tunnel. It was a small tunnel, painted white all around except for the floor which was painted black. There was a metal railing which went all the way from one end of the tunnel to the other. It was much too cold for me to want to grip it and I bet it was dirty anyway. The tunnel was also well lit, with strong white lights dotted at intervals all the way along. Usually the tunnel had at least a few people coming and going in it but as I walked along it I noticed I was the only thing making any noise in the tunnel (not including the faint humming of the lights above). 

The first odd thing I noticed was that the breeze which eased through the tunnel had stopped. I was stooping over a little hugging myself for warmth trying to ignore the firm breeze; but then all of a sudden it stopped; which was weird. 

I kept moving forwards. 

Clop-clop, clop-clop, clop-clop. 

Should have gotten my driving license years ago, I thought. Back then there was always someone to drive me around. I thought my acting career was going to take off quickly so I had figured by the time I was famous I wouldn't even need a license because I would have a driver to take me places anyway. That was still the goal but outside of some university short films and commercials the acting work hadn't taken off yet. 

I wasn't sure when the scraping sound started. I was sure I noticed it after the sound of it had grown in volume steadily over several seconds. 

I came to a stop and looked over my shoulder. The tunnel from where I was at about a quarter of the way through it hadn't reached the bend, so it made no sense that I couldn't see light at the end of the tunnel from where I had started out. Instead all I could see was an orange wall completely taking up the inside of the tunnel. 

I giggled. It was such a silly thing to see. Obviously someone was playing a joke on me because it was the same wall I had seen in the middle of the road before. What made it even sillier was how the wall was perfectly curved around the top to fit just right with the tunnel ceiling. 

Oh, I thought, there were probably some pranksters, some internet guys, who had moved around a fake wall and thought it would be funny to get my reaction. I took out my phone to start recording the fake wall but noticed my phone was out of battery. Just my luck. I stuffed my phone back into my handbag and continued to look at the orange wall. 

The scraping sound had stopped when I turned around. But it started up again and I could see that the wall appeared to be the source of the scraping noise.The wall was moving steadily forward and the scraping sound was as if the brick of the wall were scraping against the concrete floor and walls of the tunnel. 

"Oh," I said, aloud. 

I noticed the metal railing on the right-hand side of the tunnel was upturned and coiling round. 

With a sudden metallic pop the railing came away from the wall from where one of the bolts gave way to the approaching wall. 

It looked so real. It was really as if the wall were getting closer to me at a slow walking pace and as it did the metal railing was being bent and ripped away from the tunnel-wall because it had no place else to go. 

"This is really elaborate," I said, forcing a smile. Surely the men with their cameras would reveal themselves at any moment. This clearly was some dumb internet prank, right? 

The approaching orange wall began to pick up speed. Both the scraping sound and the metallic bending noise increased significantly. I let out a scream at the sudden loudness and dropped my handbag in fright; the small hand mirror Cheryl gave me for my twenty-fifth birthday rolled on its side out of my handbag towards the wall. I watched it roll as I reached down to get the other items which had fallen out of my handbag. 

The approaching wall crushed the hand mirror in less than a second, the mirror cracking and breaking to pieces which slipped beneath the wall's lowest bricks. 

Despite this it still took me another second to realise how much danger I was in. The scraping and the twisting of the metal railing became almost unbearably loud; the wall continued its steady approach towards me and it seemed to be picking up speed. 

Holding tight to my handbag I turned and ran away at a jogging pace. The sound of scraping and twisting metal and the occasional loud bursting away of the bolts keeping the railing fastened to the tunnel wall continued behind me. 

Was the tunnel collapsing? Was there something behind the wall, like a car, which was accelerating and pushing it forward somehow? 

Within seconds I broke into as fast of a run as I could muster in my heeled boots. Part of me thought it was so stupid to be running from an orange wall that wasn't there when I first entered the tunnel, but whether it made sense stopped mattering. I needed to get away from the horrible noises and I had seen what the wall had done to my hand mirror.

I quickly found myself wishing I had used the treadmill at my local gym for more than just steep incline walking. A stitch came on hard as I neared what I imagined to be the halfway point of the tunnel. There was still the other half to go but the tunnel appeared to be gaining even more speed. I dared a look over my shoulder and saw the wall was swallowing up much of the twisted metal railing that was being torn away from the wall; it was as if the bottom-most part of the wall were a giant hoover at first grinding, then sucking up whatever touched it. 

What if I stopped running? What if I fell down and the wall plowed right over me? I let out a scream and quickly wished I hadn't because I was already so out of breath. 

Clop! Clop! Clop! Clop!

Please! I thought, Move faster! 

My body was pathetically slow. In my desperation I dropped my handbag. It was slowing me down and it just made sense in the moment to let it go. I moved faster thanks to the weight of my handbag not slowing me down but I couldn't help but look back and watch as the wall ground it to pieces in a mere moment. 

The wall was real; so real and moving fast and unrelenting towards me. I felt the urge to sob. I was so scared but I knew that letting myself cry could mean the death of me. I didn't have the precious seconds to spare. needed to run to the tunnel exit.

I wasn't going to make it. The wall was moving far too fast for me to outrun it. Maybe if I took my boots off I might be able to run full-tilt but the time it would take for me to slip them off the wall would surely reach me. No! Idiot! Just do it! Now or never! 

I stopped and hopped on the spot taking the first boot off, then the second. It was the fastest I had ever taken my boots off by a mile. I heard the awful sound of the wall sucking up and grinding down the boots a half-second later. I could feel the rush of air and the cold of the twisted metal railing against my hand for an instant. 

I think the wall would have crushed me then if not for the metal railing at that section bursting violently away from the tunnel wall. It struck me hard in the shoulder and pushed me forward. It hurt so much I was sure that a bone in my shoulder must have broken. I had no time to check but the push from the railing had given me a precious extra second to start sprinting. 

I had never ran in my whole life with such intensity. I could move so much better with my feet touching down on the cold tunnel floor. I sucked in breath after breath as if hyperventilating desperate to reach the end of the tunnel; I could make out the sound of the lights along the tunnel ceiling bursting and shattering and being sucked up by the wall along with the metal. 

I was almost out. Almost. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. I was maybe a handful of seconds at my sprinting pace from reaching it. But there was something on the floor ahead of me in my way. My whole body wanted to scream because it had nothing more to give and the idea that there was some new obstacle preventing me from getting away from the chaos charging forward behind it was too much. 

There was a cat on the ground licking itself. 

"Move!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. 

The ginger cat seemed to realise the danger it was in and darted off towards the end of the tunnel. I had no time to feel relief for the cat. Worse, screaming for it to move warning it of the danger it should already have heard coming (I suppose it confused the scraping for the usual sound of the train rumbling by), I had used up all of the air in my lungs. Every fiber of my body was telling me it couldn't move that little bit more because it had already reached beyond its limit. 

I reached the precipice of the tunnel catching a glimpse of the edge of the platform and a half dozen people waiting about. 

My body gave out. I simply couldn't move forward anymore no matter how desperately I wanted to. I felt the wall at my back; the solid brick like the cold touch of death. I was going to be crushed just like the metal railing and the tunnel lights and my mirror, handbag, and boots. 

The agony of the wall reminded me of the time I had been in a car crash. Just sheer force wracking my body and the pain climbing all at once to an unbearable degree. For a second I could do nothing but feel my entire body squeeze hard against the unyielding pressure of the wall and then, just as I began to descend towards the bottom of the wall where it would consume me by grinding me down. The pressure gave way and I found myself launching an athlete's leap from the end of the tunnel to the nearby wall where a poster for women's perfume resided. 

I hit the plastic frame casing at a sprinting speed. Pain erupted across my face, neck, and the rest of my body. The pain that was already in my shoulder was joined by even more pain, surely several broken bones, across the rest of my body. I was alive, but for how long? The wall was still coming. It was going to crush me. 

I slipped down with an almost cartoonish squeak, my blood coating the plastic frame in front of me; the blood was coming from my mouth and somewhere atop my head and elsewhere I couldn't be sure. I couldn't breathe. The impact had taken the air completely out of my lungs. I hit the ground and lay suffocating. I rolled over onto my back and saw the end  of the tunnel. 

The wall was gone, but the destruction it had caused remained. I lost consciousness as the people that had been waiting nearby raced towards me. The last thing I remember seeing was a cute guy looking down at me with concern on his face.

Let me start off by addressing the title. Yes I am an arsonist/pyromaniac. Ever since I was young I’ve had an unhealthy obsession with fire and anything that goes bang. I can remember being as young as 7 years old and stealing my parents match’s to light them and just watch them burn out and to also light small things like individual leafs and sticks on fire. I used to take match’s and lighters to elementary school and do the same thing with some other delinquent friends that liked fires aswell. The habit slowly progressed from lighting small fires into bigger and bigger ones. Before I knew it by the time I was in middle and high school I was starting fires that required the police and fire department to show up.

I grew up by the woods and that definitely didn’t help but most of my fires got put out before they could get wildly uncontrollable. Mostly just burned down a few trees before the fire department showed up and put it out. Haven’t got caught for it yet though. My main way of starting these fires was with a cigarette or a joint that I would smoke until I would get it down enough and tie it around a piece of yarn. That yarn would then start burning like a fuse until it hit a pile of dry leafs that I doused in lighter fluid. That shit would light right up and everything else around it I tell you what. I guess I got addicted to the rush of getting away with this type of shit. I’ve also been involved with wrong crowds and done tons of other dumb shit that I won’t get into on this post cause frankly it would be way too long.

Oh and another thing before any of you guys tell me I’m a lunatic and I’m fucked up and got some sort of childhood trauma I’m not addressing “you should go to therapy” blah blah blah, I know. I know I’m fucked up in the head for doing shit like this and it probably is some un delt with childhood trauma. I’ve been to therapy many times for this and many other things like my anger issues I just don’t really believe in it and honestly think it’s for pussies. So save all your preaching bullshit for someone else that cares. That’s not the point of this post.

I’m in my early 20’s now and recently I’ve been going around to abandoned building in my town and towns around mine starting fires there. I was born and raised in a town outside of a major city in western Massachusetts. I’m not gonna name the city in case this makes it to the cops and they can track me down in some way but I think it’s important to state that the tons of abandoned mills and failed businesses that are all around here are great targets for someone like me. Especially since I’ve upgraded from my fires in the woods to more risky targets. Hell I’m probably doing these fucks a favor so they can collect the insurance on it without hiring some crackhead do it and risking them snitching when they inevitably get caught. These guys are getting it from me for free!

I need to talk about this weird thing I experienced lately though. Old abandoned buildings often have stories of being haunted and are overall unsettling no matter where you are. Just something about the nature of the fucked up things that happened there whether it’s an old insane asylum where the patients where tourtured or old mills where some worker got grinned up in a giant machine and now haunts the building. Along with the large population of homeless people that stay in the buildings so they can sleep and have a place to get high for the night. The eerie silence and every little thing that goes bump in the night is enough to make just about anyone scared even if it is just all bullshit stories.

Anyways my last burning I went to one of the old loading docks/storage buildings that was part of my towns textile mill. The small building was separate from the huge main building that workers used to actually make the textiles and was right next to a bunch of other storage and loading docks just like it. I broke a window and climbed into the smaller building with my lighter fluid, my yarn fuse, some kindling, and my pack of cigarettes that I would use to start the fire. As I jumped through the window into the large open area of the loading dock I see all the dust particles going right by my phones flash light. Nobody’s been here in years I think to myself. Immediately I see empty beer bottles, some plastic chairs and other trash scattered around all from other kids who broke in here to chill a little bit and have a good time. Now all I had to do was find a good corner that had some flammable materials that could get this shit ablaze.

This place was perfect it’s almost like they set it up for me I was like a kid in a candy store. These dumb fucks stacked all the wooden chairs and wooden tables that all the old workers used to work on on one side that covered damn near 1/3rd of the building. All old decrepit wood that was ready to be set ablaze. I doused a lot of it with lighter fluid and set up my make shift lighting device when I hear it. “Jackson. What are you doing?” Like the voice of a disapproving authority figure that was also questioning how I could be so stupid. It was so clear like someone was leaning right over me talking right into my ear. I jumped back expecting a cop or some security guard to be standing there. I turned around expecting to be put in cuffs right at that second. When I turned around though nobody was there. I frantically shined my phones flashlight around and it only confirmed that it was only me in the building surrounded by deafening silence. “Must be my imagination” I said. Not my first time in these spooky buildings and thinking I heard something that isn’t really there. I recollected myself and went back to tying my half smoked cigarette to the yarn. As I see it start to light the yarn I run out of the building.

Like many other arsonists I get my kick out of seeing the fire spread and fully engulf the structure. I run to a nearby patch of trees and bushes where I hunker down to watch the place go up in flames and the inevitable fire engine or 2 show up to frantically put out my work. Just as I thought, the place went right up. It was great just like I thought it would be. It was beautiful. Watching the flames reach as high as 3 stories I sat and admired as this small one story building was up in flames I was loving it. As I heard the sirens of the fire engines in the distance I layed down further covering myself in the brush waiting to see them put out my hard work. I don’t blame them it is their job after all. I’m just glad to see them actually doing something for once instead of sitting on their ass and collecting their pay checks for doing nothing.

Here’s where things get especially strange though. As I lay down on my stomach still admiring this huge fire (honestly some of my best work) I saw something. From the garage door opening of the loading dock I saw 3 figures appear out of the flame. All of them dark black silhouettes obviously visible in contrast to the yellow and orange flame that they were standing in front of. One a tall male adult figure, the other a slightly less tall female figure and the last one a small child like figure all standing right next to each other. They stood there for what felt like minutes on end looking right at me with their non existent eyes. Just staring, knowing that I was trying to hide in the bushes while the sirens in the background grew louder. I laid there on the ground stricken with a sense of dread and overall fear as they stood there. The large male figure raised his hand and pointed right at me. I knew it was directed at me. I was shaking at this point from fear. A fear that I don’t know if I’ve ever felt in my life time. The sirens grew louder and louder I could see the red and white lights off in the distance the fire engines had to be a few hundred yards away. I looked away and started shaking my head around feeling that I had to be seeing things. I closed my eyes and started telling myself that I was just going crazy and that these things in front of me where not actually there. I opened up my eyes to see the fire engines and police arriving and looked specifically at the loading dock to see that the silhouettes were gone. I watched the firemen frantically getting out and hooking up their hoses to put out my flame. I watched as they methodically fought the flames like they have had to fight many of my works in the past.

When my work of art was fully put out I snaked away and walked back to my car still in shock from what I just saw. I’m terrified and I don’t know what to do. I know what I saw was real and not just my imagination. I need sometime to sleep this off. If anyone can help explain this please reach out.

I moved in with my Uncle who had a strange set of rules.

When I was twelve I was forced to spend a summer with my Great Uncle Jeremy. You see, I was a bit of a troublemaker back in those days. My parents thought if I spent some time with my strict grouch of an Uncle, I would somehow be rehabilitated. You can imagine how hard my eyes rolled when my mom and dad told me about their plan, but I was oblivious to the horrors I would endure that summer.

Uncle Jeremy was somewhat of a mountain man. He lived in the remote wilderness of Montana's high pine forest. A homesteader through and through, he'd made a life where most people would go insane, granted Uncle Jerremy did seem a bit kooky to me at the time.

My dad almost tossed me out of the car as we rolled into my uncle's mountain cabin. He didn't even wait for Uncle Jeremy to greet me at the door. I watched as Dad's little Prius made its way back down the long driveway and onto the unkempt dirt road. While I was a bit offended by how I'd just been abandoned, I was not envious of the long journey ahead of him. It took us almost two hours to traverse that nasty road. I was sure we'd be left stranded at one point or another, a Prius is no off-roading vehicle.

The hybrid's tail lights disappeared amongst the dense forest. My attention turned to the rickety wooden cabin. This house was not what you would imagine it to be, it wasn't the picturesque idea people have when they think of a log cabin. I could see the structure had been through a lot. The logs were weathered, faded by the hot Montana summer and the icy winter winds. I could tell that everything used in its construction was sourced from the surrounding forest. Likewise, no modern amenities were visible, no power lines, fire hydrants, or even a satellite dish. I knew then it would be a duller summer than I'd imagined.

I lifted a hand to knock on the old door and stopped when I noticed a few deep scratch marks on its facade.

'Bears?' I thought to myself. An uneasy feeling that I was being watched from the pines came over me. I cocked my head in the direction of the tree line. It felt like something was calling me over to the woods. The door squealed open and I returned my gaze to the cabin.

In the passageway stood a grey-bearded man, the fibers in his beard long, greasy, and matted. His skin was old and weathered, I suspected the same reasoning as the cabin's. He looked at me through the grey film in his eyes. I'd never actually met Uncle Jerremy up until that point, but I'd heard stories about him from my father. My father had suffered the same fate as me the summer between seventh and eighth grade. He told me Uncle Jerremy was not a man to be trifled with.

"You listen to everything your Uncle Jerremy tells you, he is not a man you want to make angry." My father would lecture, but when I looked into the face of the withering man, I didn't sense an ounce of animosity. He almost seemed kind, nothing resembled the ferocity my father had mentioned.

"Hi, I'm Marcus." I outstretched my hand in the introduction but he slapped it away, before placing a hand over my mouth.

"Shhh-- we don't say names here!" He moved my head over to the side to make sure no one, or, nothing was listening. More of my father's description of my great-uncle came to mind.

"Uncle Jeremy is a bit-- strange, but he has your best interest in mind, try your best to ignore his lack of civility." His words were all starting to make sense now.

Uncle Jerremy ushered me into the cabin and I thought I heard him whisper my name, as he pushed me inside. That is until I turned to see the look of fear in his eyes. I knew then that the sound had drifted in on the early summer breeze, somewhere beyond the tree line. The hairs on the back of my neck stood.

"Is everything Okay Uncle Jerremy?" His open palm slapped my cheek as I spoke his name.

"Damn it, kid! I told you no names!" He said through gritted teeth before returning his gaze to the tree line. Almost like a dream, a faint voice slithered into the cabin.

"Jerrrreeemmmy." The voice called.

"What the hell is that?" I asked but received no reply. Uncle Jerremy quickly slammed the door shut.

"Rule number one, NO NAMES!" I dropped my gaze at his reprimand.

"Rule number two, if you hear something strange, leave-- it -- be. Ignore it! You hear me?" I ponder his instructions before moving to question his logic.

"W-Why?"

"Not another word on the matter, those are the rules. My only rules, you follow them or I'll send you back to your little life in Boise you hear me!?"

Just then my escape from homestead living became clear, break a few rules here and there and I'd be back in the Gem state. I tried not to smile at the plot that was formulating in my mind.

"Your room is down yonder." The old man pointed down a small hallway before leading me to it himself. We stepped into a small ten-by-ten room. I threw my backpack onto the bed and plopped down right beside it, giving a grunt of relief.

"What do you think you're doing kid? This isn't some luxurious mountain retreat." I eyed the crumbling wooden walls, 'The understatement of the century' I thought to myself.

"We have work to do", he moved to the window and pushed open the shutters taking in a lung full of pristine mountain air in the process. Beyond his gaze stood a two-acre clearing in the forest. A mix of fields, more comparable to glorified gardens, and livestock, chickens, goats, and one cow. He turned to me and noted my disappointed face.

"What you think this was a free ride? No, we work for our food here." He said with the first ounce of enjoyment I'd seen inch across his face. He pulled open a drawer on the nightstand.

"I placed these here for you before you got here." I peered into the drawer to find some old torn overalls.

"You put those on and meet me outside, there's a lot to get done around here. The faster we get it over with the faster we can have ourselves a nice supper.

Later that night I lay in bed unable to sleep. All of my muscles were aching. Uncle Jerremy was not lying; homestead living is not for the weak. We'd worked until the sun met the horizon, and this time of year in Montana, that was around 9:30 p.m.

We'd weeded the fields, fed the chickens, and milked the dairy cow whose name I found out to be Bessy, and done dozens upon dozens of other tasks that were not very enjoyable. The best thing about it was that Uncle Jerremy said we would do it all again the next day. I placed the pillow over my face hoping that it would suffocate me. I was a beat dog that needed to be put out of its misery. The warmth of the plush fabric seemed to comfort me a bit, so I left it there as the night slowly started to wash over me. Just as I was about to fall into an uneasy night of sleep, I heard scratching from the other side of the wall. It was coming from outside.

The sound was very faint. It almost reminded me of the time we had mice inside the walls back home, only these walls were not hollow, they were solid lumber. I moved the pillow off to the side making sure that nothing muted the scraping by my head.

'Scrape, scrape, scrape." The noise sounded rhythmic. As if someone was sending a message.

'Scratch, scratch, scratch." Whatever it was it was clawing deeper into the side of the cabin. The noisemaker was making the noise was too strong to be a mouse, a raccoon maybe. Then the sound intensified, to a loud ear-piercing screech, like someone clawing at an old chalkboard.

"Screech, Screech, Screech." I shot to a seated position. It must've been a bear. Montana Grizzlies scared the shit out of me, part of the reason why I'd never come to meet Uncle Jerremy in the first place. I heard the same faint whisper that had come from the tree line earlier that day, only this time instead of Uncle Jeremy's name, my name hissed through the cracks of the cabin.

"Maaaarccussss." I looked at the shutters on the window, and my heart dropped when I saw something slowly pulling them open.

"Uncle Jerremy!" I shouted. From down the hall, I heard a bedroom door smash open, followed by my room's door. Uncle Jerremy stood there holding his 22 in hand, his eyes meeting mine, before noticing the slowly creeping shutters. He leaned the gun on the wooden wall before running over to the shutters and forcing them closed. He quickly locked the latch before turning to me.

"Kid! I had two rules and you broke both of them the first night!" He shouted at me while I made sense of what just happened. I was hoping that the more my uncle talked the more the situation would clear up, but everything he said just made me more confused and frankly, terrified.

"Now you've done it, kid. It now knows our names, it's imprinted on us. You have no idea how hard it was to get rid of the last one."

'It? The last one?' I thought.

"Wha-- what are you talking about." I quivered.

"Never mind that, from now on you keep these shutters locked here?" He didn't have to tell me twice.

"The whole house is going to be locked down. And just so we're clear if you hear me calling your name, it ain't me!"

'What the hell, what else could it be?' I thought before I opened my mouth to ask a clarifying question.

"What is-- it?" I said.

"What's my second rule!?" My uncle commanded. I pondered for a bit, before responding.

"If I see something, leave it be."

"That's right! Leave-- it -- be. No more of this, we will not talk about it anymore, it will only encourage it. Suddenly I no longer wanted to go through with my plot to get Uncle Jerremy to send me home.

The next morning after breakfast, Uncle Jerremy and I stepped outside to inspect the side of the wall where the noise was coming from. Uncle Jerremy touted a gun belt today, a magnum revolver in its sheath.

When we gazed at the marks on the wall I was sure that no grizzly had created the noise. These scratches were not random like the ones on the door. No, these markings were indeed a message. Drawn on the wooden logs was a cryptic symbol, a circle with three jagged lines drawn through it. On top of this circle were two names. Jeremy and Marcus. I gulped as Uncle Jeremy got a closer look. He gave a nervous chuckle.

"He'll be back tonight." He said in a tone that desiring itself to be false. My stomach fluttered in fear.

Bessy, the dairy cow, gave an agonizing Moo. I could tell that something was bothering her. Uncle Jeremy turned with a sad look on his face. He took to his feet and walked his way over to the cow. When he was feet away from her he took to one knee.

"It's already begun." I looked over his shoulder and my mouth dropped when I saw the sight of gore that still torments me to this day. Bessy's Udders were mutilated, flesh hanging off of each of the protrusions, and flies feasting on her fresh wounds as blood mixed with milk.

"Poor Bessy." Uncle Jeremy said. I could tell that seeing his cow suffer made him emotional. I moved to comfort him but before my hand could grace his shoulder, he stood. He Unholstered the magnum and pointed it at Bessy's head. One shot rang out as every bird in the vicinity took flight.

Bessy was dead. She now lay in a pool of blood and brain matter. Uncle Jeremy wiped away some tears, before turning around and walking briskly back to the cabin.

"Come on kid, we have to get ready." I knew that we were heading for some kind of battle.

When the night fell on the cabin that day, Uncle Jeremy and I did not talk. We had barricaded ourselves and all of the livestock inside the little cabin. A total of 22 chickens, 7 goats, and a variety of domesticated geese. He'd thrust a rifle in my hand and give me instructions on how to shoot, though he said not to use it unless something happened to him.

For the most part, the night was quiet, the chickens and geese had roosted for the night, and the goats had lost the excitement of being in a new environment. They now huddled together in a corner of the living room. I would almost say it was peaceful. Until every animal began screeching at the top of their lungs.

The birds flocked around the house. The goats erupted in a panic, running around trying to find any hiding place they could, most now cowered under the dining room table. Almost as quickly as the commotion began, it all quieted down. I looked at Uncle Jeremy in bewilderment, but the look in his eye told me he'd seen all of this before. His eyes trained on the door. A familiar sound slid across the other side, it was the scratching that we'd heard the night before. In the same fashion, the scratching intensified before it erupted into a frenzy of banging.

I eyed the door as the latch struggled to keep whatever was on the other side out. A voice soon followed suit.

"Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy. Oh, Uncle Jeremy." It sounded like me. For some reason whatever was on the other side was using my voice as bait. The voice changed to that of Uncle Jeremy's.

"Marcus. Open the door, Marcus." Uncle Jeremy looked at me before raising his revolver to the door. One shot rang out and the sound of something hitting the floor was evident from our vantage point. My Uncle took to his feet and made his way over to the door, revolver at the ready. I wanted to tell him to stay put but couldn't find the courage.

He opened the top latch, followed by the bottom. The door cautiously creeked open and Uncle Jeremy peered out of the small crack. I will remember the words that came from his mouth for the rest of my life.

"Oh, shit."

Suddenly a clawed hand reached through the small crack in the door and pulled him from the comforts of the cabin. I heard screams but wasn't sure if they belonged to Uncle Jeremy, or, the thing impersonating him. Everything went quiet and I wrestled with the idea of seeing what the outcome of the skirmish was. Just then I heard a voice that brought me a mountain of relief.

"It's Okay kid. I got him." I heard Uncle Jeremy grunt as he seemingly took to his feet from the other side of the door. But as the door slowly swung open, my heart dropped.

It wasn't my uncle. It was the creature that had taken him. Its body was tall and skinny, its skin pale, and its face, well it had no face, just a plain identity. But as it stood there and turned in my direction, a mouth began to part. Skin sticking to its upper and lower jaws like large wads of gum, until they eventually gave way to sharp teeth. It spoke one more time in my uncle's voice.

"Marcus." It took to a sprint and when it was just feet from me, a revolver round spat out. The creature flopped to the floor in a green pool of blood. Standing at the door was my injured Uncle Jeremy.

After that night I had no problems following any of Uncle Jeremy's rules, no matter how arbitrary they were. We worked his homestead all summer and I never mentioned his name again. I was never one for the rules but in this instance, I was not going to summon another creature. Although I would see things dart beyond the tree line I never mentioned them. At the end of the summer, I was adamant that I would never spend another day with my Uncle Jeremy, A model citizen through and through.

"When you've created something great,

You simply cannot wait,

No payment do you seek,

As you share the best for free!"

This I'd like on my tombstone, as I realized it summarizes both my attitude and all that I love in this world. Do I hate the failures and the atrocities of Man? I cannot say I feel hate, for I am overwhelmed by a love for the good that I have quested for and found. I've found that hate is the manifestation of weakness.

I don't have to hate my enemies to destroy them.

It is my love for you that teaches me all about you. It is with love that shall I comfort you as I lead you to the pasture; where I shall lay you to rest. It was with love in my heart that I said goodbye, and in an instant, I silenced your pain. Perhaps in some way, I hated the sickness in your mind that afflicted you - but I did not hate you.

Later, I did not even hate that sickness that gave me a reason to destroy you. I grew to understand what had made you sick, and I learned the nature of this thing. In my learning I felt joy, and the hate was gone, no more weakness.

That, my friend, I shall cure you and others like you. I do not hate you, and it gives me joy to release you from your suffering, and to prevent the spread of your affliction.

Perhaps this is hard to understand. I shall give an example, a story my grandmother told me, when I was young.

When she was a little girl, they had a dog named Champ. Champ was a good dog, he was brave and cunning, and he knew when to bark and when to stand proudly and stare. He was a very good boy.

Once, Champ protected a kitten from two stray dogs. Champ was very protective of small animals, although he did like to chase rabbits, he never caught one. This kitten had wandered out of the barn while two stray dogs had come across the pasture.

After the fight, Champ got sick. Something in those dogs he had driven off, had gotten into him through a bite. Champ changed, and he was very sorry, but he couldn't help it. The bite had made him so sick that he went mad.

So, Great-grandfather took Champ out into the field and sat with him while the sun was setting. Then, while Champ was having his last moment of peace, there was a single gunshot to the back of his head. They buried him in the dark - under starlight - and reminded each other that Champ was still a very good boy, although near the end he had gotten quite rancorous.

It might be hard for others to see that you were once a very good boy, but I know you. I love you and I have watched you, and I recognize that you too were bitten, in a way. There is no cure for the sickness in you, except to kill you, but that does not mean that I hate you.

Please don't feel that way, is all I ask of you. You are loved, at least by me. That is why it is my duty to take you to the pasture, and put an end to the suffering you are causing, especially your own suffering.

I doubt you are afraid to die, not you. You've seen too much of death to really actually fear it. No, you are afraid that we will hate you, that is what worries you. Don't worry, I don't have to tell anyone what you did. I don't have to say what Champ did, do I?

We all love Champ, for he was a very good boy. And when I tell your story, they will all love you, too. You were, after all, a very good boy.

I noticed that you were discriminating when you chose who you would use your skills on. I am the same way, I always choose the ones who will not be caught, the ones who don't accept that they won't feel hated. I don't feel hated, and I don't wish for you to feel that way either.

I believe everyone deserves to be loved. It is just a very special kind of love that is reserved for one such as you. Yes, there were others before you, and there will be more after you, but you are still special to me. The term 'serial' doesn't exactly work, because each is unique and special. You're not like the rest, I've never seen one like you before. You took special planning and consideration before I could catch you.

I cannot make your death the same as any before you, you understand. There is no 'bullet to the back of the head' or 'pasture at sunset'. That is how a dog was killed, not how you are meant to go. I wouldn't even consider something so simple for you, as you deserve so much better.

In the past I've used all sorts of methods, but there is one common theme. I never get caught because I don't actually do it to you myself. No, my method of operation is the same in one regard: I compel you to do it to yourself.

This way you get to choose the exact way, the fine details. It works so much better when you are happy with the results. I want you to have a hand in these decisions, I want you to be a part of this. We'll work on it together. Consider me more of a loving, angelic kind of guide - confirmation that God loves you and that you are part of the Plan. You do believe in God, it is the one thing that you and I and the ones I've already killed all have in common.

Serial killers are never atheists. That would be silly, a fine artist like yourself - not believing in God. You know there's a God, and it is so beautiful that you are so wise. I mean it, to know that God exists, without a doubt, that is the providence of saints.

Whole congregations with all their faith combined are not as certain as you and I. It is just one more thing I love about you. God, you are so beautiful. I get lost in the wonder that you have wrought. To the rest of the world, you are perhaps nothing more than a murderer, a psychopath, a sadist and worse, but I know better. I know you.

It takes one to know one, they say, and that is why you know my love for you is genuine. I take everyone's life, sooner or later, as God's messenger. Yes, eventually I orchestrate the death of every person, often with some care. Your death, however, must be very special.

I was there each time you took a life, as you must realize. You are quite intelligent, and you are starting to understand me, as I understand you. I could simply snap my finger and cause your heart to stop beating. Sometimes when I am in a hurry, and nobody is around anyway, that's how I take them. Sometimes I make it look peaceful, by stopping the flow of blood to their brain, when they are old and in bed, and they just go peacefully. Kinda boring, but I like to keep things neat for most people.

When you took someone's life, you were playing at me. You had my power over life and death. You did it quite often and you were exceptionally good at it. They never caught you, and they never will. I don't really catch you, I just sort of come to you, like this, and let you know it is time. It is your time, your turn, your big special moment.

And my grandmother, you might ask? Was I ever human? I am in all humans, but that one was my favorite. I was that person, all their life, and I am also you - or rather you were me. When you are gone from this world, you'll have an eternity to contemplate what your life was all about.

For some people this is a reward.

For others - eternal torment, punishment. The horror of their life is their lonely eternity.

It is for you to choose, at this moment, what sort of eternity you shall have, in a few moments. If you do things my way, you'll be quite happy. Or you can reject my love for you, and find yourself all alone, feeling that hate - from a most peculiar and unexpected source, as you realize you were never me, and that you are just you, after all. I don't want you to suffer, so I am giving you this one opportunity to be me, one last time, take the power from me and by your own hand do this one very special thing.

I'd like you to take that gas nozzle you are filling your car with, and soak yourself: your hair and clothing. Then, return the nozzle to the holster, accept the receipt and walk out into that quiet and dark street.

There, you shall use your lighter on the gasoline receipt and set yourself ablaze.

Good boy, Champ, good.

Cycle of the Warlock:

Nobody believes me, although I've never lied about anything. This is worse than being taken from my home by Darmem Stonewell. Yes, he is the same as the new boy in our class, Darren Rockwell. He is a liar and a kidnapper - and a warlock.

I was Lamb, and I lived in terror, in darkness, in hunger. I thought he was going to kill me, but instead, his plans were so much more terrible. I now live in a nightmare, although I have returned to my family and to school.

That is why I do not want to go to Mrs. Peachtree's class today. That is why I do not want to go to school. Darren sits behind me, and I can hear him whispering: "I am watching you, Lucy. You are my little Lamb, and you are mine. You are always mine, and nobody can take you from me."

His power over me is somehow incomplete, because I can see who he is. I know he controls everyone around me, because my teacher and my parents and my friends think he is a perfect little boy, and force me to sit with him whenever and wherever he wants me to sit. They only see a kid who shares his lunch and his smile and is so polite and kind.

He is such a liar, so fake. I know he is evil and I know he is really Darmem Stonewell, Dr. Germaine and also Dane Radcliff. He is all those people, somehow. I would know best how he does it, how he becomes young again, and lives another life, and can disguise himself to be both a student, a soccer coach and a psychiatrist.

They think I am traumatized and they medicate me. It only makes my head more clear, it only eradicates my emotions and let's me tell my story. I have a dictionary and a friend, in Domo Aria Gato Sans, my cat. A side effect of my medication lets me write like a grown-up, late at night, as long as I keep eating sugar. My head is so lucid, and my thumbs quick on the page to find the words. I am not alone, my cat sits with me, and when I cannot express myself, I can hear his thoughts, like he sounds like Morgan Freeman, and I know how to express myself when he says what to say.

We'll just call my cat Dags for short, since that is one of his three names. His other name is a secret name, and that is known only to me and to him. That way Darmem Stonewell cannot cast a spell on my cat. He needs your name to use his witchcraft on you, it is part of the spell.

My father signed me up for soccer and Dane Radcliff was our coach. He watched me with the focused gaze of a predator, and I felt his eyes all over my body while I exercised. I knew something was wrong, but I couldn't explain what it was. It was just this dirty and uncomfortable sensation. Like someone is watching you.

It wasn't until winter, when soccer ended, that my mom, a soccer mom, finally agreed with me that our coach was weird. That's all she said, that he was weird. It took her too long, and it was too little, but for just one moment, I felt safe, like she would listen to me.

I'd had premonitions about what his plans were for me, and I told her I needed protection. She laughed and said that our security system at home was sufficient. So, her home was safe from burglary, but I didn't see how that was going to keep me safe - when I kept seeing him outside, watching me.

I'd pull back my curtains, half asleep. I'd wake up, answering to his voice, commanding me. There he was, outside, looking at me. He didn't need to come in. I tried to say he was stalking me, but there was no evidence, he was never seen by anyone else. I'd wake up my parents and after enough false alarms, they stopped believing me.

That is when he took me from them.

I woke up one night and he was in our house. He was holding a strange candelabra with sparking green light dripping from the fleshy wax. It smelled of the grave, an earthy and fetid smell. There was this nascent emotion in me, where I could only stare, dreamlike, entranced. His maliferous grin was one of sadistic victory.

He gestured and I stood in my pajamas. My cat was hiding, unable to protect me. My parents lay scattered where they had responded to his intrusion, falling to the floor as he waved his magic candle at them. It cast no shadows, or it cast a shadow, rather than light, this eerie and weird glow. The smell of it was due to its composition of a severed hand, the fingertips burning with the flames of the grave, and its power even worked on the neighborhood security who responded to the alarum-call, only to fall asleep amid the sprinklers of our lawn.

And then he touched me for the first time, and pain shot through my body. He roughly handled me into his car, into the backseat. He buckled my waist, and lay me down back there, telling me to sleep. Then I slept, and when I was awake again, I was in a bedroom, with one of my hands wrapped in tight cushioning and handcuffed to the iron bedframe. He'd undressed me and changed me into a diaper and nightgown.

Darmem entered the room and looked at me with satisfaction.

"Lamb, you are. Lucy waits. You will obey me. This is a phial, and you will choose to imbibe it, and in thirteen days and nights you will consist the sacrifice. One death brings new life. I am grateful to have found a pure maiden, who has never told a lie. You are exceptionally rare these days. Some men think that all women lie, but I know better. Bless you and keep you in His grace, my dear, and you shall be cleansed."

"I lie all the time." I tried to tell a lie, hoping it would ruin his spell. I was unable to speak, my words went into a silence and he smiled, his trickery absolute.

"In my home, you will obey my rules. You will not speak - you cannot lie." Darmem Stonewell informed me. He made a gesture and an old book appeared in his hand. The title was Calendoer, and it was someone's diary. Even a wise and ancient warlock needed a guide. He read something from it and then closed the book again, and it vanished into his wizardly robes.

"I recognize you. You're my soccer coach." I tried to say. He nodded, as though he could read my mind.

"You know me, but it won't give you power over me. Nobody else has ever recognized me. It means nothing, to be recognized." He shrugged, but I sensed he had a doubt. He wasn't sure how I knew he was the same person. Perhaps it was my purity, perhaps I was too pure.

"Liars beget liars. I don't even lie to myself." I claimed. This seemed to bother him, as though he could still hear me, although I was muted. He shrugged and left me there.

For nearly two weeks he kept me his prisoner, attached to the bed. He changed my diaper and he put a leash and collar on me and took me to an old iron bath and washed me in salts and oils, cleansing me. He cast spells that sounded like prayers over me, and I was subdued. I couldn't resist him, I felt like I had to do what he wanted.

Every day he seemed to wither and grow weaker, until the thirteenth sunrise, and sunset, the final day of my terrifying ordeal. I was truly frightened, as I believed he was going to sacrifice me. I thought the wavy knife he kept, his athame, was meant to slaughter me in the chamber he had prepared in his basement.

I shook with fear, completely under his power, but filled with dread. I wore a white dress, and he showed me to myself in a mirror ringed in black wood, carved and embedded with white silver. I looked different, angelic, and for a moment I admired my reflection. I did look very beautiful. On my head he placed a crown made of braided daisies which he had carefully woven.

"This will protect you, and nothing in that chamber will be able to claim you. You must remain pure, or my work will be undone. You must not utter, you must not falter, and your innocence must be guarded. Without your surgery, I might not be restored." He spoke strangely, almost protectively about me. I was still afraid, and I still thought he was going to kill me.

No, his plans were far more terrifying, for he planned to leave me alive - and in a kind of Hell, a nightmare, a prisoner of his terror forever. So much worse than death, for death would have set me free of his power over me. Death would be the end, but it just goes on and on.

I cannot recall what happened in that chamber, but my raven hair grew brittle and white, at what I saw. Demons danced in the shadows, summoned to his resurrection. It was a cruel ritual, and I was the priestess of the abomination. I became his executioner and his midwife, all with the knife and the way. I knew the way, it was his way, and I moved to the rhythm, merely a component of his spell.

"It is love that binds us. My teacher wrote that I would recognize her for her honesty. He said nothing about she who would recognize me. I must be under your power, for the final day of this life, and you will bring me into the next. Our fate is now intertwined. I must belong to you, or else you do not belong to me. Love is a chain, fate, and the place where our souls touch. That is what you must choose to do. If your will is violated, I cannot come forth. Leave me not in the darkness. Recognize me, and know my name, here in this darkness." He said as he sipped the phial.

He handed it to me and I drank the rest, unsure if I chose to do so or not.

Then it was he who lay upon the altar. "I am ready." He breathed, trembling.

I lifted the knife and somehow there was no blood, as I opened him up. Instead, the darkened chamber filled with light. Then there was a void beyond. It was in front of me, and all around me, and within me. The light coming out of him was in me, and fading. I felt its pain and its terror, slipping into the darkness beyond.

Despite what he had done to me, I felt sorry for him, seeing where he was going. I pitied his fading light, as it descended. It clung to me, like a newborn, helpless. I watched as he began to fall away from me, and I saw how he was part of me, and I a part of him. It pained me to know that if I did nothing, he would be lost forever in that eternal shadow, and he would cease to be.

Although I was shaking with fear, and although I have only a vague memory of how and why I did what I did, I reached out, with my mind, my heart, my soul. Whatever part of me reached for him, it was my own will. In that moment his spell over me was broken and I was free. I could have let him descend into that abyss, I could have let him go. Something in me did not wish that, it felt evil to let him go there, like what was beyond, those hungry dancing demons who had celebrated before his fall, like I would be feeding him to them.

It felt wrong, like casting a baby into the flames.

For thirteen days he had eaten nothing, only drinking water. His body was purified.

For thirteen nights he had slept in wrappings so that he could not move, and only at the light of dawn did these bindings fall away. His heart was purified.

For thirteen baths, he had cleansed me in a sacred pool, and made me whole, so that I could not hate him. His soul was purified.

He had explained this to me, and in my fear of him I had not understood. I reached for him, with my willpower, with my love - like a mother's love. I pulled his soul from the shadow, and set it neatly where his body lay restored, youthful, a heart cleansed, beating yet again. There I left him, taking off the flowery crown as I climbed the stairs.

I unlocked the front door and went outside, finding the warm sun on my face, my tears of relief only a moment of freedom. I didn't know that the horror of my world had only just begun. He would never let me go, and I had made him powerful again, all his charm and abilities restored to full.

He lets nothing go. I would tell foul lies, I would speak curses, but I cannot. I am the opposite of him, and I am in fear of becoming his entirely. As long as I remain unlike him, as long as I am the truth, he cannot get any closer, cannot follow me into the next life.

For I know the way, and I shall live again.

Caitlin was a mischievous child.  When she was just 2, she was able to climb out of her crib, crawl down the stairs, open the freezer, and pull out the ice cream.  She was even able to find a spoon and crawl into a closet to avoid the authorities.  Perhaps to her benefit, she was often foiled in her heist, unable to open the top and get that creamy goodness.  When she was 5, she’d figured out the near infinite complexities of the TV remote, enabling her to navigate to her favorite shows, which included Sponge-Bob, Uncle-Grandpa, and the multitude of Saw movies, which she preferred to The Purge.  This invariably followed her into the evening where she revisited all the finer details in her high-definition nightmare. 

Her parents were, generally speaking, not the best.  They patted themselves on the back as successful parents for putting food on her plate, not leaving her in the hot car, and keeping her away from the toolshed.  Beyond that, they didn’t win too many Adulting awards.  However, after she’d managed to crawl into their bed for the third time in a week, they began strategizing a solution.  Obviously, simply not watching the terribly inappropriate and terrifyingly scary shows was no longer an option.  So, they researched the problem and found an unlikely article recommending lucid dreams.  That evening, before bed, they sat her down and explained it to her.  “You can control your nightmares if you can wake up inside of them.”  

Caitlin didn’t know what her parents meant, but she did trust them.  She thought about it into the evening as her eyes grew heavier.  Then she was there, in a dark cave at the top of a cliff.  Deep in the cave was a spider and it was crawling out, pushing her towards the edge.  She was so scared.  She couldn’t think about anything except the terror and … something nudged at the back of her mind.  Suddenly she remembered what her parents said, and that was it.  She was suddenly awake within her dream.  She pushed the spider back into the cave with her mind.  The cave collapsed and she was falling.  She screamed but then remembered, she can control it.  So, she started flying.  The monster came from the shadow and started following her.  She made it her pet.

Caitlin loved her dreams.  The worse they were, the better.  Her parents began to offer her horror movies because they kept her so calm.  She was excited to go to bed and to fall deep into her dreams where she was a god, and anything could happen.  She was happy.  

Years went by and Caitlin’s childhood gave way to other thoughts and pursuits.  Her evening nightmares gave way to dreams of romance.  Her nightmares were more focused on the real world… bills, rumors, health.  She was still young when she got her first seizure.  She was taken to the doctor where she was diagnosed with a rare degenerative disease.  It began like Epilepsy, but the disease would spiral out of control over time.  She would be dead within the year.  

The seizures were scary.  She’d shake, and then… nothing.  She’d wake up seconds later on the ground.  People were staring at her and strangers were approaching.  Time passed and she woke up minutes later, with people holding her.  Sometimes she’d have clothing in her mouth to keep her from biting her tongue.  She had no memory of it.  More time passed and she’d wake up hours later.  She was in the hospital now.  Sensors covered her body, a tube was down her throat, she had a catheter.  Again, she had no memory, no dreams, no loneliness, and not even a memory of darkness.  There was nothing human in it; nothing conscious.  She imagined that this is what death would bring.  Cold empty nonexistence where time didn’t exist.  She thought about it a lot.  

She was in the park.  She thought about the seizures.  She focused on the fainting, and about snapping out of it.  Her mind drifted back to her childhood fears.  She remembered that first night, that first dream.  And then, as she felt the seizure coming, she remembered the feeling.  She remembered taking control.  Darkness… Nothing… Snap… she was awake.

Caitlin was looking at herself.  She saw the people around her begin to panic.  She saw the ambulance come and take her body to the hospital.  She followed.  She found herself in a bed.  The doctor was there talking to her parents.  They were talking about her.  She didn’t have long now.  She felt her heart race.  She felt the panic.  She heard the voice of the child inside her that said she could change it, manipulate it, even control it.  Her feet left the ground.  She reached into herself, and she pulled the malignant mass from her skull.  It evaporated into nothingness.  She saw her body tense, then relax.  She saw the doctors scramble to understand the readings from the many sensors hooked to her body.  She laid down within herself and she awoke.

Caitlin lived a prosperous and wondrous life.  Those around her had the best of luck.  Odd things happened everywhere she went.  Illness faded in moments.  Financial issues disappeared overnight.  People were happy.  The years grew long, and death approached.  Still Caitlin wasn’t scared.  She was familiar with the silent emptiness, the nothingness… she knew it could be overcome.  She knew the truth about lucid dreams.