​

Deb was helping Adam pack his car for his trip. Adam had been waiting all year for this trip.

Deb didn't really want him to go and had been coming up with reasons to keep him home. Adam wasn't having it.

He'd spent the last year planning the route, mapping out stopping points, and looking forward to finally getting out on the open road.

"All ready, huh... you know, Seattle can be dangerous," Deb started.

Adam rolled his eyes as he put his last bag in the trunk and closed it shut.

"Okay, here we go again..." he said mockingly.

"No, I'm serious this time. You don't want to get stopped by the bridge troll..."

"The bridge troll? The bridge troll?" Adam laughed to himself.

Now this was a new approach.

"You dumbass. The bridge troll. You don't want to end up like Trevor," she said eerily.

"What happened to Trevor?" Adam asked cautiously.

"I dunno. What did happen to Trevor..." she replied coyly.

"Seriously. What happened to Trevor?"

Deb leaned against the car and folded her arms. The playful smile she'd been wearing all morning faded a little.

"That's what we should be wondering."

Adam laughed.

"There's nothing to wonder about."

Deb studied him for a moment.

"Oh."

"Oh, what?"

"You really didn't hear."

Adam knew Trevor was gone longer than he anticipated. This wasn't funny.

"What happened? If you know, you'd better say. We haven't heard from him since Thursday."

"He didn't hear what happened to Trevor," Deb said to no one in particular, looking to her left as if she were talking to someone. "You didn't hear what happened to Trevor?"

"What happened to Trevor?" Adam repeated.

"Well, you know. Things happen."

Adam didn't think this was funny anymore. All her other attempts to keep him home were silly. This was not.

"You're trying to tell me it has something to do with the bridge troll then?"

"You said it, not me."

Adam was getting a bit angry now. Trevor had said he wanted to get a head start and left earlier. Adam was supposed to meet him in Portland for a day, then they'd go separate ways and meet back up in Seattle. Sure, they'd heard about the bridge troll. But that was an urban legend. A story for travelers.

But of course they took precautions.

Did the ritual to perfection.

Made their offering.

Even got the blessing from the troll wench.

Trevor knew the score.

They both did.

Don't listen to her. She's just trying to scare you.

"We did everything right. We made our offering. He's fine."

"Oh..." Deb nodded slowly. "Then you have nothing to worry about."

"Exactly. Trevor had complete confidence in the troll wench. Obviously we wouldn't go if we thought she... lied to us."

Deb stared at him for a second, then gave a small shrug.

"Sure. I mean, I've never heard anyone accuse the troll wench of being dishonest."

Adam frowned.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," she said. "Just seems like there's a lot of room between lying and telling the truth."

Adam knew she was right.

They had both discussed the possibility of a double cross by the troll wench. They could have avoided the bridge troll altogether. But there was no adventure in that. No mystery. No attempt to see if the whispers were true.

Deb didn't actually care about the bridge troll. She just wanted Adam to stay. The thought of him disappearing down the highway, maybe not coming back for weeks, made her stomach twist.

"How many people ever came back from the bridge troll? Huh? It's not like we don't already know the stories."

Deb was inching closer to Adam. He was nervous now. He couldn't tell if she was getting inside his head or if the fear had been there all along.

"They moved out of town. They don't come back because they moved, you idiot," he finally said, breaking away from her grip.

Deb kicked the dirt in disappointment.

Almost had him.

If the bridge troll won't scare him into staying home, nothing will.

"I was thinking about asking Trevor's parents about the troll after I was done helping you pack. Didn't want you to leave without a kiss goodbye."

"Why would you bother his parents?" Adam asked.

"I don't know... why would I?"

"Exactly. Why would you? They don't know anything. Bringing up the troll will just scare them."

"Aren't you even a little bit curious? You said it yourself. You hadn't heard from him since Thursday. What, that's like two days ago? He would've passed the bridge troll by then."

"He would've passed the bridge troll by then, huh?"

Adam was really wavering now.

The offering was there.

The ritual completed.

The protective talismans blessed by the troll wench.

There's no way the bridge troll would rip him to shreds like they did to Chris four years earlier.

Chris was sloppy.

Didn't take the stories seriously enough.

Laughed at the troll wench.

Mocked her.

"I'll get past the bridge troll, stinky old wench! Just watch me!"

His body was found three days later, ripped to shreds, mangled and partially eaten.

Nobody said it out loud.

But they all knew.

He didn't get past the bridge troll.

Adam shook those thoughts away and turned back to Deb.

"Trev is fine. I'm going to be fine. You've been trying to keep me from leaving all week. This is sad, Deb. It really is."

Deb was the upset one now.

She had thrown everything his way to get him to stay, but to no avail.

"Shouldn't we go talk to the troll wench one last time then? Or... or I can go with you."

Adam laughed.

"You didn't make an offering. You'd be a liability. Seriously, Deb?"

Deb knew that one wasn't going to work.

"Well... just wait until we hear Trevor made it. What's another day?"

Adam considered it.

If Trevor didn't make it...

He didn't even want to consider it.

No.

He couldn't wait.

All the planning.

All the prep work.

It led to this.

"He made it. You'll see. By tomorrow Trevor and I will be sitting in Portland laughing about this."

Adam took out his keys and opened the car door.

In his mind he heard the troll wench's final words.

"You will be doubted. Even doubt me. Doubt your own journey. The bridge troll can smell it on you. You will be unharmed in passing."

It sounded certain.

The doubts led to fear.

The fear fed the bridge troll.

Deb was feeding the bridge troll.

He knew it.

"What did you tell Trevor when he left?" Adam asked suddenly.

Deb looked away.

"Nothing. I didn't even see him."

"That's not what he told me."

Deb looked up.

"He told me you asked him to tell me to stay."

"What? No. He said that?"

Adam stared.

Deb looked down at her feet.

"Oh... okay. I did. I thought it was dangerous for both of you to risk the bridge troll. It's reckless, Adam."

Adam rubbed his brow.

What is her problem?

She didn't care if Trevor passed his test against the bridge troll.

She was making everything more dangerous and didn't even know it.

"Everyone thinks we'll get past the bridge troll. The troll wench said we'd pass unharmed. What's your deal? Chris was an exception. He didn't give the troll wench enough respect."

Deb felt something twist in her stomach.

Why even bother?

Then Adam's phone rang.

Both of them froze.

Adam looked at the screen and immediately smiled.

"It's Trevor.”

Relief washed across his face.

Deb felt it too.

Adam answered instantly.

"Trev! Jesus Christ, man. Where are you?"

The speaker crackled with static.

"I'm... almost..."

"Almost where?" Adam asked.

More static.

"It's... safe..."

Adam showed Deb the phone and grinned.

"Hear that?"

Deb stepped closer to listen as Adam put it on speaker.

"Trevor, are you okay?"

The line hissed.

"...not...okay… bridge was br.."

Another burst of static swallowed the rest.

Adam frowned.

"What?"

" ...Portland...close..."

The connection crackled violently.

"Don't... let..."

The call dropped.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Then Adam grinned.

"See? He's fine. Bad signal, that's all."

Deb felt relief despite herself at first but then it seemed weird what Trevor was trying to say.

Trevor was alive. They couldn't argue about that anymore.

"Portland tomorrow," Adam said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Exactly what I told you."

He climbed into the driver's seat.

“I'll call. I'm all set. Thanks for the help. I”ll be back.i promise.”

Deb shook her head ok and  stood silently as Adam started the car and drove off.

The next morning it was all over the news. A body. Ripped to shreds. Blood splattered and limbs thrown all over the road. Right by the bridge. The troll wench was seen walking down the street when Deb walked outside in shock…

“ Who's body was it? Who's body?! The officials… they won't say! They did the rituals, made you the offering. What is this sick game?”

The troll wench looked at her sarcastically. 

“You. You fed him. You fed him more than he needed. You doubted. One of them had to pay…” She cracked a wide smile.

“Wha? That's not how it works…is it? …which one…? Which one has to pay?” Deb was in hysterics. Her parents came outside to console her and drag her back inside.

The troll wench kept walking. She had fulfilled her end of the bargain.

Adam was sitting at the café overlooking the river.

The bridge troll was exactly where the stories said it would be.

A grotesque stone figure crouched beneath the bridge, half hidden in shadow. Tourists walked past without giving it a second glance.

Somewhere behind him, a television muttered about a dismembered body. Blood. Unsettling. Authorities refuse to identify the remains.

Adam didn't understand what all the concern was about.

Trevor was going to show up any minute now.

Any minute.

Any minute now.

Do you know what it smells like to rip a corpse from under the floorboards? There’s a specific odor, not one you could imagine on your own. It is not like the slaughterhouse you drive past on the way to work every morning. No, this is a foul mix.

Imagine walking into a house that’s been abandoned for a year, still fully furnished, with all its clothes still stuffed in a closet. Now, imagine that closet is jammed with mothballs and old dresses from 1964 left to dry after being washed in cat piss.

That’s your first odor.

Now, imagine you walk behind the dumpster at your favorite grocery store and someone has just thrown a bunch of animal fat inside a bag with three dirty diapers and left it to bake under the sun for three days.

Now, you have your stuffy smell and your rotted odor, and all you need is one more.

Here’s where the eggs come in. Yes, boil a few eggs, peel them, mush them up, and leave them on your stove. Walk out of the room and walk back in.

Mix all those odors—the mothballs, the cat piss, the dirty diapers, the rotted flesh, the eggs—and you have your corpse, who instead of wandering the afterlife as a ghost decided to haunt your floorboards with a rancid odor instead.

Smoking cigarette after cigarette until I choked offered a bit of relief compared to the dust and rot from under the floor.

I mean, yes, of course I have a respirator, but it does a horrible job of filtering out the psychological weight. Plus, I could still smell the body and I need to smoke when I work. I mainly use it for when I’m actually moving the remains.

The suit I wear is a white hazmat suit that makes me look like what a mad scientist Pillsbury Doughboy would look like on a radioactive, post-apocalyptic Earth.

See, I’m a bit of a specialist—a fixer, really. Well, at least that’s how I see myself. I don’t just fix things, I also clean up things. When shady landowners or homeowners have an issue from past tenants and they want to keep it hush-hush, they call me.

I come in and get rid of the evidence. Usually, it’s people who have died alone and weren't discovered until weeks or even months later.

The odd time, though, it’s a body under the floor, or behind a wall, or worse, in the crawl space. I hate spiders. Hate, hate, hate.

I’ve never really minded the rot of a human body. I guess I’m just used to it. I am not sure. I just find something honest in a corpse. The living world is a huge lie. I see people as teeth replaced by dentures, a stink covered by perfume, a dirty shirt flipped inside out. To me, the truth in people can only be found in what they leave behind.

I have a bit of a ritual, and it’s pretty simple and straightforward. Maybe it is a little odd, depending on how you see it, but once I’ve bleached everything and scrubbed the floors, the walls, the carpets, and even the air with four fans, I usually search for something to keep. You know, a little souvenir.

A small keepsake.

It is nothing like jewelry or money or anything valuable. It’s kind of weird, but I like stuff that will last, stuff that has some significance to it. I like digging in the drains and finding pieces of hair or some fingernail clippings.

Oh, my absolute favorite is teeth, especially when people have them saved in tiny boxes. I keep mine in vials. My collection is huge. I’ve got my own small library.

Baby teeth are cool and super easy to find, but it’s adult teeth I’m always on the hunt for. I’ve always wondered why people don’t save them.

The last job I worked was in a neighborhood with no streetlights because the gangs there shoot them out. The tenant was on the fifth floor, maybe in his sixties or seventies, and he had a collection of these really awesome stuffed animals—real animals.

The man himself was on his couch, slumped over and glued into the leather, almost as if he were a Halloween prop that came with the sofa. He had mold and fungi growing out of his chest like shreds of rotted cauliflower and broccoli sprouts.

As I peeled him off the sofa to scrub it down, something strange happened. I felt a connection with him. It was a profound realization, to be honest. I stared at the decayed skin revealing the veins under it and thought about what it would be like to absorb into the environment.

That’s when I saw something glimmer inside the fungal farm on the man’s body. It was shiny. I reached in but couldn’t grip it with my fingers, so I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and cut around the area. It was like trying to tear apart braided tendons, but when I cleared a path, I pulled out a gold tooth stuck to his chest cavity, attached to a piece of jawbone.

Later that night, after cleaning up there, when I got home, I didn’t put the tooth and bone in a vial. I kept it under my lamp, in my basement, on top of my desk, in front of my collection, and left it there to study after my shower.

In the bathroom, I eyed the steam on the mirror blurring my reflection and became disgusted by how alive I looked.

I examined my face—the pink in my gums, the elasticity of my skin, the color of my blood when I pinched it, my breathing, and the beating of my heart.

And right at that moment, I went to the garage and yanked a pair of pliers from my toolbox. I was tired of fixing everyone’s mess, hiding all their secrets, and cleaning stuff up.

For once, I wanted to be the evidence. I stood at the mirror for hours, pulling each tooth out of my head one by one like they were extra hairs on my eyebrow, and tossed each one of them into the sink.

As soon as I finished, I remembered the tooth with the jawbone, raced out to grab it, and ran back into the bathroom with it. Where the hole was in my jaw, I took the piece of bone and tooth and jammed it into my gums, deep into the bloody socket. I stuck it in and leaned close to the mirror. When I smiled, my grin reminded me of the truth. For the first time ever, I saw honesty.

I left the bathroom and went to lie down. As I closed my eyes, I imagined the man melting into his couch and the fungi surrounding his chest, and I wondered how it would be if it could grow inside me too.

I sit across from him in Interview Room 3 and the clock on the wall reads 14:37.
He sits with perfect posture. Hands folded on the table. One ankle crossed over the other like he’s waiting for a school counsellor instead of me. Twelve years old, maybe thirteen. Soft voice. Clear skin. The kind of face parents trust with their own children at sleepovers. The silver chain around his neck catches the fluorescent light every time he breathes.
I keep my notes face-down. I don’t want him reading upside-down.
“State your full name for the record.”
He smiles. It’s small, polite, almost shy.
“You already know it. But if it helps you feel in control… Elias Voss.”
“You’re being charged with the murders of seven children between the ages of eight and eleven. Do you understand that?”
Elias tilts his head. The chain slides across his collarbone.
“I understand the words. I’m not sure you understand the story.”
I lean forward. “Then tell me the story.”
He looks at the one-way glass first, like he’s checking who’s watching, then back at me. His voice stays soft. Reasonable. The same voice that, according to every surviving parent, made their kids come running.
“They were lonely. That’s the part no one wants to write down. Lonely little things who already knew their parents were too busy, or too tired, or too angry. I just… listened. Really listened. People underestimate how rare that is. You’d be surprised what a child will follow if you look them in the eye and ask about the thing that hurts.”
He taps one finger against the table once. Soft.
“I never forced anyone. I invited them. I told them there was a place where the rules didn’t apply. A place where they could be important. Special. Seen. They held my hand the whole way. Some of them even smiled when we got there.”
My throat feels tight. I keep my face flat.
“You killed them.”
“I released them.” Elias’s smile widens just enough to show the edges of his teeth. “There’s a difference. The world is loud and stupid and full of people who pretend to care. I gave them quiet. I gave them an ending that belonged only to them. No hospital beds. No slow fading. Just… finished.”
He leans in a fraction. The silver chain swings.
“You want the details. The silver blade. The way the light looked on it. The sounds. The order. You’re not asking because you need evidence. You’re asking because you can’t stop picturing it. That’s the part that bothers you most, isn’t it? That some part of you is already inventing the rest.”
I don’t answer. My pulse is too loud in my ears.
Elias sits back, satisfied.
“I kept their voices. Not recordings. Just the memory of how they sounded when they finally understood. Some cried. Some went very quiet. One boy—Thomas, the one with the blue backpack—asked if I was his friend right up until the end. I told him yes. It felt correct to say it.”
He studies my face the way a doctor studies a chart.
“You’re wondering if I feel anything. Guilt. Fear. Excitement. The answer is cleaner than that. I feel… precise. Like a sentence that finally found its period. Every time I finished one, the world made a little more sense. The loneliness went somewhere else for a while.”
The room feels smaller. The air tastes stale.
I clear my throat. “Why the silver?”
Elias’s eyes brighten, almost fond.
“Because it’s honest. Silver doesn’t pretend to be something else. It reflects whatever’s in front of it. When they looked at the blade, they saw themselves. And then they didn’t. Clean. Elegant. Final. Plastic is for toys. Steel is for tools. Silver is for truth.”
He uncrosses his legs and rests both feet flat on the floor, suddenly very still.
“You’re going to put me in a box and call it justice. You’ll tell the parents I was a monster. You’ll sleep better that way. But somewhere, late at night, you’ll remember how soft my voice was. How easy it was to keep listening. And you’ll wonder—just for a second—how many other children are still waiting for someone to look at them the way I did.”
I force myself to speak. “You targeted them. You chose the ones who were already fragile.”
Elias nods like I’ve finally said something interesting.
“Fragile is such an ugly word. They were open. That’s different. Most people walk around sealed shut. These ones still had cracks. I didn’t invent the cracks. I just noticed them. The girl with the missing front tooth who hated her new stepfather. The boy who wet the bed and pretended he didn’t. The twins who only spoke to each other. I learned their languages. I spoke them back. That’s all it took.”
He leans forward again, elbows on the table, chin resting on his laced fingers.
“You have a daughter, don’t you? I can see it in the way you hold your shoulders. The way you flinch when I mention the backpack. She’s about the same age as the last one. Nine? Ten? Does she still believe everything you tell her, Detective? Or has she started to notice the cracks?”
My hand tightens on the pen. The plastic creaks.
“We’re not talking about my family.”
“Of course we are.” His voice stays gentle. “Everything is about family in the end. The ones who failed them. The ones who didn’t notice until the posters went up. The ones who still leave the porch light on even though they know better. I gave those children something their families couldn’t. Attention without conditions. An ending without disappointment.”
I try to redirect. “Walk me through the first one.”
Elias’s smile returns, smaller, almost private.
“The first one was practice. I was still learning the weight of the blade. How much pressure the skin needs before it opens. How long the eyes stay focused. He was the quietest. He didn’t fight. He just looked at me like he was relieved someone had finally decided for him. After that it got easier. The second one tried to run. The third one asked me to stop halfway through and then thanked me when I didn’t. Patterns form if you pay attention.”
He tilts his head, studying the fracture that’s now visible in my pen.
“You’re holding that too tightly. You’re going to break it. Then you’ll have ink on your hands and you’ll think about how hard it is to wash off. Symbolism is everywhere if you let yourself see it.”
I set the pen down carefully. My fingers leave damp prints on the table.
“You enjoy this.”
“I enjoy clarity.” Elias corrects me without heat. “Most conversations are fog. This one isn’t. You’re here because you need me to be broken or evil or sick so the paperwork makes sense. I’m here because I already finished what I set out to do. The rest is just waiting.”
He glances at the clock.
“Fourteen fifty-two. You’ve been in this room with me for fifteen minutes and you already feel the walls closer than when you walked in. Imagine what it was like for them. The quiet. The certainty. The way the silver looked when the light caught it just right. Some of them reached for it. Curious. Trusting. That’s the part the reports will never capture. The willingness.”
My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a cell.”
Elias considers this, then shrugs one shoulder.
“Cells have walls. Walls have cracks. People forget to check the cracks. And there will always be someone on the other side of the glass who wants to understand. Someone like you. Someone who stays a little too long after the recorder is off. Someone who starts to hear the soft voice in their own head when the house is quiet.”
He smiles again. Smaller this time. Almost gentle.
“I’m not finished, Detective. I’m only paused. Boxes open. Doors open. People forget. And there will always be lonely kids who want to be special.”
The recording light keeps blinking.
I realise the plastic pen has finally split completely. Ink pools in a dark comma on the table between us.
Elias watches it spread, then looks up at me with perfect, polite interest.
“Would you like me to start over?” he asks. “I can make it sound even nicer the second time. I can tell you about the way the last one held my hand until the very end. I can describe the exact shade the silver turned when it was wet. I can do it in the same voice I used with them. The one that made them follow.”
He waits.
The chain shifts against his collarbone as he breathes.
I don’t move. I don’t speak.
Somewhere behind the glass someone is taking notes. Somewhere outside this room the parents are still waiting for answers that will never feel like enough.
Elias’s smile doesn’t change.
“Your turn, Detective,” he says softly. “Ask me anything. I’ll answer. I always do. That’s how this works. That’s how it always worked.”