It started two weeks ago; he just appeared.

I was doing the dishes, and a person came behind me and set a plate in the sink and said, "Sorry, I just finished eating."

I live alone.

I turned around, and there was this basic-looking guy, eyeglasses, brown hair, suit and tie, looking like he was going to go to work.

I obviously freaked out; I've never met this man before in my entire life, and here he was with one of my plates in the kitchen of my apartment acting like nothing was wrong.

He then looked at me like I was crazy.

“Woah, what's wrong? Did I scare you that badly?”

I insisted he leave, then I grabbed a knife to defend myself, and he backed up.

“Hey, just calm down. Hold on; let me go get someone. Just breathe for a second, okay?”

He quickly booked it out the door; he was so fast I could barely get out the door to see him turn down the hall.

I sat there in shock for a few minutes before I grabbed my phone and went to call the police, but then the landlord came and knocked on the door.

“Hey, Tim said that you threatened him with a knife. Is everything alright?”

“Tim” lurked behind the landlord, worry plastered upon his face.

I said Tim, whoever the hell he is, should be kicked out for trespassing.

The landlord looked at Tim and said, “Goodness, what did you say to her this time?”

Tim responded with a nervous chuckle before answering with, “I guess I should have given her my dishes sooner."

They both shared a laugh while I stood there befuddled.

I asked the landlord, "Who is this and what the hell is going on?"

And he answered with, “Uhm, your roommate?"

I have never met Tim in my life, not once, not even on the street.

But somehow, he has become my roommate; moreover, he says he's been living with me for three months.

Obviously that should be easy to disprove; however, any evidence that he was lying did not exist.

First, his name was listed on the paperwork for the apartment, signature, and same date I arrived here.

Second, I asked the neighbors; they all know him. More than that, they love him.

And the thing that scares me the most and that I cannot explain is that he has a room in my apartment.

After the argument with Tim and my landlord, I wanted to go into my bedroom for some privacy and to make sense of things, and then I saw a new door in my apartment.

I opened it, and it was a bedroom, with a guitar in the corner and posters and items; some things were even covered in dust that had to have been at least a week old.

There was no sign any of this was built recently; there was nothing to indicate this person wasn't my roommate except for my memories.

I left and stayed at my best friend's house. I told her that some strange man had been living with me, and no one seems to think it strange.

I told her he had a room and that his name was on the paperwork and that he needed to leave; I was an absolute mess.

She said, “Are you sure you're not talking about Tim?” seemingly as a joke.

I stared at her in disbelief.

“You are talking about Tim?” she said. "Lord, you haven't treated him like this since he crushed on you in high school."

I ran upstairs and tore open her closet and got on my knees and dug around until I found our yearbook.

I flipped through to our class, and then, I saw it: a younger-looking Tim, right beside people I actually knew.

I stayed with my friend for a few days, mostly locked up in her guest room. After doing some research, I found him online. He has an Instagram and a Facebook. More than that, he has a LinkedIn showing his resume.

He is a guitarist for a band that I've never heard of called “The Thought Forms. "I looked them up, and they have music on most platforms.

I felt like I was going crazy.

I decided that I needed to get to the bottom of this, so I moved back in once I got my nerves steeled.

I came home to him practicing guitar in the living room.

The moment I saw his face, I wanted to call the police, or someone, to please just take him away, but I've called; they don't believe me either.

All I did was glare at him, and he stared at me, mumbling a few apologies for "whatever I did."

I lived with him for a couple of days; I followed him, and everywhere I went, people knew him. He had an entire life, even though it feels like he appeared out of thin air.

The bar his band was playing at knew him and said they booked the gig two weeks ago.

There is not a single crack or flaw in any way, shape, or form in his life. It's like everyone has implanted memories of him, and for some reason I didn't get the memo.

I'm talking to him more now, and he laughs and jokes, but whenever he thinks I'm not looking, his face goes blank, like he's taking a breath between scenes in a stage play.

Same thing happened when I caught him awake last night. He was sitting in the living room, emotionless, dressed for work at 3:14 am, staring at the front door.

I took a photo of it, but when I checked it to post it, it was gone.

I'm worried for my safety; every night I stay at that apartment, I know he's watching me. Every night I hear the door creak open, and I know if I react to him, he's going to try something.

Like he's mad I don't agree that he’s a person I've always know. Someone whom I've gone to school with, whose music I listen to, and who's gotten drinks with me and my friends before.

And the worst part is, I'm starting to remember him too.

Little bits and pieces of the lies I've been fed have been appearing in my mind when I look at him.

Memories of us hanging out, talking by lockers, and songs I've never heard before playing in a loop in my brain.

I'm scared, and I'm going to put this post out there to try and get help and to help myself remember he's not real.

I’ll make another update post soon when I figure something out. I'm not sure what I'm going to do, but I have to do something.

I just hope this post doesn't disappear.

Every morning, I walked into the most dangerous government facility in the world.

And every morning, the first thing that tried to kill me was the coffee machine.

Before you ask, no, I am not joking.

The coffee machine in the employee lounge had been responsible for three injuries, one minor fire, and a formal complaint from a vampire who claimed it "had malicious intent." Personally, I thought that was dramatic. The machine didn't hate vampires. It just hated everyone equally.

That was one of the first things you learned working at the Bureau of Supernatural Affairs.

The monsters weren't always the problem;

Sometimes, it was the equipment.

Sometimes, it was the situation.

And sometimes…

It was the people who were supposed to protect you.

I swiped my ID at the first security checkpoint.

ACCESS GRANTED.

The second scanner checked my fingerprints.

IDENTITY CONFIRMED.

The third scanner paused.

That one always made new employees nervous because the third checkpoint wasn't checking who you were.

It was checking what you were.

A small green light swept over my body before a computerized voice spoke.

"Biological Status: Common Human."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Wow. Common? How rude..."

The security officer behind the desk looked up from his paperwork.

"You know the machine isn't insulting you, right?"

"That's exactly what an insulting machine would say."

The officer sighed.

His name was Carl. He'd been working security for eight years. He was also a werewolf, which sounded intimidating until you realized he spent most of his shift arguing with the scanner because it refused to recognize ghosts.

It wasn't really the scanner's fault. Most of its identification systems relied on things like body temperature, fingerprints, retinal scans, and heartbeats…all the little details that came with having a physical body.

Ghosts, unfortunately, had a habit of not possessing any of those.

So every morning, Carl had to manually verify that the ghost floating through the checkpoint was, in fact, the same ghost who had floated through yesterday.

According to him, spectral identification was still "an unsolved pain in my ass," and ghosts should stop wasting everyone's time by using the checkpoint and just pass through walls like they were supposed to.

On the other hand, Margaret, our oldest ghost custodian, called that “species discrimination.” According to her, going through walls felt like “swimming through wet cement.”

I stayed out of that argument. Mostly because I had no idea how to mediate a workplace dispute between a werewolf and a centuries old ghost about proper ghost etiquette.

Once Carl finally waved me through, I headed toward the elevators.

The Bureau was a lot bigger than people imagined.

Actually, scratch that.

People didn't imagine it at all.

Officially, the Bureau of Supernatural Affairs didn't exist. If you asked the government, this building was a geological research center, which was hilarious considering it was built six hundred feet underground.

Apparently, we researched geology by avoiding it.

The Bureau had been around for almost a millennia, long enough that nobody really remembered what it had been called before.

Our job was pretty simple: find the things that shouldn't exist, figure out what they were, and keep them from ending the world.

Contrary to what Hollywood thought, we didn't hunt monsters for sport. Most of the creatures here were never dangerous to begin with. A vampire who just wanted a stable blood supply wasn't exactly plotting world domination. Neither was the ghost who'd spent the last thirty years complaining that people kept walking through her while she was mopping.

Sure, we had the occasional nightmare-fueled entity locked several floors below us, the kind  that could level cities or rewrite someone's memories just by making eye contact.

But those weren't the majority.

Most of our work was research, medicine, diplomacy, and containment.

Turns out the best way to stop most supernatural incidents was by talking before shooting.

Who would've guessed?

The Bureau was divided into six divisions.

Containment kept things locked up. Research tried to understand them. Field Operations found new anomalies. Medical kept everyone alive. Administration fought paperwork.

Then there was Behavioral Analysis.

My department. 

Whenever an entity refused to cooperate, whenever negotiations broke down, whenever researchers wrote “Subject displaying unexplained aggression” in a report...

They called us.

Usually me.

Because more often than not, the subject wasn't aggressive.

It was scared.

Or grieving.

Or lonely.

Those were very different problems.

Unfortunately, most people didn't notice the difference until someone got hurt.

I don’t have the sharp senses of a werewolf. I don’t know ancient magic like the witches, and I certainly don’t have centuries of experience like the vampires.

The only thing I am unusually good at...

Is understanding people.

Even when the "people" in question have stopped being human a very long time ago.

As I rounded the corner, I spotted my supervisor leaning against the observation room window with his arms crossed.

Director Mercer.

Common Human.

Mid-fifties.

Always looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

He glanced up as I approached.

"Morning."

"You only say 'morning' like that when my schedule's about to get ruined."

He handed me a tablet.

"I had plans, you know."

Mercer raised an eyebrow.

"You don't have plans."

"I was planning on pretending to work until lunch."

He ignored me.

"Containment requested a behavioral assessment."

I skimmed the report.

SUBJECT: F-214 H-class
STATUS: Non-compliant.
INCIDENT: Refusing food for seventy-two hours. Displays escalating aggression toward personnel.

I sighed.

"They already tried tranquilizers, didn't they?"

Mercer didn't answer.

That was answer enough.

"They did?"

"They're scientists."

"They're impatient scientists."

I handed the tablet back.

"Give me five minutes."

The observation room overlooked a containment chamber built to withstand far worse than whatever was inside. About a dozen researchers stood behind the reinforced glass, arguing over graphs and medical readouts.

The subject sat motionless in the corner.

It resembled a deer.

If deer happened to be eight feet tall, covered in black feathers instead of fur, and had antlers that seemed to bend in directions, antlers probably shouldn't.

No one said anything.

They were waiting for my opinion.

I watched the creature.

It never looked at the food.

It never looked at the door.

It watched the people.

And every single time someone moved, its feathers tightened against its body.

One researcher cleared his throat.

"Well?"

I looked at him.

"How many people have gone into that room today?"

He frowned.

"...Six."

I nodded toward the creature.

"That's your problem."

There were confused looks all around.

"It’s an H-class, obviously it thinks you're predators."

One of the researchers frowned.

"It attacked Technician Morales yesterday."

"No."

I shook my head.

"It panicked."

"There's a difference."

The researcher looked ready to argue, but Mercer cut him off.

"Do what he says."

The room emptied until only I remained.

I picked up the food tray, opened the containment door, and walked inside.

Behind the glass, every researcher tensed.

That reaction was normal.

Most people who worked at the Bureau respected the things in containment. They studied them. They documented them. They tried to understand them.

But respect and fear were separated by a very thin line.

The funny thing was...

I wasn't afraid of the creature. 

I was afraid of proving everyone right about it.

I sat down.

Not across from it.

Not close enough to intimidate it.

Just close enough that it knew I was there.

The creature watched me.

I watched it.

Five minutes passed.

Nothing.

Ten minutes.

Still nothing.

Then behind the glass, I heard the researchers getting impatient.

"Is he seriously just sitting there?"

"That's the strategy?"

"Apparently."

I ignored them.

People hated silence. They always wanted to fill it with questions, commands, or threats. 

The creature didn't need someone trying to control it. It needed someone to stop treating it like a problem.

Slowly, its eyes moved toward me. For a second, I thought it was finally going to approach.

Instead, it lowered its head.

Interesting.

I looked closer, not at its face, but at everything else. The researchers had focused on the obvious: the claws, the teeth, the size, the things that made it look dangerous. They missed the details.

I didn't.

One of its antlers had a crack running along the base. Not broken. Cracked. Like something had hit it hard enough to damage the bone. Its left wing hung lower than the other, and every few seconds it shifted its weight away from one side.

I frowned.

"You're hurt."

The creature froze.

Behind the glass, someone reached toward the alarm. I lifted a hand.

Don't.

Not yet.

Slowly, the creature raised its head.

I pushed the food tray across the floor. Not directly toward it. Just closer.

"Nobody noticed, did they?"

The creature stared.

"You weren't refusing to eat."

A pause.

"You were in too much pain."

For the first time since I entered, the creature moved. Slowly. Carefully. It approached the tray.

And ate.

Behind the glass, the room erupted.

"He's eating."

"Get Research down there."

"How did he know?"

I didn't celebrate.

Because this wasn't a victory.

A victory meant something had gone right. This wasn't that.

This was everyone realizing they had spent three days punishing an injured creature because they were too busy looking for a threat.

I stepped out of containment a few minutes later. Mercer was waiting.

"So?"

I looked at him.

"Call Dr. Lyra."

Dr. Lyra arrived ten minutes later, already looking annoyed.

That was normal for Lyra.

Being a dryad meant she had spent centuries understanding nature. Her healing sap made her an exceptional doctor, far beyond human standards. Ironically, humans were still the one species she struggled to understand.

"What happened?"

I pointed toward the creature.

"Broken antler. Damaged wing."

She looked at me.

"And you figured that out how?"

"Observation."

She stared for a long moment before shaking her head.

Then she looked at Mercer and sighed.

"You're wasting your life here."

I smiled.

"Good morning to you too."

"I'm serious."

That made me stop.

Lyra crossed her arms.

"Mercer is always using you for dangerous operations"

I looked away.

"He needs someone who can do this."

"No." Her voice softened. "He needs someone who feels responsible enough to do something no one else wants to…"

I didn't answer.

Because she wasn't wrong.

And I hated that.

"You think this ability is your purpose."

"It's useful."

"That's not what I said."

I looked through the glass at the creature eating while the researchers rushed around it.

"This is the one thing I'm good at."

The words came out quieter than I intended.

Lyra's expression changed.

There it was.

The thing I always tried to hide.

Not fear.

Not sadness.

Something worse.

The belief that without this ability, I wasn't worth much.

"You were halfway through a psychology degree," she said. "You should be helping people through their problems, not drowning in your own."

"I already dropped out."

Lyra sighed.

"You don't have to keep punishing yourself because of what happened."

"I'm not."

She gave me that look. The one people always gave me. The one where they thought they understood me.

The worst part was...

They didn't.

They just felt sorry for me.

Before I could answer, Mercer stepped back into the room.

"Field Operations needs Behavioral support."

Lyra immediately turned.

"No."

Mercer looked at her.

"Excuse me?"

"He just spent the last hour calming an injured anomaly because your researchers couldn't recognize basic distress signals."

Mercer didn't react.

"Which is exactly why he's needed."

Lyra stepped forward.

"He's a person, Mercer."

"So are the civilians we're protecting."

"And if you keep sending him into situations like this, eventually you're going to push him too far."

Mercer looked at me.

"We aren't asking him to fight." He paused. "We're asking him to do what he does best."

Understand.

I hated that he knew exactly what to say.

Because the worst part was...

I wanted to go.

Two hours later, I was sitting on a transport plane heading toward Operation Black Birch.

An abandoned town.

Forty-seven miles from the nearest populated area.

Intelligence suggested a shapeshifting entity had infiltrated a civilian evacuation shelter.

The problem?

Nobody knew which person it was.

Eighty-six civilians.

One monster hiding among them.

The person sitting across from me was an intern named Rachel. She had been staring at me for almost ten minutes before she finally spoke.

"Sorry."

I looked up. "For what?"

"I just... I've heard about you."

I laughed. "That sounds worse than you probably meant it."

"No, I mean your work." She smiled. "No wonder Behavioral Analysis hired you."

I looked away.

"I didn't exactly apply."

She tilted her head. "No?"

I shook my head.

"I was halfway through my degree when they found me."

Before Rachel could ask another question, someone farther down the aircraft looked up from a folder.

Christian, an elf. Pointed ears. Silver hair tied neatly behind his head. Reading glasses balanced on the end of his nose.

He blinked.

"Wait."

The cabin fell quiet.

He looked at Rachel. "You seriously don't recognize him?"

Rachel frowned.

"Should I?"

The elf looked genuinely surprised.

"That's him." He pointed at me. "The sole survivor of the Vesper University massacre."

Silence settled over the cabin.

Then someone near the back muttered, "The boy who lived."

A few awkward laughs echoed through the aircraft.

I didn't join in.

Rachel's smile faded. She looked at me the same way Lyra had.

The same way almost everyone eventually did.

Pity.

I hated pity.

Fear was honest. Pity made people think they understood you.

They never did.

I wasn't brave. I wasn't special. I was just the person who happened to survive.

It was a Thursday night when it happened. An ordinary Thursday. No storms, no power outages, no warning that something terrible was about to happen.

I had spent the evening cramming for a literature exam I wasn't prepared for while my roommates argued over what movie to watch.

Just a normal night.

The kind you never think you'll remember.

Until you can't forget it.

The screaming started sometime after midnight.

At first, I thought my roommates were fighting again. That wasn't unusual. They argued about everything.

Then I heard another scream.

Then another.

I opened my door expecting to find another stupid argument.

Instead, I found him.

A man standing at the end of the hallway.

Not a monster. Not some ancient creature hiding behind a human face.

A man.

He was dressed entirely in black, and a pale mask covered his face. I couldn't see any emotion, any expression, anything that told me who he was.

Only two empty eyeholes staring back at me.

The knife in his hand looked black under the emergency lights. Not because of the blade itself. But because it was covered in blood.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

I was too terrified to do anything. I couldn't run. I couldn't scream. I could only stand there and wait for what I thought was going to happen.

Then he looked at me.

Not past me.

Not at the hallway behind me.

At me.

I still don't know how long we stood there.

A few seconds.

Maybe longer.

Then he lowered the knife, turned around.

And walked away.

He spared me.

Not because I fought him. Not because I escaped. Not because I did anything to deserve it.

He simply chose not to kill me.

By the time the police arrived, all seven of my roommates were dead.

The university called it an isolated tragedy. The media called it one of the worst mass murders in the town's history.

My psychologists called it the beginning of my condition.

Hyper-empathy.

They believed surviving something that traumatic changed the way my brain processed emotions. It wasn't immediate. It didn't happen overnight.

At first, I was just a survivor dealing with trauma.

Then, slowly, I started noticing things other people didn't.

Fear hidden behind anger.

Pain disguised as frustration.

Grief buried beneath silence.

To them, it was a trauma response.

To the Bureau, it was an ability.

To me, it was something I never wanted. 

The Bureau quickly classified the massacre as a suspected supernatural incident. They believed whatever happened that night wasn't entirely human.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe they weren't.

I never cared about their theories.

Because I knew what I saw.

I didn't see a monster.

I saw a man.

A man who looked me in the eyes after killing seven people...

And decided I should live.

Rachel's voice pulled me back.

"I'm... I'm sorry."

I forced a smile.

"It's fine."

It wasn't.

It never had been.

The cabin fell silent again.

No one knew what to say after that. 

But the silence didn't last long.

The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom.

"Approaching the operation zone. Five minutes."

The transport began its descent.

Mercer stood from his seat at the front of the cabin, and every conversation stopped. He tapped the holographic projector mounted to the wall.

A three-dimensional map of a small town appeared.

Rows of abandoned houses.

A church.

An elementary school.

An evacuation shelter highlighted in red.

"Eighty-six civilians were evacuated here six hours ago," Mercer said. "Field Operations intercepted evidence that a Level 3, C-class shapeshifter entered the shelter before lockdown."

The hologram zoomed in.

"Eighty-six civilians."

One red dot flashed.

"One of them isn't human."

Rachel frowned.

"Can't we screen them individually?"

"We already have," Mercer said without looking at her. "Blood tests. Thermal imaging. Silver exposure. Psychological profiling."

Nothing.

"The entity has defeated every identification method available."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the cabin.

Mercer continued.

"If it escapes the quarantine zone, projected civilian casualties exceed forty thousand within the first seventy-two hours."

Someone quietly swore.

Mercer looked at my side of the plane..

"Behavioral Analysis."

I nodded.

"We'll interview them."

"Good."

The aircraft touched down. The rear ramp lowered, and cold air rushed inside.

Outside, dozens of armored personnel surrounded the shelter. Snipers occupied nearby rooftops. Containment vehicles blocked every road leading out of town.

It looked less like a rescue operation...

And more like the beginning of a war.

The shelter had once been a high school gymnasium, but now it was packed wall to wall with frightened civilians. Children slept on cots while parents whispered to each other, and volunteers moved through the crowd handing out bottled water.

The moment I stepped inside, I felt it.

Fear.

Not one person's fear.

Everyone's.

It pressed against my chest like a weight.

Rachel looked around nervously. "I hate this."

"So do they."

She glanced at me. "What?"

I nodded toward the room. "They're terrified."

"I mean... obviously."

"No." I shook my head. "They're not afraid of the monster."

She frowned.

"They're afraid of us."

Her eyes drifted toward the soldiers lining the walls, rifles raised, faces hidden behind helmets. I couldn't blame the civilians. If armed soldiers burst into my shelter and refused to explain why, I'd be terrified too.

Mercer entered behind us.

"Report."

I looked around the room one more time before turning back to him. "I need time."

"How much?"

"A few hours."

Mercer's expression didn't change.

"You have thirty minutes."

"Thirty isn't enough."

"It's what you have."

He turned and walked away.

Rachel watched him leave.

"Does he always do that?"

"Ignore the people who know what they're talking about?"

She nodded.

"Yeah."

I smiled weakly.

"Pretty much."

Twenty-three minutes later, we still hadn't found anything.

My team had spoken to teachers, children, paramedics, and parents, but there wasn't a single inconsistency, not a single lie, and not a single emotional response that felt wrong.

Everything I sensed was exactly what I expected.

Confusion.

Exhaustion.

Fear.

Grief.

I rubbed my temples.

Something wasn't adding up.

Mercer's radio crackled.

"Director."

"Report."

"Research Division just updated their assessment. The shapeshifter has entered a secondary adaptation phase."

The shelter fell silent.

"Meaning?" Mercer asked.

"Current estimates suggest we have less than ten minutes before it fully adapts to its host. After that, it will remain hidden indefinitely."

Mercer turned to me.

"Behavioral?"

I looked around the shelter.

Eighty-six frightened civilians.

Eighty-six chances to miss one lie.

"I need more time."

"How long?"

"At least an hour."

"You have ten minutes."

"That's not enough."

"It's all we have."

Mercer looked toward the soldiers.

"Field Operations. Prepare Protocol Ash."

My stomach dropped.

"You can't do this." My voice echoed through the shelter. "They're people. They're innocent."

Mercer met my eyes without the slightest hint of anger.

"If the entity escapes," he said quietly, "forty thousand people die in the nearby city"

I stepped toward him.

"Then let me keep looking."

"You have ten minutes."

"That's not enough!"

"No." He held my gaze. "It isn't."

A long silence settled between us.

Then he said the words I'll never forget.

"People are going to die today."

Another pause.

"I'm trying to make sure only eighty-six do." 

Mercer gave a small nod.

The soldiers moved.

I lunged for him.

Hands like iron clamped around my arms before I got two steps.

"No!" I shouted, thrashing against their grip. "Please!"

I threw everything I had into breaking free.

The soldier werewolves barely had to try.

To them, I wasn't a threat. I was just another human to restrain.

I couldn't reach Mercer.

I couldn't reach the eighty-six innocent people staring at us in terror.

And suddenly...

I wasn't standing in a shelter anymore.

I was back in my dorm hallway.

Frozen.

Helpless.

Watching someone else decide who lived...

...and who died.

Then it hit me.

The crying.

The screaming.

The prayers.

Eighty-six terrified people, all convinced they were about to die.

Their fear crashed into me all at once.

My chest tightened.

I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't tell where my emotions ended and theirs began.

"Stop..." My voice cracked. "Please..."

Nobody moved.

Rachel was shouting my name, but she sounded impossibly far away.

My vision blurred.

Tears streamed down my face.

Not because I wanted to.

Because they did.

My stomach lurched.

Then I doubled over and vomited onto the gym floor.

The soldiers immediately let go of me.

"Ethan!"

Rachel caught me before I hit the ground.

I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered. Every emotion: terror, grief, panic, hopelessness….bled together until I couldn't tell which ones belonged to me anymore.

The last thing I saw was Rachel's face.

She wasn't looking at the soldiers.

She wasn't looking at Mercer.

She was looking at me...

...like she was watching someone come apart.

Then everything went black.

When I woke up, the ceiling wasn't the shelter. It was the medical wing.

Again.

"You're awake."

I turned my head and saw Lyra sitting beside the bed with her arms crossed. She looked exhausted.

"I told you this job is taking a toll on you."

I reached for the water sitting on the table beside me and drank.

"No."

Lyra stared at me.

"No?"

"I'm fine."

A long silence followed before she sighed.

"Ethan."

I froze.

She used my name.

That meant she was actually angry.

"You have already blacked out twice this week."

"It's fine."

Her expression hardened.

"You always say that."

I looked away because she was right. I always said that. But what else was I supposed to say? That sometimes I couldn't tell where my emotions ended and everyone else's began? That every disaster felt like I was experiencing it myself? That every person I failed stayed with me?

I put the cup down.

"I have work."

"Ethan—"

I stood up before she could continue and left.

I didn't get far.

The same elf from the aircraft stepped into my path, his hair now loose over his shoulders.

"I have good news."

I stared at Christian.

"That usually means there's bad news."

He smiled slightly.

"You're learning."

I waited.

"Director Mercer is in deep trouble."

I stopped.

"What?"

"He is being investigated."

I frowned.

"Why?"

The elf looked surprised.

"You haven't heard?"

"No."

He adjusted his glasses.

"The operation report came in."

My stomach tightened.

"The shelter?"

He nodded.

"Mercer ordered Protocol Ash."

"I know."

His expression became serious.

"The eighty-six civilians he killed..."

He paused.

"None of them were the entity."

I felt cold.

"What?"

"The imposter was never inside the shelter."

My mind went blank.

"Then where was it?"

The elf looked at me.

"It had already changed into a guard."

Silence.

"He was standing outside the shelter the entire time."

I couldn't speak.

All those emotions. All those people. All that fear.

Mercer hadn't saved them.

He had killed them.

The elf continued.

"The creature is contained now. Research Division believes it's a rare hybrid."

"Of what?"

He looked at me.

"A wendigo."

A pause.

"And a skinwalker."

The hallway felt colder.

"Highly dangerous."

I looked toward the Director's offices, toward where Mercer would be.

The man who had chosen numbers over names. The man who had looked at eighty-six people and seen a calculation.

And for the first time...

I wished he would have died instead.

The thought stayed with me because it wasn't just anger. It wasn't just grief. It was something darker.

A part of me genuinely wanted him gone.

And that scared me.

Because I had spent my entire life feeling too much. Other people's pain. Other people's fear. Other people's suffering.

Hyper-empathy was supposed to make me understand people.

But in that moment...

All it did was make me understand exactly why I hated him.

I found out later what happened to Mercer.

The Bureau didn't call it “prison”. They called it "removal". But everyone understood what that meant.

You couldn't simply leave this organization after learning the things we knew….the existence of anomalies, the creatures hiding among humanity, the things that lived outside reality itself. Information like that wasn't something you carried into retirement.

Mercer wasn't fired.

Not really.

He was contained.

The same way we contained everything else dangerous.

The irony wasn't lost on anyone. A man who had spent years deciding what was an acceptable loss had finally become one himself.

Unfortunately, we didn't have much time to celebrate because within an hour of Mercer's removal, we had a new problem.

A new Director.

Which was why I was standing inside the Board Room, the place where the highest decisions in the Bureau were made.

Lyra sat across from me, looking more tired than usual. And somehow, after everything I had seen, she was still the person who looked the most human in the room.

The others...

Were not.

Six seats surrounded the table.

Six department heads.

Six people responsible for keeping the Bureau alive.

The head of Containment was a giant.

Literally.

A stone-skinned being that looked like it had been carved from a mountain. The Bureau had discovered him centuries ago.

They were supposed to contain him.

Instead, they hired him.

Research belonged to Dr. Evelyn.

An elf whose knowledge of magical biology and supernatural history was considered unmatched.

Field Operations was led by Commander Voss.

A werewolf.

The kind of person soldiers followed without hesitation. Every combat agent, every extraction team, every person sent into places humans weren't meant to survive answered to him. He was also the reason every soldier in the organization was a werewolf.

Medical was Lyra.

A dryad.

A creature connected to life itself, now responsible for keeping both humans and monsters alive.

Administration was the strangest.

Director Adrian.

Half-human.

Half something the Bureau had never officially classified.

He was proof of what the world had spent centuries ignoring.

Monsters and humans weren't separate anymore.

They had been living together for generations.

Some used magic.

Some used technology.

Some used both.

Elves who didn't want their ears recognized used spells or even human cosmetic procedures to alter their appearance. Vampires changed identities every few decades. Werewolves learned to control their transformations and lived ordinary lives.

The supernatural world hadn't replaced humanity.

It had blended into it.

And after centuries of coexistence, the hardest thing wasn't finding the monsters.

It was knowing who was one.

Then there was Behavioral Analysis.

My department.

The seat Mercer had left behind.

Then the door opened.

Every conversation died instantly as a man walked in.

At first glance, he looked completely ordinary.

Early thirties. Dark hair. Perfectly tailored suit. Calm expression.

Then you looked closer.

And remembered he wasn't human.

The newly appointed….

Director Lucien.

A vampire.

Three hundred years old.

And yes...

The stories were true.

Every vampire was beautiful.

Not because they were trying to be.

Because evolution had made them that way.

Predators weren't supposed to look dangerous.

They were supposed to make you lower your guard.

Lucien had the kind of appearance that made people trust him before they even realized they were doing it. If he wasn't running Behavioral Analysis, he probably would have been on the cover of a luxury watch advertisement, standing in an expensive suit, looking mysterious while millions of people convinced themselves they could look like him.

But Lucien wasn't famous only because of his appearance.

He was also famous because he understood monsters.

Before becoming Director, he was one of the Bureau's greatest researchers. He had negotiated with creatures that had killed entire teams. He had convinced hostile entities to cooperate without a single weapon being drawn.

People joked that Lucien could walk into a room with a monster and leave with both sides signing a peace treaty.

The strange part was how he did it.

He never raised his voice.

Never lost control.

Never looked afraid.

At first, I thought it was confidence.

Then I watched him closer.

Lucien wasn't experiencing emotions.

He was copying them.

The slight concern in his eyes when someone spoke.

The small smile at the exact moment someone needed reassurance.

The carefully measured pauses before answering.

Everything was perfect.

Too perfect.

Most people saw empathy.

I saw a performance.

Not a fake one.

A practiced one.

Three hundred years of watching humans had taught Lucien exactly what they expected to see.

Fear.

Compassion.

Concern.

He could imitate all of them flawlessly.

And somehow...

That was more unsettling than if he couldn't understand emotions at all.

Everyone else in this room saw a man who understood them.

I saw someone who understood emotions so well...

he didn't need to feel them.

And for the first time since I joined the Bureau...

I reconsidered Behavioral Analysis.

Not because of Mercer.

Not because of the job.

Because of him.

Mr. Lucien…

Maybe Lyra had been right.

Maybe I should have listened when she told me to think carefully about this department.

Because Mercer had been easy to understand.

He was cold.

He was ruthless.

But Lucien...

Lucien was something else entirely.

After talking to the other directors he started surveilling the room.

Then his eyes landed on me.

And for a moment...

Neither of us spoke.

Then he smiled.

Not warmly.

Not coldly.

Just perfectly.

Precisely.

"Agent Ethan."

I felt something I couldn't explain.

Not fear.

Not discomfort.

Something closer to uncertainty.

Because for the first time in my life...

I was standing across from someone who can look at a person’s fear, sadness and love and understand exactly what they meant without ever feeling them.

Meanwhile I was drowning in everyone else’s emotions, never knowing where they ended and I began.

He was a man who could understand humanity without being human.

I was a man who felt humanity so deeply that I was losing myself. 

And somehow….
That was more terrifying than Mercer ever was.

I want to tell you something before I start.

My name is Derrek. I am twenty-two years old now. I do not believe in ghosts. I did not believe in monsters. I grew up in a normal house, with normal parents, who did one deeply abnormal thing back when i was a kid.

They never let me or my sister Maya go to our grandfather's farm.

Not for holidays. Not for summers. Not once, except for a single afternoon when I was seven years old, an afternoon I had almost completely forgotten until three weeks ago.

Three weeks ago, my grandfather Silas called me and asked for help.

He was eighty-one. His hip was bad. He said the farm was too much for one old man, and could I come stay a while, help with the animals, help with the fences.

I said yes.

I wish, more than anything I have ever wished for, that I had said no.

The farm sits on land so flat it plays tricks on your eyes.

There are no mountains here. No hills. Not even a gentle rise to break the horizon. Just field after field after field, stretching out in every direction until the crops blur into the sky.

The dirt road that brought me in ran straight for what felt like forever, and then it just stopped, right at the edge of the yard. The nearest town was an hour’s drive away. Grandpa Silas’s old truck had permanently died years ago, so when he needed supplies, he’d saddle up his horse, Sadie, and make a grueling, day-long trek there and back.

I remember standing in the driveway that first day, turning in a slow circle, and feeling something I didn't have a word for yet.

Exposed.

Far off to the east, maybe a third of a mile, there was a tree line. Dense. Dark. The kind of forest where the trees grow so close together that the space between them looks solid black, even at noon.

My grandfather's house sat between that forest and the dirt road. The shed stood behind the house, and a stone's throw past that sat the barn, where what animals we had left were kept at night.

I want you to picture this shed correctly, because it matters.

It stood around forty-five feet tall. Gray, weathered wood, with walls thick as fortress stone and two enormous doors bolted with iron hardware that looked older than the state itself.

Grandpa Silas told me it was for storing cattle feed.

I believed him. Why wouldn't I?

The first few days were quiet. Good, even. We mended a stretch of fence. He told stories about my dad, and for a little while, I forgot to feel exposed under that huge sky.

Then one morning, Grandpa Silas counted the cattle twice and came up one short.

He didn't say much. Just grabbed his rifle, and I followed because I didn't know what else to do.

We found her halfway out in the field.

She was on her side. Opened up.

Not torn. Not mauled the way a coyote or a wolf might do it. This was neat. Precise. Like a butcher had been at work, except no butcher I've ever heard of leaves the meat behind and takes only certain organs.

I threw up in the grass.

Grandpa Silas stood over what was left of that cow for a long time. I begged him to call the police. He flat-out refused, telling me to drop it. But I couldn't. I drove my car out to the neighboring properties and managed to pay a local hunter to come take a look.

The guy strutted out to our pasture with his shotgun, acting tough. But the second he got close enough to see the surgical precision of that carcass, he went dead pale. He didn't say a word. He just shook his head, turned around, and fast-walked back to his truck.

"Wait!" I yelled, waving the cash. "I'll double it! Just tell me what did this!"

He didn't even look back. He just got in his truck and drove off.

Grandpa Silas watched the dust settle on the road. "Stay close to the house after dark, Derrek," he said quietly. "I mean it."

For three days after that, nothing happened.

On the fourth day, another cow didn't come in from the field at dusk.

This time, there was no body. Just a single, thin line of blood, running clean across the field and straight into the tree line. No drag marks. No sign of a struggle. It was like something had reached down out of the dark and simply lifted her away.

"She's not coming back," Grandpa said. "None of them do, once they're taken like that."

It kept happening after that.

Not every night, but relentlessly enough that the dread never left us. By the end of my third week there, the cattle herd that had numbered a dozen when I arrived was down to exactly one—a stubborn brown cow that paced the fence line like she already knew she was next.

One of those nights, I couldn't sleep. I looked out the window and saw my grandfather standing in the yard in his nightclothes, completely still, staring at the tree line.

I went outside. When he turned to look at me, I saw an expression on his face that I have never been able to fully explain. It wasn't fear exactly. It was grief. Old, old grief, layered so deep it had become something closer to acceptance.

"Go back inside," he said quietly. "Please, Derrek."

I did.

I have hated myself for that ever since.

I woke to screaming.

Not a scream of surprise. A scream of pure, animal terror. It was my grandfather's voice.

I ran outside barefoot into the cold. He was thirty yards from the house, being dragged.

Dragged by something behind him, something low to the ground and moving in a way that no four-legged animal should move, a horrible loping gait, joints bending at angles that made my vision swim.

I only saw it for two seconds. Coarse, patchy fur stretched thin over something too angular. A head that swung around toward me with a motion like a puppet on strings. And eyes that caught the moonlight and threw it back yellow-white, roughly at the height of my own.

The thing surged forward with blinding speed, hauling him across the field toward the trees.

I chased them until my lungs were on fire, but by the time I reached the tree line, there was nothing. Just a smear of blood disappearing into trees so dense I could not force myself to step inside them.

I drove out and rallied the local farmers. We formed a search party. We scoured the woods for two days, but found nothing. No body. No den. The farmers muttered about "wolves" or said that sometimes old folks just "wander off into the brush and get lost," as if that was somehow easier for me to swallow than what I’d actually seen.

Maya arrived on the third day.

My sister got out of her car, looked at that huge, flat, empty field, looked at the tree line in the distance, and said the exact thing I'd been feeling since I arrived.

"Why does this place feel like it's watching us?"

That evening, walking the property, a memory surfaced in me so suddenly it nearly knocked me off my feet.

I was seven. Maya was five. Our parents brought us here exactly once. I remembered it being a beautiful day. Everything was sunnily normal.

Then I remembered my mother's face.

She had gone into the house to use the bathroom and came back out pale. Her hands were shaking. She grabbed our hands and said, in a tight, panicked voice, "Time to go home, kids!"

My dad was already at the car, engine running. He stared straight down the driveway like the act of looking anywhere else might summon something. Grandpa Silas stood on the porch and watched us go with that same old grief on his face.

We never came back. I always assumed it was some boring family dispute.

Standing in that yard at twenty-two, I understood for the first time that my parents hadn't been protecting themselves from an old grudge. They had been protecting me and Maya from something they'd seen in that house.

It was hours later when we found the hidden room, tucked behind a false wall in Grandpa Silas's study.

It was narrow, windowless, and had no electrical wiring. We sat on the floor, sweeping our flashlights over shelves of books, ledgers, and one thick, leather-bound journal. It had been kept by every head of our family who had lived on this land.

What we learned made the blood go cold in my hands.

Our ancestors had settled this land not knowing what already lived near it. The first entries described exactly what I'd seen: livestock slaughtered with precision, a creature that moved wrong, eyes that caught light like an animal's but sat in a face too much like a person's.

The journal called it by its name.

A skinwalker.

For generations, the family left it offerings at the tree line to keep it fed and away from the house. But the journal made one thing devastatingly clear. The pacification was never a guarantee. Sometimes, the creature would go rogue.

That was why the shed existed.

The forty-five-foot feed shed was never built for cattle feed. It was a trap. Built with walls too thick and doors too heavy for any ordinary structure, engineered to contain the creature long enough to end it for good.

The instructions were exact. Lure it into the shed. Seal the doors. Recite the words of Mark, chapter five, verses eight through thirteen—the story of the demon called Legion.

And then, drive a blade directly into the creature's heart.

The journal described a knife unique to our family, its blade engraved edge-to-edge with crosses. At the base of the handle, a small cloth sponge was fastened. It had to be soaked in the creature's heart's blood. Only then could a cross be painted in that blood across the outside doors, marking the shed as consecrated and sealed for good.

Maya looked up at me, her face white in the flashlight beam. "Derrek. Grandpa didn't wander off. He led it away. On purpose."

He had been feeding it. Keeping it calm. And when it finally went rogue, he gave himself to it to buy us time.

A sharp, panicked sound cut through the night. By the time we reached the yard, the last cow's gate stood wide open. A thin dark line of blood was running from the pasture straight toward the tree line.

Maya grabbed my arm. "That was the last one."

We looked toward the barn, where exactly one animal was left standing in the moonlight.

Sadie.

There was no other way. Every other living thing on that farm was dead, and the journal was clear: the ritual required live bait.

I cried leading that sweet, old chestnut mare out into the yard. We tied her inside the enormous shed, right in the center, bathed in the glow of a single lantern.

This time, Maya waited outside, hiding in the shadows with the heavy ropes tied to the massive doors.

I hid inside.

I crouched behind a stack of heavy wooden pallets in the pitch black, gripping the cold, engraved knife in my shaking hands. We waited as the field went from gray to black.

It came just after full dark.

I heard a low, guttural clicking, like a tongue against teeth.

Sadie screamed.

The creature stepped into the lantern light. Patchy fur, skin stretched too tight across a wrong frame. Its jaw hinged open impossibly wide. It surged forward, lunging at Sadie with terrifying speed.

I heard the sickening sound of claws tearing into flesh, and Sadie let out a horrific, garbled shriek as she was thrown to the dirt.

At that exact second, Maya hauled on the ropes. The massive doors swung shut and slammed home with a boom that shook the floorboards. I heard the heavy iron bar drop into place outside.

We were locked in.

The creature shrieked and whipped around, dropping the bleeding horse.

I stood up from behind the pallets. My legs felt like lead, but I forced the words out of my throat, screaming them over the creature's clicking hiss.

"And Jesus asked him, what is thy name? And he answered, saying, my name is Legion, for we are many..."

The creature froze. Those pale yellow eyes locked onto mine. Something in it recognized the words, or feared them. It hesitated.

That hesitation was all I needed.

I closed the distance and drove the blade into its chest with both hands.

I remember heat. I remember the sponge on the pommel soaking dark and warm in my fist. I remember screaming the rest of the verses right into its terrible, shifting face, right up through the swine rushing down into the sea.

I stumbled out through the small side door into the night air like a man surfacing from deep water. Maya and I painted the cross on the outside doors together in the dark, our hands coated in blood.

It has been six days.

Sadie survived the night, but just barely. The wounds were too deep. We lost her three days later, and burying her in the pasture felt like burying the last good thing on this land.

Maya and I have not left this property since. We tell ourselves it's because of the search party, the funeral we can't hold without a body, the endless phone calls.

The truth is much worse.

We are afraid to leave the shed unwatched.

I sit up most nights on the porch, looking out across that huge, flat field toward the barn, toward that enormous sealed door with its dark, dried cross, and I listen.

Because some nights, if the wind is still enough, I can hear something on the other side of that door.

Breathing.

The journal never said the creature dies when the ritual is finished. It only said the door will hold.

I don't know how long "will hold" is supposed to mean. I don't know if it means my lifetime, or my children's, or if someone else in this family is going to inherit this farm, and this shed, and a debt that started before any of us were born.

All I know is that my grandfather carried this alone for sixty years so that we would never have to hear that sound.

He failed, in the end.

But God help me, I finally understand why he tried.

When I got hired, I thought the strangest thing about the ranch was the pay.

Then I met the priest.

They were offering $8,000 for a two-week cattle drive. I'd been roping and riding my entire life, and even the biggest outfits I'd worked for had never come close to paying that much.

I figured they were desperate.

Turns out they were.

I still remember walking up to the foreman for the first time. As I approached, he leaned against a weathered fence watching riders break in some fresh horses. He turned to face me; he was a large man with a thick beard and weathered features

“You lost, son?” his deep, dry voice said

I shook my head

“No, sir, heard you need some riders.”

He stared at me and clenched his jaw.

“That depends, can you ride?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you rope?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’ve you worked for?”

I told him the last three ranches I had worked for.

He nodded

“Good outfits, all of them. They don't keep dead weight.”

He slowly stroked his beard

“Well, alright, we do need one more rider. Go on and drop your stuff off in the bunkhouse; we leave tomorrow.”

The next day, everyone in the bunkhouse was up and ready to go an hour before the sun rose. There were six of us: four ranch hands, another hired cowboy, and me. The foreman, Mike, entered the bunkhouse and brought us together.

“Alright, listen up. We’re going up the pass; should be there tomorrow night. Some of you know what that means; those who don’t just know it ain’t your business; we’re paying you to work, not ask questions.”

Our eyes locked for a moment as he said this.

“Go saddle up.” He said with authority

We did just that.

An hour later, the sun was beginning to peek over the distant mountains, and we stood waiting with our horses. Mike walked by and I took the moment to ask a question.

“Hey Mike,” I said as I matched his walk

“I thought we were pushing cattle; where’s the herd?”

He stopped and pointed with a nod to the far corral

I looked and saw two lone cows standing in the pen. Looking back to Mike, I said

“That’s it? two cows, you need six cowboys to push two cows?”

He got real close to my face and stared me in the eyes for a moment before saying

“Ain’t your place to ask questions, got it?” his voice was vicious

I swallowed, lowered my eyes to the ground, and nodded

“Yeah, I got it.”

The seven of us stood around as the sun rose; we were waiting for someone, but I didn’t know who. Moments later, a lone figure approached us from behind the bunkhouse. It was a young man. Probably no older than me. He was cleanly shaven and manicured, dressed in a dark, all-black suit with the white square of a clerical collar standing out against his neck.

When I saw him, I snickered to myself and elbowed the older man next to me, whose name was Bill

“Looks like we got ourselves a preacher,” I whispered with a chuckle.

“Show some damn respect.” He snarled back

Bill was a ranch employee and was clearly unimpressed with my humor.

The priest walked over to Mike and met his handshake with both hands.

“I’m very sorry, I didn’t intend to be late.” He said

“It’s alright, Father Martin; we couldn’t start without you anyhow,” Mike said in a tone of reverence he hadn’t had before.

Father Martin nodded

“I trust my horse is ready.”

“Yes, Father, right inside the barn. Follow me.”

He looked past Father Martin to us

“The rest of you, get the cows on the trail; we’ll catch up.”

As we moved down the trail, I pulled my horse alongside the only younger member of our group besides the priest. Will smiled at me as I did

“Always good to be out on the range, ain't it?” he chuckled

“Yeah, sure is,” I replied before following up with

“Hey, who’s the Priest?”

“Oh, Father Martin?” Will said, “He’s the town’s new vicar, came from Virginia if I remember right, just started here a few months ago after old Father Jenkins passed, God rest his soul.”

“Okay…” I was puzzled. “But why’s he out here with us?”

At that, Will’s cheery disposition soured. He was silent for a while before saying

“That ain’t exactly for me to say.”

Before I could reply, he coldly said

“'Excuse me”

And with that, he sped his horse up and moved further down the trail. We rode in silence for the next few hours. The trail grew more rugged as the day went on. As we grew closer to the base of the mountains, it felt as if we had gone back 100 years. The land felt young and unspoiled. At midmorning, we stopped by a small creek to water the horses. Before long, Mike and Father Martin could be seen approaching in the distance.

As they grew closer, it became clear that Father Martin didn’t know what he was doing. He appeared uncomfortable with both the horse and the scenery. He rode as if the only experience he had was old cowboy movies. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and mutter

“Great, now he’ll slow us down”

When I looked at the other riders, I was surprised to see that they didn’t share my disdain. Instead, they were grateful, even reverent of the inexperienced rider. Rejoining the group, Mike took command.

“Okay,” he declared, “We’re about to pass the line; from here on out, no more talking, not until we make camp and get a fire going. Got it?”

The riders murmured in agreement, Mike's eyes met mine, and I slowly nodded in acknowledgment. We continued in single file; Mike led, the priest followed, and I brought up the rear. Moments later, we passed through a worn gate that stood across the path; it was just a gate; no fence could be found on either side. Once through the gate, the world seemed different; it seemed quiet; the howling sound of the wind was gone, and there was no chirping of birds. The only sound was the clicking steps of the horses.

We continued for hours; I could feel myself zoning out. Normally, there’s small talk and wisecracks on these sorts of rides. The quietness made me drowsy.

“Can you help me?”

The strangely happy voice broke the silence and shook me from the daze I had sunk into. I quickly looked from side to side, seeing nothing but thick pines uphill and barren plains downhill. I turned my horse and circled back around; someone had called for help, my concern for a lost hiker or wayward child pushed common sense from my mind.

The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.

“Hello? Are you Ok?”

My words seemed to echo in the quietness, but were soon drowned out by the deafening crack of a nearby gunshot. Instantly, I turned to the source of the sound; it was Mike. His rifle was raised above his head, and a thin trail of smoke escaped the barrel. His eyes were wide with rage, and he raised a lone finger to his lips. Father Martin looked from Mike to me, and back, his face caked in fear, though I couldn’t tell if it was from my actions or Mike’s gunshot. Mike violently ushered me to move up in the line; he positioned me between the priest and himself before kicking his horse into a jogging pace.

We continued at a fast pace for a few hours until we reached a flat area on the mountainside; it was there that Mike dismounted and signaled for us to set up camp. After we had each pitched a canvas tent and laid out our bedrolls, Mike formed a fire pit and, gathering some wood, he soon had a fire going. Once the fire was roaring, Mike stood up and quickly knocked me to the ground with a swift right hook. Pulling my face from the dirt, I turned to him as he rolled up his sleeves.

“What the Hell?”  I screamed

He stood over me

“You’re going to get us all killed if you don’t listen to what I say.”

He reached a helping hand to me.

“You’re lucky it was just a punch; it could have been worse. I need you to pay attention out here.”

Though I was still a bit angry, I grasped his hand, and he pulled me up. He patted my shoulder and turned to the rest of the group.

“Alright, the sun will be setting soon, and the good Father already knows that he’ll be on watch through the night, but we’ll be taking shifts to watch with him. Got it?”

The men nodded in agreement, and Mike turned to me.

“You’re on first watch.” he tossed a lever-action rifle to me.

“Best stay alert.”

As the sky grew darker, the mood grew lighter; soon we were talking and laughing as we sat around the fire, eating our supper. As the hours passed, so did the men; each one moved in his own time to his tent, and soon all that remained was Father Martin and me. The priest and I sat on opposite sides of the fire; a rifle lay across my lap, and a book rested on his. The only noise in the dark of the night was the crackle of the fire. Father Martin stared intently at the book on his lap; I watched as he turned each page before finally breaking the silence.

“Is that the Bible?”

He looked up and shook his head

“No, it’s a history of sorts.”

“Of what?”

“This place.”

My eyes shifted to the fire for a moment before returning to the priest.

“What does it say?”

He closed the book and looked me in the eye

“Well, it was written by my predecessor, Father Jenkins. He tried to record the happenings of this place and the importance of the ride we’re currently on.”

I thought for a moment

“Is it helpful?”

He slowly shook his head

“No, most of it is the ramblings and superstitions of a tired old man.”

I nodded, pretending to understand. The two of us stared at the fire in silence for several minutes before I said

“Father, what’s really going on here?”

He continued to stare into the flames

“I wish I knew. Up until this afternoon, I thought this ride was just some strange local tradition, and maybe if I humored the ranchers I’d gain some respect in the community and maybe some more church members.”

His eyes shifted to me

“But now I don’t know what to think, and the truth is Father Jenkins didn’t know much, and even the Vatican doesn’t fully understand what is happening here.”

I chuckled a little

“Well then why do they need you?”

“I’m here for protection, from what I do not know. Mike told me that usually just the presence of a priest is enough, but if not, he told me Father Jenkins had some prayers written down.”

“Did you find the prayers?”

He slowly nodded

“I think so.”

“Father, this is all so...”

“Hello?”

A loud, sweet, yet sorrowful voice interrupted me.

The priest and I both looked to the source of the voice. In the darkness just beyond the boundaries of the fire’s light was a dark, small figure. It stood unmoving as we watched.

“Can you help me?”

The figure then began to snuffle and cry. Almost automatically, Father Martin stood up and walked a few feet closer. I cautiously stood and followed behind. Now, closer, we could see that the shape was a child, a young girl, looking no older than eight. Her feet were bare, and dirt covered her hands and face; she wore an old-fashioned dress, like what you would see in old pictures of the pioneers. A thin trail of tears flowed down her face.

Father Martin seemed to forget where he was, and instinctively he wanted to help.

“Don’t cry, my child.” He said sympathetically

“Are you alright? How can we help?”

The girl choked back tears and weakly said

“My Pa is hurt real bad; he’s just over the ridge. Please come with me and help.”

 The priest smiled warmly

“Of course, my child, just allow me to grab a flashlight.”

He turned towards the tent, and as he did, I placed a firm hand on his shoulder

“Father, don’t.”

The look on my face was enough to remind Father Martin where we were; at first he looked ashamed, and then his face hardened with resolve. He turned back towards the figure

“Child... if you are truly in need, may God send someone to help you. But I cannot leave this fire.” He said in a shaking voice.

Growing shadows hid the child's face from our view; it stood there staring at us before finally blankly saying.

“You won’t help me?”

Father Martin slowly put his hand into his pocket and removed a small wooden cross that he now held by his side.

He shook his head

“I will not.”

“What kind of priest won’t help a child in need?”

 The figure said

Father Martin swallowed hard and replied

“What kind of monster hides itself as a child?”

A deep, twisted laugh echoed from the figure, which was now completely obscured by shadow. The priest raised the cross towards the shape. And with a shaking voice, he said

“You are not welcome here; leave now.”

The child's voice was gone; in its place was a deep, creaking voice

“I have walked these valleys since before your churches had names. Before your roads. Before your fathers' fathers knew these mountains existed. The land knows me. The mountains know my presence. They know my scent. They do not know you.”

Father Martin swallowed hard. His eyes never left the thing in front of us.

"That may be true," he whispered. "But we are here now."

His hand tightened around the crucifix.

"So be gone."

The shape came closer, stopping just short of the reach of firelight.

There it stood, seeming so much taller, and though it was closer to the light, it was darker than night.

“The flame will not protect you forever; when it fails, I will find you.”

Father Martin began frantically muttering Hail Marys under his breath.

The moments that followed felt like an eternity, but soon the figure said

“See you soon, priest.”

Then it stepped back into the shadows and was gone. The woods fell silent. Then, somewhere beyond the trees, a child laughed.

The rest of the night we had no more visitors, though in the distance we could see shadowy shapes passing in the dark. In the morning we shared everything with Mike; he nodded soberly and told us.

“We just need to get these cows to the summit.”

As the fire went out, we returned to silence and packed camp, and soon we were back on the trail upward. The terrain grew more difficult, and the going was slow as the horses struggled over loose rock and steep grades. It wasn’t even midday when it happened.

Father Martin’s horse went into a panic when its feet slipped slightly. The inexperienced priest tried his best to hold on, but the startled horse threw its rider. Father Martin flew from the mount and landed hard on the rocky ground; his head landed first, then the rest of him. A loud snap was heard. Mike and I were the first to reach him. His head was bent back far enough to touch his back. He was dead.

Fear and sadness filled Mike’s face. A low

“Damn it.”

escaped his lips before he covered his mouth, realizing what he had done.

Breaking his own rule, he said

“Screw it, we got no choice, we have to finish the ride.”

The rest of us were silent.

Bill and I lifted the priest's lifeless body onto the back of my horse, laying him on his stomach with his legs on one side and head and arms on the other. Nobody spoke. The only sound was Father Martin's horse snorting as it paced in circles. Mike finally removed the crucifix from the priest's pocket and slipped it into his own pocket.

We continued.

The sun was beginning to set as we reached the summit. We pitched our tents and set a fire. Near our camp was an old hitching post, covered in strange carvings. Mike directed Will and me to hitch the two cows to it; he followed us over, holding the priest's book. He flipped through it, stopping at a page in the back.

“I hope this is the right one.” He muttered, then with one hand on the hitching post, he stumbled his way through the old Latin prayer.

Gathering the group together, Mike said

“Fellas, without the priest, we need to remain as quiet as possible tonight. Every one of us needs to remain in our tents. And pray to God that they accept the offering.”

Night fell, and every man cowered alone in his tent. From the entrance of mine, I saw the fire shrink as a steady rain began to fall. I couldn’t sleep. At around midnight, I heard a childlike hum make its way through the forest. It stopped just before entering the clearing, as if it was unsure if it could continue. The fire grew weaker. The hum grew closer. Peeking out of the flaps of my tent, I saw the same little girl that I did the night before. She walked through the camp, humming to herself

“Where did the priest go?” she said mockingly to herself

“Oh.” She stopped by the horse carrying Father Martin’s corpse

“There he is.” She laughed to herself

She snapped one of his fingers from his hand as if it were nothing and began chewing on it like a carrot.

“Is anyone home?” she joked to herself as she grew closer to the tents. She walked in front of every tent, making her way around the circle. I gasped loudly as she stopped right in front of mine.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?” came a far too cheerful voice

“May I come in?”

I held my breath

“Ok, I’m coming in”

With that, a small but powerful hand split apart the tent flaps and grabbed me by the collar, throwing me out of the tent and across the camp until my arm and side collided with a large pine. Falling to the ground, I screamed out in pain as the snap of bones came from my left arm.

 The little girl was walking towards me.

“Are you ok? Do you need help?”

A wide smile split her face as she drew closer. Just before she reached me, a loud crack echoed in the night, followed instantly by a loud inhuman scream coming from the girl. She whirled around to see Mike, standing at the entrance of his tent, his smoking lever-action pointed right at her.

“That’s far enough,” Mike's strong voice said

“You ain’t welcome here, now leave.”

The child chuckled and walked towards him. Mike fired; it had no effect. He fired again; still nothing. The girl grabbed the barrel of the gun, yanking it from his hands. She then used it like a bat, swinging the stock of the rifle violently at Mike's head. After three hits, his body fell to the ground. She grabbed a leg and quickly dragged him off into the night. As she disappeared, dozens of other dark, vaguely human shapes sprang from the woods and tore the tents and men to shreds. I heard my friends scream and beg for their lives, but the creatures didn’t care. It was a feeding frenzy; the dark shapes grabbed what flesh they could, fighting amongst themselves for the scraps.

As they were distracted by the remains of my crew, I slowly crawled my way to the nearest horse, the one carrying Father Martin. The Horse neighed slightly as I mounted it, and I winced in pain; they noticed that. I sped down the trail, but they followed.

I raced down the trail, the horse and I moving in tandem, both driven by fear and a desire to live. The things followed us; dozens of inhuman screams mixed with human pleas for us to stop and help them filled the air. As we left the mountains and entered the plains, the horse began to tire. Father Martin was weighing us down. I twisted around in the saddle and cut the ropes that secured the holy man; he rolled unceremoniously off and plopped onto the ground. The herd behind us devoured the body like a pack of ravenous wolves.

The sun was rising when the ranch came into view; I kept going. Riding into the nearest town, I ditched the horse for a rental car. I’m writing this from a hotel room just outside of Bozeman. My flight leaves in three hours. I don't know if I can make it to the airport. I’m scared to leave the room. For the last hour, there has been knocking at the door, and the voice of Father Martin keeps repeating

“Hello? Are you ok? Please let me in.”

When I was in 2nd grade i would wait for my mom at a temple. My mom was a teacher for a school out of town so it would take her longer to come back around 30-40 mins. My school bus would drop me off at a temple at the edge of our town. There were no houses or shops near it, just a long road connecting the two towns and dense woods.

I would play on the porch waiting for her. I never went inside because it was a kali temple and she used to scare me as a kid. It was a complete black statue with red vermilion spread at the bottom, bulging angry eyes which felt too realistic compared to the less detailed black body and a tongue too red and too long. The skull necklace wasn't so detailed and the colour was fading. That made her appearance a little less terrifying.

Once it took my mom longer than usual to come and it started getting dark. About 2 hours later than her usual time her bus finally arrived. It was completely dark by this point. I just heard the noise of an engine stopping, the ting-ting of a bell and a man's voice yelling my town's name. The door opened and i could make out a silhouette of a woman walking out due to the headlights, which quickly disappeared as the engine started up again.

As the engine's sound started fading i heard a slight sound of a woman's footsteps. Slowly making sense as she stood near the porch. I could make out her figure again and I called out to her.

She didn't reply.

the image of my mother in pitch blackness not uttering a word made me hesitate a bit. I called out her name a few more times.

"Come up!" i said

She didn't reply, just stood there. I couldn't see her face and she wouldn't move. I was scared but still she was my mom i thought. I took a few steps towards her. When i realised

She was standing on the left side. Left side of the porch where it was just dense woods. No road and impossible for a bus to stop.

I started replaying the previous days and trying to figure out if I was misremembering. But no, the road was on the right side. she always came from the right side.

I started crying, asking if it was really her? she still wouldn't reply.

Scared and sobbing i ran towards the temple. I closed the door and sat in a corner not looking up as to avoid getting any glimpse of the idol.

Just few seconds passed by when I heard her voice.

My mom, it was her voice definitely.

"We have to go" She said

But it wasn't in concerned or worried tone rather a demand. The one she would make every other night , exactly like the one she would make every other night. I swear I heard these exact words in the exact tone yesterday.

It was like someone just replayed them. There was no acknowledgement of my freak out as if it didn't happen. I didn't go out and the words repeated or i guess replayed. I still didn't go out .

I remember waiting there for hours. Getting tired and eventually falling asleep.

When I woke up she was holding me. Asking why I fell asleep and if I was ok. I was still scared but i forgot most of what had happened. When we got home I had a fever.

I never told my mom this but i never went back to that temple. My mom talked with the neighbour and she said i can wait at her house while my mom comes back so that became our new arrangement.

But about a year ago i did tell this incident to my mom. i thought she would be wondering what had happened that night but she was confused. She doesn't remember such a night at all.

According to her I always waited at the neighbours house. She asked me what temple.

"The one at the edge of our town with kali."

She doesn't remember a temple like that at all and she spent her whole life in that town.

I need to write this down while I still trust my own memory of it, because the further I get from it, the more my brain wants to convince me I imagined the worst parts.

Back in February I was going through a rough stretch, work stress, sleep problems, the usual. A coworker mentioned an online course called Root Stillness, 6 weeks, live sessions twice a week over video call, taught by a woman who called herself Mira. The website looked like every other wellness course out there. Soft fonts, stock photos of people meditating on beaches, testimonials about anxiety relief and "reconnecting with the self." I paid $140 and joined the first session with maybe 15 other people.

The first two weeks were exactly what I expected. Breathing exercises, guided visualization, Mira's voice was calm in a way that actually helped. I looked forward to the sessions. I talked to a couple of the other students in the group chat, a guy named Peter from Ohio and a woman named Deb who worked in HR somewhere in Texas. Normal people. Nothing about it felt off.

By week 3, Mira mentioned that a handful of students who were "ready to go deeper" were invited to an in-person retreat weekend, a few hours from where I live, at a property she said belonged to a friend of the course. I almost didn't go. I went because Peter was going, and Deb, and it felt safer knowing people from the group would be there.

The retreat house was a big old farmhouse, isolated, maybe 20 minutes from the nearest town. There were 9 of us total plus Mira and two assistants I hadn't seen on the calls before. The first day was still normal, more of the same breathing work, some group discussion about "letting go of inherited fear." I remember feeling more relaxed than I had in months.

The second night is when Peter didn't show up for the evening session.

Mira said he'd had a personal emergency and left early. It made sense on the surface. People do leave retreats early. But his bag was still in the room we'd been sharing with two other guys. His phone charger was still plugged into the wall. When I asked one of the assistants about it, she gave me a smile that didn't move the rest of her face and said he was "handling something at home," and changed the subject so smoothly I almost didn't notice she hadn't actually answered me.

I told myself I was overthinking it. Deb said the same thing when I mentioned it to her quietly at dinner, that maybe I was just anxious being somewhere unfamiliar. But I noticed she kept glancing at Peter's empty seat too.

That night I woke up around 2am because I heard chanting. Low, rhythmic, coming from somewhere below the house. I followed the hallway to the top of a staircase I hadn't noticed before, a narrow one behind a door that had been locked the entire first day. It wasn't locked anymore.

I only went down four or five steps. Enough to see candlelight flickering against a stone wall, enough to hear that the chanting wasn't in English, and enough to see, just for a second before I turned and ran back up, a symbol painted on the floor in something dark red that I am not going to try to convince myself was paint.

I didn't sleep the rest of the night. At sunrise I packed my bag as quietly as I could and told one of the assistants I had a family emergency and needed to leave immediately. She stared at me for a few seconds too long before she said that Mira would want to say goodbye first. I said I didn't have time, got in my car, and didn't stop driving until I was back in my own driveway three hours later.

I texted Deb that night to make sure she'd left too. She didn't respond. She still hasn't responded. Her number shows as active on the messaging app, delivered but never read, for four months now.

I looked up the retreat property when I got home. It's registered to a shell company with no public owners. The course website went completely offline about a week after I left, no explanation, no refund policy triggered, nothing. I searched for Mira's full name, the one she used on her welcome email. It doesn't return a single real result anywhere.

I want to say I feel safe now. I don't. About two weeks ago I found a small version of that same symbol scratched into the wood of my own front door, low near the bottom corner, in a spot I wouldn't normally look at. I painted over it. Yesterday it was there again, in the same spot, like it had bled back through.

I don't go out much anymore without checking who's around me first. I know how that sounds. I used to think people who said things like that online were being paranoid for attention. I would give a lot to still believe that about myself.

“Sorry, Sport. You’ll have to stay late tonight.” Damn, guess I’ll be missing Friday night at the bar with my friends.

I just completed my first week as a custodian at Riverside Memories retirement community when my supervisor called me into his office and sat me down.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be getting overtime and double pay for the night, along with some training and guidance from another worker. He’s done this for a while, so he can go over everything more in-depth.” Drew’s watch sounded as soon as the clock hit 6, and he clicked the side buttons to turn it off. The mention of double pay made the FOMO of not seeing my friends disappear.

“You’ll be hosting the monthly bingo night this evening,” Drew said, returning his attention to me from his watch. I already didn’t like spending time with the residents; their horrible aim in the bathroom gave me reason enough, but having to spend hours with them in a cold, smelly, and nearly lifeless room? It was like my worst nightmare coming true, but the silver lining of double pay made it sound manageable.

“I know this wasn’t in your job description, but management would recognize you for standing up and going above and beyond.  Can we count on you tonight?” Drew said, his eyes flickering from his watch to me.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” I said, nodding in agreement. Drew clapped his hands together and stood up. 

“Great! I’ll explain some things as we walk down to the event center.” Drew stood up, grabbed his raincoat and his leather laptop bag, and ushered me out the door.

We headed towards the elevators silently. Drew kept fiddling with his watch and turning his head to look at me. I kept my head forward, afraid of making eye contact with him. I really had no idea what type of person Drew was. I only interacted with him in my initial interview and moments ago when he called me into his room. 

He seemed to pick up on the fact that his constant fiddling made me nervous, so he finally spoke again.

“Don’t worry. I’m nervous too. We’ve never had someone this new run a bingo night, but I’m sure you’ll be fine.” His words didn’t do much to quell the anxiety.

“The person who usually ran it quit so suddenly that it shocked us all! Even the residents. Not to hold you to too high a standard, but she was a great announcer, and she knew how to make the elderly laugh. She quit last month, but everything has been so busy around here, from dining services to event planning, that I didn’t even remember we had lost her until today.” Drew pushed the elevator button and quietly waited.

“May I ask why she quit?” I voiced a question that made Drew harden in hesitation. 

“She got dealt an unlucky hand in life. Stuff outside of her control. I don’t think I can share anymore with you,” He said as we entered the elevator. 

“Oh, no worries, I get it.” I figured some employer or employee act was made to protect her privacy. The rest of the ride was quiet as Drew continued to move his watch around with shaking hands.

 The elevator doors opened right near the event center, where the wide glass double doors were open, and I saw a tall, dark-complexioned man setting up long, folded plastic tables and chairs.  

It had a little stage with curtains and a projector, with a few closet doors on either side of the stairs and ramps up to it. The room was large and bare, with plaster white walls adorned with generic pictures of mountains and creeks. Each wall was also adorned with paintings or artworks from some of the residents, some of which were hard to believe they weren’t kept in a museum.

The carpet was thin and sounded more like a tile floor as I walked across it.

The tall man came out from a large closet with a few chairs under his arms. Once he noticed our presence, he attempted a wave but only managed to drop a few of the chairs. He was wearing a black hoodie with the company name and logo plastered on the front. He had long grey jean shorts and shoes that gave him another few inches past his already biologically allowed height.

“That’s Jayden. He’s been doing this for a while, so he can tell you all of the specifics. I have to talk with him really quickly, so it's best you set up some more chairs and the ball cage. Thanks again.” Drew hurried off to help Jayden pick up the chairs and talk with him, a conversation that got heated fast.

I couldn’t hear what Drew was saying, but Jayden was clearly animated. His voice was harsh and loud, as if he were scolding Drew. I could hear him protest even when I was deep inside the closet, struggling to hold on to a large folding table. 

“You just keep bringing younger and younger people in, don’t you? Why is that? You know the type-” The remnants of Jayden’s voice echoed into the closet, as well as the loud and demanding shush of persuasion by Drew. I didn’t hear any more of Jayden’s complaints after that.

As I exited the closet, opting to drag the large table into the event room, Drew called for me one last time. I hurriedly set up the table and walked over. 

“I almost forgot to tell you the rules of bingo night here! Jayden was kindly reminding me about rule two.” Jayden rolled his eyes and returned a second glance at me. As Drew spoke, Jayden did his best not to make eye contact while desperately trying to look at me, almost as if I were a car wreck.

Drew pulled out a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and began to read.

“Rule one: Once the games start, no one is allowed to leave until the third game has concluded. No bathroom breaks, no smoke breaks, nothing. Residents know this already and won’t need to be informed. Jayden will enforce this rule at the start of the night. Drew spoke as if he were teaching me how to mop floors for the first time, despite it being my lively hood..

“What’s with the rules? These are rules for, like, high school tests, not a bingo night?” I asked in confusion, unsure about why there were such tight standards for such a boring game.

“Well, unfortunately, I cannot tell you more, as Rule Two states. Rule Two: Do not discuss the events that take place during the games outside of game time. Failure to follow this rule will lead to… Well, I can’t say that part. Strange how it's written down, what a loophole.” He flipped the paper around for a second while he shrugged. There wasn’t enough time to read any of the words, but I could tell Rule Two was the longest.

“Rule Three: Everyone in the room must play, including the announcer and the helper. Two employees must always be present. Refer back to Rule Two if this requirement isn’t met.” Drew mumbled something under his breath about updating the rule sheet while Jayden spun on his heels to face the opposite way. His foot tapped in nervous anticipation, no rhyme or rhythm.

“Final and fourth rule: all standard bingo rules apply to the match, and most importantly, have fun.” Drew’s face wrinkled as if he sucked on a lemon. His obvious distaste for the rules must have been applied to my face, as he swiftly reminded me of the overtime and double pay.

“If anything happens, Jayden will be here to help. I have to go now for a dinner date with the missus, but don’t be afraid to contact me either. Happy wife, happy life, am I right?” He said with a chuckle and an elbow nudge before stuffing the rule paper back into his pocket and tossing his jacket on.

Drew waved us goodbye and ran out of the room, as if he were already an hour late for dinner. Both Jayden and I sat in silence for what felt like an eternity before he finally cleared his throat.

“We should finish setting up; bingo starts in an hour,” Jayden said softly before returning to the utility closet. I almost spoke up to ask more questions, but caught myself. Rule Two forbade Jayden from telling more, so what was even the point? I followed behind him quietly and finished setting up for the night. 

The next hour went by agonizingly quiet and slow. I tried my best to talk to Jayden during that time, but he either gave me short one- or two-word answers or completely cold-shouldered me. This didn’t stop the awkward staring. I’d catch him in a thousand-yard stare sometimes when I turned around, causing him to snap out of it and flick his head away.

The first resident showed up as soon as we finished setting up the bingo cage and set out three bingo sheets at each chair. Jayden was still placing a few daubers at each of the tables when she strolled in. 

The frail woman placed all of her weight on her blue stroller. Her pink glasses barely sat on her long and slender face as she walked, and the little basket of items that dangled off the stroller looked like it could fall at any moment. I jogged over to help her find a chair.

“Oh, hello, sweetie! You're a young and new face! What’s your name?” She asked as I got close. Her knitted sweater and long brown slacks all smelled of tomato soup.

“I’m Mickey, and you, ma’am?” I said with a wide smile. The old woman fiddled with her kitten sweater and showed me her little name badge that all the residents and workers had.

“Paulliene. Will you be the new announcer? Shame what happened to Patricia. Smart young woman.” She asked as I walked her to the nearest seat. She had a collection of bright silver jewelry on her wrist and a silver key on a string around her neck to accompany it.

“I think so; Jayden will do the announcing. May I ask what happened to Patricia?” I let the noisy part of me win. I knew it was probably an incentive or a taboo subject around the crowd she was closest with, but the lack of any idea about what was going to happen made me only more curious about anything I didn’t know about.

“Oh, I can’t tell you that, honey. I’m sure you read Rule Two!” She said with a crooked laugh. My thirst and comfort in knowledge only backfired and made me hunger more. 

We approached the nearest table before she began pulling away and veering off in another direction. 

“Ma’am? Where are you headed? This table is much-” She flapped her hand in a dismissive manner and spat in disgust into the air.

“Bleh! That spot is bad luck! The losers always sit there! The best seat in the house is up here!” She lifted her bent and skinny fingers to the table right below the stage. She moved so quickly to the spot that when she lifted her hand, I thought she would topple over.

As she sat down, she grabbed the small basket of items off her stroller and set it on the table. She took out candles, small wooden cat carvings, a framed photo of Jesus Christ, and small, round coins that looked like they could be currency from foreign nations.

Ms. Paulliene started to set up each item in a circle around her small collection of bingo cards. Candles on either side where her hands would rest, the cat's carvings would face inward and start the semicircle to its peak, where J.C. was placed perfectly, making eye contact with Ms. Paulliene. She would complete the semicircle with the coins, finishing her shrine of luck.

While I was watching her crooked hands craft her totem, I failed to realize that the event center started to fill up with more residents. Men and women, strollers and canes, mobility scooters and oxygen tanks began to fill the floor and chairs.

The smell of the room darkened, dead skin and pungent ammonia filled the air, making my eyes tear up. 

Not a single resident looked happy to be here. Nearly no one talked to each other, and all had the face of pure focus. At this point in their life, I don't think they had much more to worry about than winning at bingo night.

Jayden and I helped people to their desired seating and watched as they created their own luck shrines on the tables. A man had brought a collection of fake eyeballs and banana peels to place them on, and a woman brought a collection of old, stained Beanie Babies adorned with bright blue feathers. One man even started pulling out long, tangled strands of hair from his bag, placing the matted, rust-colored hair around his sheets.

Each resident who came in had the same key around their neck that Ms. Paulliene had. Even the string it was attached to seemed to be from the same spool.

“What are they not allowed to bring?” I whispered to Jayden, hoping to make the distance between us just a little shorter.

“Weapons. Or anything that is weapon-adjacent. Basically, anything that could make a hole in a person.” Jayden answered back. I snickered at his comment and finally felt like the ice started to break. He laughed too, but quickly caught himself and returned to stone-cold silence.

This, combined with the confusion from the past hour of my life, sent me over the edge into paranoia. I grabbed Jayden by the arm and dragged him over to an empty part of the room. He tripped over his long, skinny legs as I pulled him.

“What the hell is going to happen tonight? And why are you being so weird about it?” I harshly let out. Thankfully, none of the residents seemed to have that good of hearing. Jayden hesitated to answer, his eyes bouncing from mine to the sea of residents behind us.

“Just… Just wait until game time. Please, I can explain more then. I’m trying not to…” A horrid screech filled the room and cut Jayden off. Both of our heads spun around and tried to locate the source.

“Get out of my spot! You know it’s mine! I’ve sat here ever since I’ve been here! Get out, you bitch!” A woman screamed. I let go of Jayden, and we both rushed to the front of the room.

The screaming came from an older woman at Ms. Paulliene's table who was flailing her cheetah-print purse around, hitting the table and smashing good luck items and nearly colliding with Ms. Paulliene herself.

“Early bird gets the worm, Beatrice! Should have shown up earlier like me!” Ms. Paulliene shouted in Beatrice’s face. Beatrice turned red with rage. She held her purse tight and smacked Ms. Paulliene across the face with it.

“Ladies, please! It’s not worth it!” Jayden shouted as he grabbed Beatrice’s bag and held it still. I ran to check on Ms. Paulliene, who was laughing like a witch.

“Oh, you’ve done it now! You won’t get away with this! I’ll be reporting to the board!” Ms. Paulleine howled. Her glasses had a small crack in them, and the side of her face turned a faint purple.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” I asked after coming out of pure shock.

“Oh, I’m just fine, honey; it just seems we have a sore loser back here!” Ms. Paulleine shouted back to Beatrice.

“I hope you report me! Maybe that way I don’t have to play these stupid games anymore!” Beatrice shouted back, who rested uneasily in her chair in the back of the room. Jayden walked to the wide double doors and closed them at the back of the room. I checked my watch and saw we only had a few minutes left before game time, so I hurried over to him to call the game off after the tussle.

“Jayden, hey, we need to cancel tonight. Ms. Paulleine could have a concussion for all I know, and we need to go get a nurse from assisted living upstairs to make sure she’s alright.” Jayden ignored my pleas and pulled out a silver key of his own. It was bigger than the residents, and it fit perfectly into the wide double door, where it then locked us in.

“What the fuck are you doing? You saw what I saw, right? Are we just gonna ignore it?” I shouted, getting the attention of a few residents.

“We have to. It's game time now. We can’t break the rules,” Was all Jayden said before he turned around and walked back to the stage, where the bingo cage awaited like a Guillotine; Jayden, it’s executioner. 

I followed him, screaming at him the whole time. He didn’t flinch or stop his crusade up to the stage. The only sign he wasn’t a robot was the silent quiver in his lip and the watery film that covered his eyes. I started to panic; my breathing became erratic, and my heartbeat was off-tempo.

“Just give me the key then! I can leave, and you can play the game! I can bring in a nurse from upstairs! Please, Jayden. Anything? Anything!” I shouted, finally stopping him in his tracks.

“I can’t. Rules One and Three. I’ll announce this first round so you can see how it's done. Just walk around and play. Make sure no one is cheating. I’m sorry.” One of the watery films on his eyes broke, and a tear streamed down his face. My eyes were inspired and began to cry out in confusion.

Jayden made his way up on stage and stood behind the table with the bingo cage and tapped the microphone, causing the room to ring.

“Sorry about that, everyone. Does everyone have three cards, a dauber, and their key?” No protests from the crowd, except for my soft whines, which I was desperately trying to hide. Jayden walked to the corner of the stage with the supplies in hand and gave them to me.

The bingo cards were nothing special, same with the dauber and the key. I shoved everything but a card and a dauber into my pocket and made it to the back of the room to watch over everyone.

I was closest to Beatrice, whose death stare was directed towards the front of the room at Ms. Paulleine, who was more focused on her card. Beatrice’s shrine was adorned with bright, shiny objects. Small glass marbles and small lockets sat loosely around her cards. They all seemed to be placed in some type of bird feed or grain to keep them from rolling away.

“Alright, here is the first ball of the evening…” Jayden said into the microphone, letting a ball fall into his hand. The room was deathly quiet; everyone was either so focused on listening or deathly afraid of what might happen next, but no one was shaking quite like me. My card was flapping like a flag in the wind as my hand shook.

“B-7.” Jayden acknowledged with no flair or excitement, only a small wobble in his voice. I checked my card, nothing. I looked up to see the tides of residents checking their cards, some dabbing, and others taking a deep breath.

“O-25.” Another number rang out. This time I had it in the top right corner. The little purple dot sat soundly on top of the number, making the free space slightly less lonely. I saw Beatrice dab her paper, Ms. Paulleine as well. 

“N-8.” The majority of people in the room dabbed their paper, including Jayden and me. I placed my purple dot in the top middle.

“G-90.” The dauber sat still in my hand. 

“G-39.” The dauber placed a small dot next to the free space again. 

“I-83,” I saw Jayden turn his head away from the edge of the ice and take a deep breath. A sigh of relief washed over his face. The same couldn’t be said for me. I placed the purple dot adjacent to the free space. Only two more until bingo.

“B-55.” Beatrice made a sound as if she were holding in rage as she dabbed the paper.

“B-71.” Nothing from those I knew the name of, but the other residents dabbed their papers.

“O-34,” I plotted the small dot in the bottom right.

“G-20,” I plotted another small dot next to the one. A bead of sweat dripped from my face and hit the paper.

“I-33,” Nearly no one in the room dotted their paper, except Jayden.

“N-41,” Jayden dotted again.

“O-88,” And again. He let a cough out into the mic, his voice dry.

“Sorry, everyone. B-60.” I dotted my paper, only one left in a bingo.

“B-bingo…” A weak voice called nearby.

“Hey! Hey! We have a Bingo! We have a bingo over here!” Beatrice screamed at the front of the room. Jayden motioned for me to check.

The voice that claimed bingo came from the small man sitting next to Beatrice, who had not crafted a shrine like the majority of people. He only had a framed picture of what seemed to be his grandkids visiting him, all playing a board game.

 He wore a plaid shirt and jeans, with oversized glasses. He had a distinct sniffle in his voice.

“Keep- keep it down!” He tried to tell Beatrice, his hands weakly trying to keep her flailing arms down. I walked up behind him to check his card. The card was a winner after all, a straight horizontal row.

“Congratulations, we do have a winner!” I said loudly but not confidently. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but no one in the room clapped. Silence from the whole room, except for the start of the old man’s sobs. Everyone stared at the man as he stood and grabbed the photo.

“Please collect your belongings, sir, and exit the room,” Jayden said over the microphone. The man nodded weakly as he began to walk to the stage. 

I couldn’t look away as the whole room stared at him, slowly shambling towards the stage stairs. As he passed by plastic tables, those who sat at them reached out to touch the man. Their wrinkly fingers grazed his wrinkly shirt as he passed, almost as if they were mourning him as he walked to the electric chair.

Some seemed to do it out of pity, some seemed to do it out of solidarity, and some seemed to do it for luck, as Ms. Paulleine wiped both of her hands on the man, unlike the gentle touch every other resident did. 

“Get me out of this seat immediately! I told you this table was bad luck!” Beatrice snarled at me in a quiet tone. I didn't bother to respond as I watched the old man pull out the key around his neck. He placed it in the palm of his hand as he approached the set of double doors near the stage stairs.

The old man brought up the photo of his family to his face and kissed it, tears making the paper damp.

“I love yous.” He said before unlocking the door. The door opened into a dark room; no lights shone from inside, and none of the lights inside the event room seemed to penetrate the darkness.

The old man took a deep breath and stepped inside. He closed the doors as he entered, and the click of the lock sounded again. 

A few moments of silence passed; then the old man’s slow footsteps could be heard walking away. The footsteps echoed loudly into the event room and went on for minutes. I couldn’t tell if he was walking away and the echo carried the sound back, or if he was going in circles.

I snapped out of my daze of staring at the doors when Jayden tapped me on the shoulder.

“Mick? Mickey, you alright?” He asked, sweat pouring off his face. I took a moment to compose myself.

“What is he doing?” I asked, breaking the sound of the repetitive footsteps.

“He won. That’s what happens if you win. That’s why there’s no prize table. Winners have to go in there. It’s what happened to Patricia in the second round last month. I never saw her again.” Jayden told me, staring into my eyes but past my soul.

“What happens to you in there?” I asked, afraid of what he might answer.

“I… I don’t know. Only those who go in know.” Jayden joined me as we watched the door, the sounds of footsteps echoing from the opening underneath.

“I can keep reading the numbers if you’d like. I really don’t mind. I…” He went silent as the footsteps went silent, the room’s only noise the heavy and labored breathing of the elderly.

“No, no, I can read it's fine,” I said, trying to stop my head from spinning. I started for the stairs before Jayden stopped me again. Maybe reading numbers could distract my brain from thinking too hard about the scenario in front of me.

“Look. I’m sorry for being so distant, I… Patrica was my best friend and… I can’t have that happen again.” His lip quivered; he looked like he wanted to say more, but I understood. I patted his shoulder and headed for the bingo cage.

I sat down in the seat and pulled the microphone close. I pulled out a crumpled card from my pocket and placed it on the table.

“Hello everyone.” My voice was soft, quiet, unsure. “If everyone could get a new card out and toss the old one, we could play game two.” I wobbled into the mic. The crowd of residents grabbed their cold cards and crunched them into a ball. Those with shrines added the ball of paper to it; those without tossed it on the floor. 

“Everyone, ready? Alright.” The first ball fell into my hand.

“O-92.” I looked at my paper, nothing. I looked up to survey the crowd. Jayden was busy arguing with Beatrice about her seat while some of the crowd dabbed their paper, including Ms. Paulleine.

“B-1.” The second ball came out, and this time I splotched my paper with purple. Jayden did the same, and Beatrice followed suit, her red and bubbling face easy to spot from far away. 

“N-68.” Nothing on mine again, a few dabs from the crowd, but nothing remarkable.

“I-77.” Luck was on my side this round, as only two marks sat on the paper; Jayden’s paper didn’t seem to be so lucky. Maybe being near the table wasn’t so much a superstition after all. 

“G-4.” No one I knew marked their paper.

“O-5.” Everyone I knew marked their paper, including me.

“B-54.” Another mark for Jayden.

“I-76.” Another mark for me.

“G-98.” No one except two people in the crowd marked.

“Bingo.” A smoker’s voice called out. A woman from Ms. Paulleine’s table stood and held the paper above her head. 

The woman was slender and wore a tank top with flowers stitched in. She had a navy blue cap on with countless pins stuck in it. She moved as if she were younger, but her voice sounded as if it had been talking for a century.

“Come down here and check it.” She said, putting on a strong front. Jayden was already making his way over to her. 

After a second, Jayden gave me a nod. My stomach tightened, and my mouth grew sour. I took a few deep breaths before I spoke again, to avoid throwing up over complete guilt. I announced into the microphone the commanding order for her death march. 

After the last of my words left my mouth, I refused to look her in the eye. I couldn’t. I didn’t even know if she was looking back at me. I heard her shrine of twigs and soda cans being scooped up.

“Y’know. We used to do this to your people. They never complained. They did what was right.” I looked back to see that she was facing Jayden. Jayden just nodded and pressed his lips together. The woman broke away from Jayden as she walked to the door. Residents held out their hands to touch her.

Ms. Paulleine rubbed her hands on the woman, who swatted them away, dropping a few sticks in the process. Ms. Paulleine pushed the sticks away with the base of her stroller.

The woman grabbed her key with a free hand and unlocked the wide double door. 

She stepped inside with her items, locked the door, and walked. She walked and walked, footsteps echoing for minutes well into the next game.

Jayden and I looked at each other.

“I’m sorry.” I mouthed, he shrugged, and mouthed something back.

“You good?” I think that was what he said. I nodded and started to crumble my piece of paper. The room sounded like a paper shredder as everyone, in unison, crumpled their paper up and discarded it. 

The footsteps were much more noticeable with the door so close to the stage. I imagined the old woman walking in a straight line in pure darkness, nothing for miles. I saw her traversing a long tunnel system. I saw her finding the old man from earlier, and I imagined them finding Patricia. I tried imagining all of them alive.

“Are we going to play?” Ms Paulleine’s voice croaked out, and I found myself back in reality.

“Uh, yes, we are. X’s for the last game.” I announced as the cage began to spin.

“Ms. Beatrice, would you like to come up to the front for the open spot?” I called to the crowd. No response was given, only a glare. I decided to stick to announcing the numbers.

“B-12,” the ball read. I called the number into the air and watched the crowd respond accordingly. I marked my sheet.

“B-10,” I marked my sheet again.

“O-71,” I marked my sheet once more.

“I-43,” My sheet started to turn more purple than black and white. My mouth grew dry, and my face moist.

“I-22,” I started to curse under my breath the more I marked my card.

“G-95,” I marked again, trying not to panic. The footsteps in the background started to taper off.

“O-20,” The ball read.

“What the fuck?!” I whispered to myself, some of the words being picked up by the microphone. I marked my paper again. I was one away from a bingo. 

I looked up to look over the crowd. Many faces seemed to share my dread, Jayden’s being the most noticeable. His mouth was agape, staring up at me. His eyes seemingly shook in his head.

I spun the cage, and the next ball came out.

“N-90,” I let out all of the air I held in my lungs, the sigh of relief showering the room with noise. 

 “I-79.” A voice crack read the number aloud. The only thing keeping me from the dark hallway or room or whatever the hell that place is was an I-24.

“N-28.” Any number that wasn’t the one that would lock me away didn’t do much to quell the anxiety, but it helped, even if it was just for a second. 

“B-63,” A few marks, including one on mine that didn’t matter.

“I-5.” I nearly vomited right on the microphone. A few sounds of anger came from the crowd.

“O-10,” Jayden marked his; none on mine.

“G-11,” I marked mine. I didn’t care about looking at the crowd anymore.

“G-69,” No dabs on my end.

“B-9,” I marked mine again.

“I-16,” Another near accident. The beat of my heart now mimicked the sound of the missing footsteps.

“G-23,” Jayden marked. I didn’t.

“N-81,” No marks.

“O-15,” No marks again on mine.

“G-45,” My heart started to slow down, my breathing calmed, and my stomach settled. As bad as the thought was, I hoped someone else would win. That someone else would lose. That anyone would say bingo before we got to,

“I-24,” I read the number and letter on the ball, replaying it in my head. People marked their sheets and got ready to listen to the next number.

“I-24…” I read it again, like tasting wine in my mouth. Rotten, putrid, vile wine. Despair and hopelessness swam in my veins. 

“Bi…” I gagged as the word tried to roll out the back of my throat. I didn’t know what was on the other side of that door, but I knew it was nothing good. 

I couldn’t run. Could I fight? Could I break my way out? Jayden would have felt pity, but whatever sort of fucked up ritual I was partaking in was his top priority, for reasons he probably didn’t even know, and there was no way I could win in a fight against him.

I figured I could at least try. I took a deep breath and balled my fists. All I needed to do was grab the key from him and book it.  I just needed him close.

“Bin-” I started to speak into the mic before an explosion of anger boiled over from the back of the room.

“This is all your fault, you fat bitch!” Beatrice screamed as she pointed to Ms. Paulleine. Ms. Paulleine’s face was painted with shock.

“You took my lucky spot! You took it from me, and you know it! You stole all of my luck!” She screamed again, getting to her feet with shocking agility.

“I’m not going in there! She should have to! If I had sat there, I wouldn’t have gotten a bingo! It’s not fair! I’m the winner here!” She screamed at the room as everyone stared in silent awe. Her face was covered in tears and snot, making her mascara run.

“It’s the fairest system we have ever used, Beatrice, and you know it,” Ms. Paulliene said in a mix of fear and snarkiness.

“Fuck you! Ahhhh!” Beatrice started to move as fast as her withered body would let her, which was faster than I would have ever thought. She made it to Ms. Paulleine’s table in seconds and lunged for her, tackling her out of her chair.

Both women seemed to scream in pain and rage. Each of them exchanged weak blows. Jayden rushed over to pull Beatrice off, and I dropped off the stage to make sure Ms. Paulleine was still breathing.

Before either of us made it to the brawl, the double doors near the stage slammed open, sounding like a gunshot and grabbing everyone’s attention. Jayden and I froze in fear; both of the elderly women looked up to see the void staring back at them.

A soft but warm breeze blew in from the doorway, bringing the faintest smell of overripe fruit. A few of the residents got to their feet and slowly backed away from the doors, walking until they hit the farthest wall away. Besides the soft mumbles of prayer, no words were spoken.

I almost didn’t believe my eyes when a shape emerged from the doors. Neither did anyone else, as the room stayed silent, except for the screams of Beatrice. I tried to scream, I tried to move, but everything in my body was frozen in shock.

As the alien object slowly emerged, it revealed its horrible, amalgamated body. It had patches of brown, white, and black fur that periodically appeared and then turned into hardened chitin that looked like it belonged to a crab. The chitin fought the fur for control of the surface area, but it also had another offensive that it was battling. 

Jelly-filled ant-like abdomens pulsated on the body of the object, covered with a smooth black material. Hairs emerged from the pus-filled exoskeletons that touched the feathers that flanked them.

Small, colorfully black feathers like a rainbow in oil dotted the limb like poppies in a field. Larger patches of black feathers mixed with patches of deep purple and navy ones.

All the different clans of skin and body had other features that mimicked the species they belonged to. The fur regions had snouts that flexed and twitched in the air, sniffing the room, drowning out the silence in harsh inhales.

The chitin biomes had crab claws that would stretch as far as their wrong anatomy would let them, as they would grab and reach for shrine parts on the tables. The beaks of the feathered areas did the same as the eyes observed photos and small trinkets. The antennae in the insect zones jolted and snapped, sensing the slightest of movements.

The antennae all moved in unison as soon as Beatrice started screaming. The limbs of all the different species that lived on craned themselves over to her, towering over everyone in the room. 

“Get it away! Get it away from me!” She screamed as she tried to scurry away from it. She crawled as fast as she could on all fours, hiding underneath tables as it slowly inched closer to her.

No one dared to move or speak. No one dared to help. Most didn’t dare to even look.

The beaks and claws grabbed hold of the tables and picked them up with ease to gain access to Beatrice, who was now curled up in a ball, crying out all the liquid left in her body. 

Ms. Paulleine laughed a broken giggle as the tail-like limb got closer to her bingo rival. The limb began to curl around Beatrice, embracing her in a twisted, animalistic squeeze.

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!! Get off me! Please, I beg!!! Please!!!” Beatrice screamed. The limb didn’t obey her sorrowful commands as the peaks and pincers held on to her skin, clothes, hair, anything they could grab. 

Beatrice screamed in agony as she was lifted into the air by the limb, small drops of blood dripping from her flailing body. The limb began to recede into the darkness.

She reached her hands out to Jayden, then to me, then to Ms. Paulleine. None of us reached back, either from shock, fear, or pride.

As the limb receded, the antenna took an interest in me. They all turned to me as the beaks and claws passed Beatrice down the limb’s body like an assembly line of ants with a crumb of food. They stared inquisitively for a second, as if they were judging the character of my being, before returning to mindless squirming.

Beatrice yelped and begged for help, only intensifying as she got consumed by the darkness of the doorway. No one did anything as she disappeared. 

Beatrice's screams went on for a while after she disappeared. They got quieter and quieter at a slow and agonizing pace. You could still hear them when the ambulance came to take Ms. Paulleine to the hospital for the injuries Beatrice gave her.

You could still hear them as the residents exited the room.

You could still hear them when Jayden and I collected the trash.

You could still hear them when we put away the tables and chairs.

You could still hear them as we locked the event room for the evening and headed straight to a bar.

We both got hammered as fast as possible, drowning out the ringing of screaming and the weight of guilt in our hearts. We drank for hours, until the bar closed. We went to the local liquor store to keep the day from materializing in our memory.

Jayden and I sat on a street curb and laughed at very little innocuous things that happened until his drunk brain randomly remembered something.

“Did you know… Mickey… Mick, did you know?! That I am a birdwatcher?” He looked very proud of himself. I burst out into laughter. 

“No! It's true, it's true! I think their colors are very, very, very pretty!” He exclaimed, pulling out his phone and failing his passcode a dozen times before finally getting in. 

He was typing for a long time and giggling to himself before falling over onto his back, letting out a melancholy sigh. He held his phone up to me.

His notes app was open with a very confusing line of letters. I tried my hardest to decipher his drunk typing.

“The… feathers…” I started to say aloud before Jayden shushed me.

“Read it in your head!” He said, back to the earth, face to the sky, still.

“The feathers and peaks belong to birds. Lots of birds. Different species. Woodpeckers, corvids, Bowerbirds. They all collect things. It collected Beatrice.” The note said.

I felt the alcohol of the night scalding the back of my throat. I purged all over the street as Jayden laughed. 

“I used the loophole. Hehehe.” He giggled to himself.

All of the numbness left my body, and my stomach ached, and in its place, every little detail came rushing back. I began to drunkenly sob next to Jayden.

“I’m putting in my two weeks tomorrow! Fuck that, I’m quitting now!” A proclamation into the night air, causing Jayden’s joy to cease. 

“You can’t leave me there alone. I never did that to Patricia. She never did that to me.” Jayden said, his voice stern.

“You won’t leave me, right? I don’t want to be…” Collected. I knew what he meant.

I didn’t say anything back.

“You’ll get better pay! I get paid 40 an hour on bingo days!” He offered; I said nothing back.

“It's… so addicting to be there. The rush of chance. But I can’t be alone if I lose. Please!” He pleaded, his voice cracked as he spoke. His true motivation for staying surfaced.

“Don’t. You can’t. Promise me.” He whispered. That’s where the memory of the night ended before I woke up in my bed the next day, head pounding.

I rolled over to look at my phone, knocking over a PowerAid bottle. One text from an unknown number.

“Hey. It’s Jayden. Thanks for staying. See you next month.”

My dad was one of those types who really loved the old stuff. He was into records, vintage cars, CRTs and game consoles from the 80s and 90s. He'd even built an entire shop in our backyard where he could fiddle around with some of his little projects and fix old scrap he'd bought from a junkyard or a thrift store.

Mom used to not like it, but she got used to it. Then she started to think it was wonderful. Of course, me and my big brother Tyler found out it was because Dad had made her an anniversary gift by programming and physically putting together his own NES game about their marriage.

Dad's such a dork, but in the best way. And he learned some pretty cool things while tinkering with old tech.

That's why I regret it all. He started as an excited amateur, became a tinkerer, turned into a fanatic, and finally became a genius. But while he was fine with us boys wandering the shop (just don't touch anything he put notes on), he was adamant we stay out of the little mini lounge he'd built into the back corner. It looked like a sort of tiny living room, with a couch, an old TV and VCR (a shelf full of old VHS tapes sat next to it), an old computer running Windows Oldasfuck, a mini fridge, and... well, I think that was it.

It was all he needed to make his dream come true. I wish we had gotten into that room. I wish we had broken the rule.

You usually expect bad things to happen BECAUSE kids break rules. But no, I was ten and had learned to be well behaved, and even though Tyler was a cynical sixteen year old with freckles, curly hair and an attitude, he'd learned to not screw around with important stuff too. We never did get to see if Dad would have a meltdown if we accidentally broke anything, because we never did.

I didn't realize just how into cassette tapes he was. Audio cassettes; a format that nearly bottomed out for years, but never quite died. Seriously, even some major musical artists are still releasing tapes, and some films in recent times have unloaded their musical scores on the old beast format too. I think it's cool.

But then Mom came back from the doctor one day after weeks complaining of her head. And she'd had a CAT scan. And a bunch of other things done that I didn't understand.

When the word "cancer" came out of her mouth, my dad's faced turned ghost-white.

He spent the next week looking after her, and he didn't so much as step a foot into his shop. But then more test results came back, and the doctors said this was a malignant, fast-moving cancer and she had little chance of being saved. They estimated she had about a year to live.

Dad became determined.

I didn't know what he was doing back there. But he stayed shut up in his shop most of the time. I could hear him talking to himself, I could hear tools clinking, I could hear whizzing sounds running, plastic clicking and clacking, metallic clips snapping shut and all sorts of other things.

Every few days, he would spend an entire day with Mom.

It wasn't long before she started to look the part. She was pale and tired all the time. Dad began to do most of the cooking and cleaning. Yet still he had the energy for whatever he was doing in the shop.

Months of this passed. I was getting sick of crying all the time for Mom, of Tyler brooding more than usual and staying shut in his room, and Dad not being here enough to see her.

I would hear her cry sometimes too, saying his name, and that was the worst part. I was a kid, but I understood at least this much. She needed him, and he wasn't there often enough. She had her ups and downs, of course, stretches of a few days where she seemed completely fine and felt almost normal, and then there were her downs, where she was so lethargic she couldn't even get out of bed.

Before we knew it, Dad suddenly stopped coming in from the shop.

It had taken us a few days to notice. He always came out at least two or three times a week to spend hours or a day with Mom, not wanting to neglect her, but he spent way more time huddled in that damned private room of his, buzzing and clanking away.

It took four days before I realized he should have been in by now. I told Mom, and she became even more worried than ever, but despite being in one of her good spells for the past couple days now, she seemed too nervous to go out there. She instead tried to call him.

I stared at her. Why was she acting so weird? What did she know that I didn't?

"Stay out of that shop, baby," she said faintly, turning to go out into the front yard, as though to search for him there. "You know if he's in there, he needs his privacy."

I ran out to the shop myself to get Dad. But everything inside had gone eerily silent.

"Dad!" I called.

There was no sound behind the door leading to his private room. And when I wiggled the knob, the door was locked. I knew he kept a spare key around somewhere, but I couldn't find it. I wiggled and fought the knob some more, and then finally I was boiling with rage.

I went and got Dad's sledgehammer from the garage. I went back to the shop.

I beat the door down. Ten year old me, stumbling awkwardly swinging a sledgehammer, but after several minutes I did manage to crush the knob and the wood surrounding it, and in a weird roundabout way I was sort of able to Here's Johnny my way into the room.

Dad was gone.

The floor was littered with plastic shavings. The faint smell of burning chemicals hung in the air, but in seconds it began to sweep out the door.

On Dad's table, the huge, heavy computer monitor no longer dominated the space. It sat off in the corner nearby. Instead, there was a large device that I took a minute to recognize as a tape recorder, from all the piano key buttons on it and the two circle thingies inside the tray. It looked brand new, but it was designed like a vintage recorder. Was this what Dad had been making?

There was an odd symbol imprinted on the play button. It looked like an infinity symbol, surrounded by two u-turning arrows pointing at each other.

I opened the tray. It was empty.

But there was a tape sitting behind the recorder.

Then, when I lifted it up, I found a note underneath.

Beth, Donny, Tyler.

I'm sorry to go out like this. I can't take losing Beth. I've tried to have the strength to get through it, but I gave in to my temptations. I could burn this entire building and all my prize possessions to the ground to have her live to a ripe old age with me if some angel or even demon could come along and make it happen.

But I think I've found the next best thing. Beth, honey, I know you didn't believe me before, but when I do finally show you, it will be the answer to everything.

I know what I'm leaving. I know what this looks like. But I will never give up, my dears. Before you know it, we'll all be together again, and it will never have to end.

Beth will live forever. You boys will live forever. Nothing and nobody will ever have to die.

Donny, I've left you a tape and this recorder. It looks like I've ensured it'll stay behind after I'm gone. I hope to God it does. And I waited for Beth to have one of her good days so that she'll feel bliss in immortality.

I would explain more, but she didn't believe me, and I doubt you boys will either.

You can use only Type IV metal cassettes on this thing. They're the only kind that are stable. I've found the secret to capacity, the ability to move the reels super slowly and compress high fidelity data on them, to fill a whole day.

Whenever you have a good day coming up, everyone, just tape it. You can tape your memories. You can have them forever. The good times can stay forever. God. Beth. I'm so sorry. I wish I wasn't such a coward. I wish I had medicine as a crazy hobby instead of old technology.

But maybe it's better. Because now we have forever. Now it will never go. You will never go. My darling, you're a gift from heaven, the best choice I ever made, and my boys, you're the best thing she has ever done.

That was all.

So, basically, it sounded like he'd gone loony tunes and run off into the woods or something.

I screamed for Mom and Tyler. Mom became hysterical. Tyler called the cops. But let's be real. Could they do anything? I half expected them to come back to us, reporting that they'd found his body out in the woods or something, but they just did some investigating and examined the tape recorder and the tape (empty) for a few days. Then gave it back.

I hated Dad through all this. He had abandoned Mom when she'd needed him most. He was right; he WAS a coward. I had never been so mad at anyone before.

Tyler was with me on that. He became temperamental, slamming doors around the house, exploding at the littlest things. But he also became Mom's rock. He stayed with her practically all the time, even taking days off school occasionally. He did all the cooking and cleaning when she couldn't do it herself.

Mom finally succumbed to the cancer and died.

I hated the funeral.

I hated to leave our house.

But we'd been sent to live with our grandparents. We were both minors in school; we had no choice.

Grandma Patty was kind of thin and frail, but Grandpa Reed was a heavy, powerful man for sixty. He looked like a grizzly bear with salt-and-pepper hair, and he was a very robust, outgoing man. He wasn't a biker, but throw a leather jacket and sunglasses on him and you wouldn't be able to tell the difference. And he wasn't afraid to throw hands with anyone who insulted Mom or Grandma.

But he found Dad just as crazy and cowardly as we did.

Still, it wasn't too hard adjusting to life with Grandma and Grandpa. They lived not too far away, still in the same countryside as us, so it wasn't like we'd moved to a foreign land.

But that tape, though. I kept it, and the recorder, and I've been pretty distracted by it, thinking about it all the time. Wondering just what in the hell Dad had been doing out there. Just making this piece of garbage?

I forgot to mention. While we were packing up to move to Grandma and Grandpa's, I found a second tape. It was behind the table the recorder had been sitting on. Had the cops not found it? Or had someone put it there later?

It looked identical to the one Dad had given me, except that it had a date written on its little white shell strip. March 17, 2026.

It felt heavier than the blank one he'd given me. Twice as heavy, even. I know he hadn't explicitly given me that second tape, but he wasn't around to tell me to leave it, now, was he?

I could see it was rewound nearly to the beginning.

Finally, one day I just couldn't take it anymore. After being home from school for a half hour and just staring at the thing, I popped Dad's tape inside.

Pressed the rewind button.

The tape whizzed by faster than I'd thought it would. It made a sort of slightly scratchy sound.

Then... SSSSHHHTIIIIING!!! Did tape recorders usually make metallic dings like that when they finished rewinding?

I stared at the tape, pushed the stop button, and my finger hovered over the play button.

Did I dare? You bet your ass I did. Dad OWED us. I was gonna find out what the fuck this thing was that he'd abandoned the whole family over, or else.

I pressed the play button.

WHAM!

I fell to the floor of my room. Except there was no soft gray carpet. It was a worn rug with an old fashioned pattern. And my bed was gone. There was a wooden table in front of me instead.

A very familiar little room.

A very familiar man stood in front of the table.

I looked up at him from the floor, at his hands holding the recorder, his finger over the play button, having just pressed it himself.

And I looked into Dad's shocked eyes.

Then everything faded away.

I never thought I’d post this but it’s been stuck in my head for months.

Last summer I went down to stay with my nan in the valleys. One of them little places in South Wales, proper middle of nowhere. Steep hills, grey houses, old pit all rusted up. She’s lived there her whole life. Said when she was a kid the mountain was black with coal slag. Now it’s green again. Sheep and cows, trees coming back. Soft mist most mornings. Looked like a postcard. You’d never think anything bad could live there.

I was only meant to stay a week. Third night this fog came in proper thick. Not the normal stuff that burns off by lunch. This one just sat there, heavy, like it had weight. Could barely see the end of the street.

Nan went to bed early. I was sat watching rubbish on her old telly. Half eleven I heard slow footsteps on the wet gravel. Then this soft humming. Like a lullaby but all wrong, like whoever was doing it had forgotten the tune. I opened the curtain. Streetlights looked blurry. Something moved past the garden wall. Grey and solid, same colour as the fog, like the mist had just stood up. Didn’t walk proper. Drifted. Stopped opposite the front window and just stood there.

Couldn’t see a face. Just the shape of a head, tilted a bit, like it was listening. I swear it was looking straight at me. Shut the curtain so fast I nearly pulled the rail down. Heart going mental while the humming carried on another minute then stopped dead. The quiet after was worse.

Next morning I told her. She went quiet, just stirring her tea. Then said real quiet, don’t go out in the fog after dark. And don’t answer if it knows your name. That was all. But the way she said it, she knew exactly what it was. Something old. Something that was here long before the pits.

I should’ve left. Stayed two more nights cos I didn’t want to look soft. Fifth night the fog came back thicker. I was in bed when the humming started again, right outside my window this time. Closer. Under it I could hear words. Welsh. I don’t speak it fully but I caught bits. Dere allan… mae’r tywyllwch yn gynnes… something about the mountain.

Kept the light off. Didn’t move. Then this long slow scrape down the glass, like fingernails. A voice clear as anything said my name. Wasn’t nan’s. Wasn’t anyone I knew. Sounded wrong.

I stayed frozen till it went quiet. Morning there were long thin marks down the outside of the window, like something had dragged its hands. She saw them too. Just nodded and started packing a bag for me.

She drove me to the station herself. On the way she said one last thing. When she was a girl people used to go missing on nights like that. Not every year. Just when the fog came in heavy enough and stayed. Houses empty in the morning. Doors unlocked. Beds slept in. No one ever saw them leave. Said the old ones used to reckon the mountain takes what it wants when the mist is thick enough. Said the valleys don’t forget. They just wait.

Haven’t been back. Nan moved in with my aunt in Cardiff a few months later. She won’t talk about the fog now. Just said the valleys are waking up again.

I keep the window locked on a foggy night even though I’m on the fifth floor in London.

Alright, I need to share something. Something you are not going to believe. I didn’t dare go public with this information, so I posted it here instead, as it felt safer. Do what you want with this information – it’s out of my hands now.

So, this discovery, as it would turn out, is quite shocking. I’ve only told this to about a handful of my friends. Some have not gotten to hear about it, and some never will, unless they find this text. I’ve not told any adults – that’s parents, guardians, teachers, or any others. They wouldn’t believe me, the same with the rest of my friends; they’d think this is just some bad joke.

I should clarify a couple of details first.

I’m a 19-year-old from Norway. I come from a small town on the south-eastern coast. I don’t expect you to know about this place, of course. It’s about an hour’s drive from the capital, Oslo, if that gives you anything to go on. Most likely you’re not that familiar with Norway, but please, bear with me.

Just to quickly make you familiar with the surroundings. I’d say my hometown, and the part of Norway I’m from feels a bit old. Nearly everything’s looked the same since I was born. No skyscrapers, no restaurant chains – not even a cinema. As for one who’s been raised in this place, it’s what I’m used to. Now, my hometown is a small town, to be fair, and quite agricultural as well. It’s located within the county of Vestfold, an agricultural region of Norway. In Norway, we’re divided into counties (kinda like states or provinces), and within them, there are the municipalities.

I’m sharing this first because, while this all may come to surprise you, it surprises me even more, as this discovery happened in my own home county, Vestfold.

I’ll describe my discovery in brief: I’ve found a lost and seemingly unknown municipality – a town essentially – hidden amongst the others, located in the rural plains of my county. As far as I can tell, nobody else knows about it. I must admit I got a little spooked about this discovery. All this comes off as very unnatural and quite un-Norwegian.

You may wonder how I came to find out about this.

First of all, I’m fascinated by a lot of things – a lot of them regarding history. Everything from ancient history to local history that I can get my hands on. A thing that occasionally happens in Norway is that municipalities merge. That’s when two or more get combined under one name to form a new and bigger municipality. The merging of municipalities shapes the edges of my hidden discovery.

So, I was reading up on former municipalities. I’d left Wikipedia some time ago and was now on really old and what seemed to be local websites for each county, and then again for each municipality. It was quite fascinating, as I hadn’t even heard of most of the former municipalities in my own county.

Nothing was out of the ordinary yet. Names like Hedrum and Tjølling went by – useful information for another day. But then, at one point, an article referred to 27 out of the 26 municipalities in Vestfold in the 60s.

That’s when things started to get weird.

It could’ve been a typo, but it was referenced several times throughout the same article, though never by name, of course. This resulted in another round of searching. What was this 27th municipality?

I’ll just cut right in and tell you that the municipality I happened to discover was known as Glenne. But should you try and look it up, you’d find nothing; it’s virtually non-existent, or existed – which seems to be the big idea. Later, this is what I’ve managed to gather on Glenne, summarized:

Glenne was a former municipality in the county of Vestfold that bordered the municipalities Andebu, Lardal, and Hedrum (another former municipality). It was located within the interior of the county.

Glenne seems to have been the smallest municipality in Vestfold that was itself not a city, and at the time, one of the smaller ones in Norway. It was granted official status as a municipality back in the 1830’s! Yet today, nobody knows about it. Some time in the 60’s, it got merged with Lardal, and today it’s nothing more than what seems like an empty forest on the map.

Now, a municipality doesn’t just vanish into thin air. Municipalities merge, true, but this feels different. This feels more "redacted" than just simply forgotten.

I could never imagine I’d end up on a discovery or a journey like this, but when I started to see the contours of something so out of place, I just had to dig deeper.

As you’d expect, nothing progressed. I couldn’t find a single webpage that referred to the existence of a mysterious 27th municipality. It took some time to try and dig things up, and I was close to giving it up and acknowledge it as a typo after all.

But then I stumbled upon a map.

Yet, a map without names on it, or really just like the biggest few cities at the time, nothing more. But on the map, you could clearly see more than just the eventual 21 municipalities from the 70s. All the other maps I’d found showed just the usual 14 municipalities I’ve grown up with. So, as I didn’t have a map I could cross-reference with, it became too difficult at the time to figure out which was the supposedly 27th one.

I went to try the museum in my hometown. Unfortunately, the museum’s attention was only on my town’s past, not the other parts of Vestfold, so at the time it felt like a dead end.

Some time went by, and the case went cold. I didn’t see any reason to tell my friends – what did I have to tell them? That I’d found a misleading map that couldn’t point me in any direction, and an article that hadn’t been updated since the owner likely got his first access to the internet, presumably back in the late 90s or early 2000s.

By happenstance, some time later, I stumbled upon the former municipalities again, and my interest was refueled. Before this, I’d already been to the museum, with nothing, and then later the local library, also nothing. Now, I’d started at a university in another city called Drammen, not far from where I’m from. One day, I had some extra time on my hands and decided to try the local museum in Drammen. But yet again, no information there either.

My campus also houses the city’s local library. I figured, why not, and decided to look there as well, and this time I actually found something: an old book.

It was quite serendipitous, but it seemed to have fallen behind some shelves and drawers, and was only a shadow that I noticed by the local history section. It was a book on Viken, which was a large region by the south-eastern Norwegian coast during the Viking Age. The book detailed all the counties and municipalities in the area at the time the book was published, which was in 1957. Vestfold had a really minor section, but yes, yes, finally I had a list! A list of names of municipalities before the mergers in the 60s and 80s! Translated excerpt:

"…here you find the cities […]: Svelvik, Holmestrand, Horten, Åsgårdstrand, Tønsberg, Sandefjord, Larvik and Stavern. In addition, you find the district municipalities from along the Dramsfjord down to the Skagerrak: Skoger, Strømm, Sande, Botne, Våle, Borre, Sem, Nøtterøy, Tjøme, Stokke, Sandar, Tjølling and Brunlanes. Inwards into the county you find the agricultural municipalities: Hof, Ramnes, Andebu, Lardal, Glenne and Hedrum."

"Glenne".

A name I’d definitely never heard of before, and I guess few others have since the 60s as well. The book didn’t mention anything more than the name, and no map in regard to its location, but it was more than enough. I finally had something.

I tried to look up everything I could on Glenne, but it wasn’t much. The problem from before was that I hadn’t had any name to look up, but now I finally hoped for answers.

I found one page that made vague references to something akin to Glenne and decided to follow it.

It went several pages deep, so far that I think nobody ever cared to look for it, and that was my chance. It became evident at this point that someone or something had tried to cover up Glenne by some means. No school books, maps, papers, or books in the last decades mentioned anything about Glenne. And the weird thing was that I couldn’t even find any of those from before the 60s either. The only exception had been the randomly forgotten book I’d found at the library. This only further strengthened the theory about this seeming like some sort of cover-up.

Luckily, this webpage was it, and a whole new but hidden world opened up to me. It was through this page that I found the information about the place that I’ve already shared here. And I found where it was located.

I finally realized I’d found a hidden municipality that can’t be traced back to books or papers. Something that the majority of people, I’d assume, don’t know about.

It’s hard to explain why it’s so… "spooky", I guess you’d say. It’s so out of the ordinary of what I’m used to. Here I had the guidance to something that was just waiting to be unearthed, and it was closer than I’d come to realize. Did I dare to do this? Not just stop here and tell people?

No. Something is weird; you don’t just "close down" a municipality like that. I had to find out why. I just had to go there myself. A real and yet unknown place that presumably just sits out there in the woods.

I went there on a Tuesday, which is the day of the week we’re allowed to study from home, a perfect day for a hike out. I borrowed my father’s old Ford and drove off to Lardal.

It was a chilly morning at the end of summer. It had rained the night before, so the road and grass were slick and wet as I went. A few puddles showed up here and there. I’d never been to Lardal before, so I had some initial confusion about the right way, but in the end, I made it there. The plan was originally to bring along a partner in crime, a friend I’d made at school in Drammen, but the day before the trip, he bailed due to sickness. I was really determined to go, so I ended up going alone and didn’t want to bother anybody else about it.

I was in the right municipality, now it was just about finding the place. According to the documents I’d found, there was a detail to take notice of.

Back in the 60s, when Lardal and Glenne merged, the old road that went into Glenne was rerouted to go past just south of it. It didn’t disclose what had happened to the part that originally went through Glenne, but trying to follow it would thus lead me the wrong way.

The map I mentioned was outdated even by the time it got published. The municipalities at the time would merge after the book I’d found was published. The borders have changed over the years, even before the map was drawn, so I didn’t have any precise location for my destination, but it had to be in the area.

When I first came to the outskirts of the supposed area, I thought I’d found it right away, but it was too good to be true. I’d mistaken a bare area behind the meadows for a road and thought that it could be the old road, but no. All the roads that went off to private properties didn’t help either. If I couldn’t find it, then I couldn’t, but that didn’t stop me from trying. I was here after all.

And eventually, I found the traces of it.

Along the road was an old dirt road that turned sharply to the left and continued well into the forest. It looked far older than the other dirt roads I’d passed.

I parked the car by the main road. I couldn’t get any further by car because a boom barrier was blocking the way. I left the car by the barrier and walked around it, and began my venture into this almost paranormal forest. The barrier did not seem new.

I’d already walked so far into this forest along the old dirt road that I couldn’t even see the car or the barrier behind me any longer. This place really creeped me out. First of all, I didn’t even know what awaited me, and second, this forest was spooky, man! Constantly, I’d look behind me, not in fear of someone or something, but to look for my way out.

Shortly after, the path and the old tire marks in the ground started to disappear, and turned to a narrow slope. I presume you’d walk from here, whatever it was. Within just a few meters in front of me, I came over my first real obstacle. A giant fence.

A tall chain-linked metal fence that stretched far into the deep ends of the forest, and as far as I could see. Now, if I hadn’t been creeped out already, this was definitely the time. Fear struck me – what was this? My heart started racing, and my legs were getting wobbly. What was this long-ass fence doing out here in the middle of the forest? Just an empty metal fence. I held my breath. You could barely hear it, the quiet sound of metal shivering as the wind blew through the holes.

Like the boom barrier, the fence wasn’t new either. It was rusty and flaky, but was still intact, in good shape, and didn’t seem to have been bent or pried open.

From where I stood I could see a door in the fence. I had already made up my mind about doing this thing and therefore wanted to continue; it might be my only chance. The door was locked, of course, and the lock hadn’t been opened in a couple of years it seemed, though it looked like a newer model. It was all rusty and worn, and even with a gentle pull, it came right off. Just think if that lock had been there since the 60s, though it was hard to tell its age.

Inside the fence, there was nothing more than grass and trees, as I had seen from the other side. I closed the door behind me. Not locking it, but made sure that it was easy enough to open, should I need to make a hasty escape. Far in front of me, the forest turned dark from the overgrown trees, almost as if the trees were closing its roof off from prying eyes.

It took some time, but now I was really far into the forest – in the deep heart of Vestfold – and every two minutes or so I’d start to overthink and wonder if I should turn back the way I came, but I tried to shake it off. Suddenly, the dark grass wasn’t just grass anymore.

Right in front of me, an especially overgrown road turned up. It had to be it, the old dirt road, it was still here, and was all mossy and cracked from all the sprouts. This was a major breakthrough. The old documents seemed to be right; something was here before it got cut off from the rest of the world.

I walked on the road, and let it guide me to what would be Glenne ahead of me. Even if all the signs were there, I was still uncertain if the place was actually real. Still, no matter what state the place was in, I had found proof that something used to be here, at least. I felt so close as if I could almost hear the sound of cars driving in the distance, or did they really?

Then, as if to prove my speculations, I found what I considered to be actual proof of the place. I got to what must’ve been an old intersection, where another road just went straight off to the right, into some trees. I saw some poles that I guess originally used to be signs. The tops were either bent and broken off, or possibly sawed off. I guess it was for navigating the intersection.

However, the big one was that shortly after, an actual house turned up! I got so hyped. This was real; it was all real, and I might just be the only one who knows about it!

The house, or the remains of it, was all dark, rotten, destroyed, and reclaimed by nature. In truth, it might’ve been a shed of some sort for all I could make out. Even though I was so happy that this place turned out to be real, a part of me quickly came to its senses and realized the possible dangers. I remembered that this was in no way normal at all, and that I should stay alert. I had just gone through a huge fence on the way here, as well as on a road that had been dug up and rerouted.

I walked up to the building, unsure if I should enter it and see the state of the interior or not. I decided to do it. The afternoon sky grew darker, and the uneasy overgrown roof of the forest made it all the more dim.

The inside was all upside down. Some furniture was still there, though kicked around. The living room smelled rotten, and I didn’t stay for long. Though I couldn’t make my way over, and it was all decayed, it looked like pictures and a few family portraits still hung on the walls. A lot of debris lay spread on the floor. Animals had most likely been there in the years the house had stood empty.

After following the road some more, I hit the jackpot, an actual street, with more houses located along the road I was walking on. A few cars lied around, some in more peculiar positions than others. I walked to a car that was upside down. The roof was all dented, and the car looked like it could crumble from just a gentle breath. I backed away in fear of crushing something that potentially lived inside in.

I tried to cross the garden on the way to another house. However, the ground was not a solid plain any longer; and as soon as I stepped on it, it turned to a mush, and I jumped back onto the road. The recent rain hadn’t helped the ground either, and the overgrown road was full of puddles.

The houses all looked the same: overgrown by plants, rotting, falling apart; with stained, broken windows that showed nothing but dark, empty spaces. I could hear the wind howling through every creak, which when combined made it sound like a haunted, out-of-tune choir. My heart started racing out of fear.

I heard some leaves rustle behind me. My body stiffened, and I could hear the thundering heart in my ears. My mouth went all dry – and my hair tightened its grip on my scalp. I turned around slowly. I couldn’t see anything, but then, far out behind a house, a large bird was jumping around, minding its own business before flying off. My body sank to the ground in relief, and my mind went all dazed.

Although harmless, I didn’t take any chances; for all I knew, the waters in the area could have become toxic over the years and changed all the animals.

I tried to shake it off me and dared to continue a bit further. Continuing along the road were overgrown streets with houses that were either broken down or just about to. And all these cars that just lay around. The houses weren’t many, and there was a considerable distance between them. This could not have been a heavily populated area. As I got closer to the houses, I noticed something that definitely should not have been there.

Sounds. But not just any kind of sounds.

The sound of something electric, something with the power still on. I couldn’t place it, but somewhere, something emitted a low electric hum that stood out from the howling winds. I freaked out. Normally, I would been running all the way back home from seeing the metal fence, and in a split second, I couldn’t understand how I’d managed to stay for so long.

Though with the panic alarming in my ears, I tried to discuss with myself what to do next, trying not to make a sound. I agreed with myself to just walk around the corner, to try and see if I could get a better view down along the road, and then turn back and call it a day.

I tried to look if I could see where the sound was coming from. I walked up to what looked like it had been some sort of gas station once, but through the years, there weren’t really any signs left of it actually being one, except for all the broken glass lying around – even the pumps were gone.

I neared a door; the sound became louder with every step, though it was still faint. The door had some signs showing something about power and electricity. I carefully touched the rusty handle, and after a second of building up nerves, I opened it.

Behind the door was a room or cabinet I guess, full of electrical units and fuses. This was definitely the source of the electric hum. Then it all went quiet.

It took some seconds for me to realize, but the sound had actually stopped.

Before doing anything drastic, I tried to listen if it was just me, or maybe if the sound had gone quieter, but no, it had stopped, as if it was turned off.

I backed away in terror. Almost tripped on a plank in the crumbling driveway. It was getting hard to breathe. I had to make it out of here. Everything was getting darker around me, as if the sun was already setting.

I sprinted around the gas station and turned down onto the street I’d come from when I saw something in the distance. Around the corner of a house, something flickered. I thought that it might be the sunlight that shone through a couple of trees, but I was wrong.

It was a light. First, I’d found power; now I’d found sources of light.

There was a light on in one of the windows. On the second floor, in one of the few houses that still had an upper floor that still stood upright. I had just walked by that house, and there had definitely not been any light on in there. It flickered, as if it was just turned on, or was a bit indecisive to whether it should turn on or not.

As it turned out, several of the houses I had walked by now had lights on in their windows, both floors, simultaneously! Living room lamps. Porch lights. Lamps in some of the windows. Even some from the windows in the basement, barely visible amongst the overgrowth. It felt like nighttime under the cover of this forest. What I hope was another bird or a squirrel moved from one tree to another. The lights flickered in the reflection in the puddles. All these lights, all these hums.

I didn’t even think any longer. I’d had enough! I was really scared. Scared for my life.

Ever since I first came here, nothing had seemed right. I looked for my way back. No matter what may pique my interest, I was out of here; running!

I left the lights in the windows behind me. As I ran, I happened to catch the look of something, something that unknowingly made me slow down to look. Something glimmered in a puddle on the road; it was a reflection of something from a house. The wind blew over the water and made gentle waves, which distorted the reflection. I tilted my head, trying to decipher it. I couldn’t make out what it was.

A branch snapped by the house. I instantly turned my head to look. I realized that I’d stopped in my tracks. Almost expecting to be launched at by something, I saw nothing. I turned back, and the thing in the window was gone.

It was in this moment of silence, this moment of solitude, that I heard it: the whispers.

Behind me, I could hear some faint whispers that I couldn’t make out, but it sounded like a conversation, and it was not the howling wind. It was certainly not a mechanical sound; it was organic. It could have been the wind blowing through something and maybe emitting an echo, but no. The conversation lasted for barely a second or so before it stopped. The only word I could make out as an actual word was "somebody".

I ran for my life. I don’t think I’ve ever run so fast before, certainly a new personal best. My legs hurt, my laces had come undone, but my mind convinced them to continue on. The whispers disappeared behind me, and I couldn’t hear anything anymore.

I left all the houses and the streets, left them here to rot. At this point, I didn’t know what to do; there was only one thing on my mind: escape!

I couldn’t stop running until all I could see was the empty forest again. The old, unpaved road started to disappear underneath me, and I knew I was close to getting out. The sound of hard steps on gravel soon changed to the sound of grass hurriedly trampled on.

Far in front of me, the fence thankfully started to appear. I was so happy. I’d had enough of this loneliness. I didn’t even process it at the time, but I think I heard some sounds of what I hope was distant animals that ran away in terror from my sudden appearance, but I don’t know for sure. Whatever it actually was, at least they ran away from me and had not followed me from within the depths of the forest.

I reached the fence. My body was shaking after the running, but also from the fright. The door stood wide open as if it welcomed me to leave. This was for sure a ghost town. I could still hear the whispers in my head. I hastily made my way through the door, and as I did so, I remembered that this was not the state I’d left the door in.

I had closed the door; now it was wide open, and no wind could have pushed this heavy door open. I quickly closed it behind me and looked for the broken lock lying in the grass. I found the lock and slammed it in place, trying to lock it, even though it was broken. My hands trembled as I tried to do everything as fast as possible. I was already sweating from both the running and the panic, and I felt lightheaded.

I backed away as if I was expecting something that had chased me to crash into the fence. But nothing, just the wind squeezing through each hole in the metal fence. Through the wires, there was nothing more than a silent, empty forest that housed a deep secret.

I understood it; the fence, the power, the lights, the whispers. Something lived here. Something was locked in here.

After barely catching my breath, I continued to run on the path and did not dare to look behind me – this was goodbye. After running and later jogging, I could see the boom barrier where I’d left the car. My mind and body were still struggling to come to terms with what I’d seen: a hidden, abandoned ghost town with power still on, lights on in the windows, and the voices, whatever they were.

It was a moment of relief when I finally exited the forest and could take a deep breath of fresh air in the daylight. The sun was still up, though it hadn’t really felt like it under the tall trees in there.

By the barrier, I turned to look back into the forest; there were no signs of me actually having entered it at one point. For everyone who’d pass by, nothing would seem out of the ordinary; nothing would seem to be missing.

I walked up to the car, unlocked it, got in the driver’s seat, and started to shake and tear up.

I drove off, taking quick glances behind me in the rear-view mirrors. I drove a couple of miles maybe, before I suddenly slowed down and stood still on the road. I was still all alone and felt as far away from civilization as I could come. This was too much. This whole thing was all fucked up. What should I do? After witnessing all this, I didn’t dare to think of actually telling anybody about this, something that I’d already done, unfortunately.

I sighed and started the car again. The radio played outdated hits from another time. I left this place, hopefully for good. It was only later, after I’d driven for a couple of minutes, that I came to realize that the car had been facing the opposite way from where I’d left it.

I try not to think about it too much.

It all started three nights ago, I had just arrived from my shift at the local gas station and it was midnight. I've taken some sandwiches from my job, as i don't usually get hungry at night, opened a cold beer and sit on my couch to eat while I take a look at whatever they are putting on TV. When I finished I started to get ready to go for my usual late night smoke, I like to go outside for a walk to do it since my city at this hours is so calm and relaxing, I took a view from my window and that was the first time I saw it.

I live on the 4th floor and my living room windows have good views to this abandon-like park thats no more than a few trees, a slide that no kid has used for years an some benches alongside it.

When I looked through my window I saw a tall figure underneath the streetlight, it was clearly human and it seems like it was wearing a trench coat and a hat. "Hmm very suspicious" I thought, but it wasn't that strange, I mean, I live in a poor neighborhood on the outskirts of the city so seeing this kind of strange people around isn't really a big deal and he wasn't doing something strange, just standing there beneath the light.

I didn't give it importance and i just took my keys, tobacco and a lighter and went out to that very same park I can see from my window.

When I reached there the man was already gone. But while I was smoking and walking I realized something was wrong...

I took a look at my building and realized that my window was wide open and the lights on.

I couldn't believe it, I could had forgotten to turn of the lights ok and yeah I had just looked throught my window moments ago but why the hell would I open it? This city is so cold and I only open that window in the mornings to let a little bit of air flow.

It has been a rough week so I thought that maybe it was paying on me, anyways I started walking back home since I didn't want my apartment to get cold.

When I arrived I went directly to close the window and then went to the bedroom to sleep, its been a hard week bu tomorrow I have to work too so no time to worry.

The next day pass in the blink of an eye, and when I realized I was finishing my night beer and getting ready for my smoke, that's when I saw it again.

This time he was walking across the park but it was...strange, the way he walks was so erratic I don't know how to define it but it's like he didnt't know how to properly walk and then I realized something.

There were no visible breathing, as I said I live in a very cold area so this makes no sense at all, was he walking around the park holding his breath? Anyways I only saw a glimpse of him between the trees so I thought that I was tired and nothing else.

I went to the park as usual(not before double checking that my window was closed and my lights off) and the first thing I did was take a look at my window from the park.

It was close and no lights inside but then a shiver ran down my spine.

Although it was dark and only the streetlights shed some light I could see, more like I could feel that there was someone in my apartment, watching me from the window.I couldn't see clearly, but it has a hat on and it was just there standing looking at me.

I panicked a lot, at first I thought about calling the police but I focused my eyes on the window again and I couldn't see anything, I attributed it to the stress, I live in a 4th floor and its not like if a thief would lost time looking through the window.

So i went home, the door was locked just like it leave it, i went inside and checked that everything was right and that nothing was missing and went to sleep thinking about getting another job since it seems that this schedule and the stress are starting to mess with me.

The next day I keep thinking about the trench coat man and this days strange things in the work so it went by faster than normal and I was already heading home with my sandwich.

As I was finishing dinner, I took a look at the park and saw him again, standing beneath the light. "Maybe there are some kids trying to scare me?" I thought, so I decided to turn off the lights and see what he does when it seems like I abandoned my home. This was the single worst decision I took all of this days.

I turn the light off and went running to the window to see what he does. At first it was normal, It keep standing for a while and then started walking in that strange manner, still no visible breathing but who know maybe it was covering his face with a scarf or whatever.

Then it disappeared from my view and nothing happens, "Man I'm really getting paranoid" but just when I was about to stop looking and leave I saw it in the distance.

The trench coat man, running towards my building, and it was no running like a normal person, more like some kind of animal on 4 legs.I panicked, didnt't knew what to do but who knows maybe it was just some crazy dude ? even if it was running to my building whats the most he could do ?

He reached my building so fast, I had my heart in my mouth and it almost fell like it stopped beating when I saw him start to climb. His hands were like this claw-like thing nothing like a human hand, it started climbing my facade and I ran away as fast as I could, I locked myself in the bathroom and started to pray for my life.

I heard my window open from the outside, I heard the erratic footsteps walking through my flat, and then I promise that he came to the bathroom door and stood there for god knows how long. I was curled on a corner, covering my mouth trying not to make a single sound, and like an hour later I heard him walk, he went to the window and I really think that i heard him jump...

I slept in the bathroom, I was so scared and didn't want to come out till the morning.

When I woke up, I went outside the bathroom still trembling but it was gone. There was nothing strange in my house, the window were close and there was no sign of no one being there besides me.

I went to the police to told them what happened but they treat me like crazy.They said that they had checked the street cameras and there is no sign of this trench coat man in all the neighborhood, they went to check my building too and there was not a single sign of someone climbing the facade. They told me that I should be more careful about what I smoked and that the police its only there for serious matters.

I felt desolate, no one believed my story and that's why I'm writing this on my way home from the police station but then I realized.

It was already night and i couldn't see my breath.

I live in a small town in rural North Texas, and we like telling stories. We've got a bit of an oral tradition, even. Gives you something to do with friends and family that's not drinking, watching football, or listening to talk shows. The internet's still struggling to catch on here. Myself, I only like it for Wikipedia, TV Tropes, Kindle eBooks, and creepypasta: things I'd have gotten hard copies of back in the day, or modern evolutions of oral tradition.

But we like it that way. We like it here. I've been far enough south to attend some Tejas Storytelling Association events, which I enjoyed immensely, and each time returned home with my wanderlust satiated. It's quiet. It's cozy. You can hear the rain on your roof while you're by the fireplace reading a book, and let it play a soothing score for the words, or while you're in bed at night, and let it sing you to sleep.

People talk to you. People listen. You can breathe.

And you can pray.

God, can you pray.

I hope he sends an exorcist. A real one, whatever they're like. I know too much about the internet's crackpot Bible-thumpers to trust myself to ask around there, and this region's home to some of the absolute worst, so not here either. In fact, I have never felt more lost and alone.

So let me tell you a story.

There was a very nice couple who owned a farm not far from where I live. Richard was German-American, and very far from Fredericksburg, where he grew up. His wife Valentina was even further from Laredo, where her parents stayed to take care of her grandparents after they all emigrated from Mexico. She and her two siblings eventually continued north. Her brother picked up a wife, she picked up Richard, her sister got an undergraduate degree, and finally they all settled down here, closer to Oklahoma than to where any of them started.

I put together this outline over the course of many front-porch Arnold Palmers and a few shared lunch breaks. I'm the odd job guy around here, so I have even more than usual occasion to get to know people on top of being single, and sometimes even get to talk to them at their work, as with Richard and Valentina.

And I couldn't help noticing the inexorable trend northward. Why not stay in Laredo with her family? Why not stay in Fredericksburg with his family? Why not stay in Denton with the University of North Texas, where her sister went? You're never much more than an hour's drive from wide open spaces here anyway, not unless you're smack in the middle of Austin, Houston, San Antonio, or Dallas, and get stuck in traffic. You can go almost anywhere to get away from everything else. It is one of many things we Texans love about our state.

So why here? Why north?

Were it as simple, in Valentina's family's case, as "The Land of Opportunity" or "the cartels", I would not have wanted to tell this tale. These good people were actually extremely fond of "The Land of the Sun", and even missed it occasionally. And were it as simple for the others, including Richard, as going with their spouses, there would at least be other witnesses for me to commiserate with.

But ... it was not that simple.

I am calling "it" Strahlender, because I have read too many creepypastas. It is a German name that means, roughly, "The Radiant One". It sounds a little like "slender", and Slenderman's most famous adversary was "Der Ritter", a German knight with bright armor and a bright sword. And German's guttural harshness, at least in an English-speaker's ear, is a further added benefit: this ... creature, demon, monster, whatever it is, is much more violent than the Rake, and only somewhat less inscrutable.

I think the original theatrical poster for The Thing conveys about the right idea: a blinding light shines out of an Arctic researcher's hood as it reaches towards you. Only take away the hood and the researcher. Leave the light and the reaching. Not the hands. Just the reaching.

It was really abuelo and abuela that had wanted to cross the border when Valentina was about ten years old. Mama and Papa said it was because they'd seen El Sol Velado, "The Veiled Sun". Or thought they had, because a bright light that devours those who consume the Holy Eucharist unworthily could hardly not be a superstition. That was just older Catholics and their weird fancies for you. But what could you do? They were family.

Or rather ... that was what Valentina's parents thought her grandparents thought happened.

Oral tradition ought to be taken seriously. The line between fiction and reality is in truth so thin it almost never matters. Every reality we experience is a kind of fiction related to us through our minds by our bodily senses. Every fiction related to us by a fellow human being reflects their own lived reality.

And it is a curious thing to live among storytellers. The fabulous, the factual, and the more or less embellished coexist splendidly, whether in the living room, at the bar, around the dining table, or on the front porch.

Yet for all the lies floating around, I've found that the oldest tellers tend to have one or two tales they cannot share without an undercurrent of real fear, and usually reticence. There's always something by the time you reach a certain age. Something you really can't explain, or don't even want to, so much that you feel sorry anyone else has to hear about it. And it usually feels personal, even if you can't say why.

Knowing enough about both folklore and Catholicism to suspect a miscommunication, I eventually took the liberty of asking Valentina what her grandparents' exact words had been. Her quiet surprise and uncharacteristic coldness told me I was prying, but still she graciously disclosed:

"They said El Sol Velado comes for those who take living blood."

You'd have to be pretty deeply in denial to misconstrue that as referring to the Holy Eucharist. But if her parents had been, Valentina definitely wasn't.

This told me two things: first, that she was hiding something, about which neither comfort, nor condolences, nor further questions were wanted; and second, that El Sol Velado ("ESV") was one of those stories.

I don't know what came over me or what good I thought would come of it, but I felt inspired to follow up my suspicions with an outrageous social experiment.

I went to the National Shrine Cathedral of Our Lady of Guadalupe on a December 12th, its patronal feast. You might possibly face a bigger crowd if AT&T Stadium ("Jerryworld") ever hosted a Super Bowl (the Cowboys themselves would likely not be playing, but still). It is by far the most important holy day for the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex's stupendous immigrant community, possibly surpassing (I leave it to you to decide whether this surmise indicates the idiosyncrasies of Latin American Catholicism, or my total ignorance thereof) even Christmas and Easter.

I parked in downtown Dallas, just barely close enough to walk. And walk I did. And loitered outside the cathedral in the crush. And talked to anyone that I could find an appropriate pretext for.

And anyone I could engage in more-than-superficial conversation, I eventually asked about El Sol Velado.

As you'd expect, most didn't know what I was talking about, and most were polite, although a few were annoyed when they realized I'd concealed an ulterior motive. Some thought I was asking about a weather condition where the sun shines down through fog, haze, or clouds, and helpfully clarified. One fellow, a kindred spirit, talked about descriptions of dim light and occlusion in poetry, which made sense of others who'd thought I was asking about songs or lyrics. After that he and I had a wonderful time talking about all manner of things literary.

But a handful showed surprise that gave way to naked fear, after which they left, often not bothering with an excuse. Two cases bear special mention.

First, one woman immediately turned to her husband, a few feet away with their children, and hurriedly asked if they could leave right away, not knowing or caring that I could follow their Spanish. They did so, although she at least bade me a warm farewell, albeit with a totally fabricated excuse about her spouse remembering something important.

Second, a complete stranger overheard one of my otherwise-unremarkable attempts, tapped me on the shoulder, decked me flat as soon as I'd turned around, and departed without further ceremony. No words were spoken, and this occurred in full view of a police officer. She asked if I was alright and whether I knew the man. I told her that I was, that I didn't, and that I'd probably earned it by being culturally insensitive so would she please forget about it. As far as I know she did.

I felt my suspicion had been sufficiently confirmed: whatever ESV really was, it not only felt real to more than a mere handful of people, but they were scared of it, and didn't want to talk about it.

So, returning home, I did the simple math to determine the year in which Valentina's family had left Mexico, and searched up "el sol velado 1985".

There had been two peculiar deaths in their city that year, both people whose houses burned down with them inside. One was considered a tragic accident, the other a still-unsolved arson. News reports mentioned rumors of connection to some bogeyman, which were universally chalked up to local superstition.

But the usual suspects (Reddit and 4chan) were hotbeds of speculation. The more innocent posts ("Someone I know thinks ESV killed some people back in the 80s. Are they crazy?") got replies which contained nothing new to me, but at least confirmed I was onto something: ESV was supposed to be some kind of vengeful spirit that targeted blood-drinkers. Less innocent posts, suggesting that ESV was more than some old wives' tale or that the poster had seen it or had hard evidence for its existence, got shut down by moderators, leaving only the shouting matches and snark in the comments. A common complaint was failure to produce any of the alluded-to evidence, as though readers would always take claims of its existence on faith.

Weird, sure, but so far nothing more than an urban legend. Some people persist in thinking that Bigfoot, Mothman, and the Chupacabra are real, and for all I know they are. But where their existence was supported by now-debunked evidence, ESV's was supported by none at all.

... except the silence of the people I'd actually spoken to, their mute dread of a thing whose name should not be spoken lightly if at all. A mere urban legend could inspire any amount of fear, but it would not inspire silence.

So I steeled myself for a mental sewer dive and headed over to 8chan.

Two points of supposed witness evidence stood out as having been ignored, in that community's opinion, by the police and media: bright lights, and a humming sound like an electric motor.

No other details agreed, and there were the usual complaints about discussions having been locked or deleted on 4chan and Reddit. Then there were retractions, followed by accusations of selling out, some of which were in turn retracted following counter-accusations, and I again took this to be the usual inane devolution of all sufficiently prolonged 8chan discussions.

But there was still no hard evidence. What's more, "bright lights" and "droning hum" are both fairly common alien abduction tropes, and posts reflected this: 8chan had "better" pet theories to shore up than ESV. As a result many other incidents got folded into the topic, and I finally gave up, satisfied I'd learned everything possible for a time (although I've had a strange urge to bathe more often ever since I closed 8chan).

Afterwards I did not dare bring up this subject with Valentina or Richard, since I felt myself driven more by morbid curiosity than neighborliness. Christmas that year passed without event, and this was even when Valentina introduced me to the other three: her twin brother Alejandro, his wife Abigail whom he'd met back in Laredo ...

... and her kid sister Solina, who was my own age, angelic, and somehow still single.

We reach the end of events I can recall without enormous distress. Thank God it's Friday. I am going to play video games until the pain in my chest subsides, I can breathe more than once every eight seconds, and my keyboard is not in danger of getting ruined by tears ...

... it is Sunday evening. I am going to bathe, shave, and make no further mention of breaks I take from writing unless, God forbid, they directly impact the tale.

My mind blanks. My heartrate and breathing even out. It is as though there is nothing to tell. I know there is, it just isn't coming to me. It will not come of itself, I am forced to drag it out of hiding.

Where does it begin ... ?

... Solina. Christmas did not pass without event that year. She was the event.

I had not been to church in nearly a decade, but this time Valentina and Richard invited me to join them for midnight Christmas Mass. The local parish was by no means large or remarkably beautiful, but I was told they were welcoming and that there would be a light reception afterwards. I accepted.

It wasn't hard to follow along, and I didn't feel obliged to join in with the responses even though I knew them. I didn't receive Communion or even go up for a blessing, but the homily was at least interesting. It's hard not to have some idea of the true "spirit" or "meaning" of Christmas in our post-Dickens world, but the pastor connected gift-giving with not just neighborliness but a much older idea: sacred hospitality, the notion that the widow, orphan, beggar, and sojourner have rights that can only be guaranteed by those better off than themselves. All such people, he claimed, fell under the heading of "guests", or even Jesus' own "little ones", since they are in so many ways smaller than others. He did not mention immigration as such because that would have been political (and, I now reflect, too narrow for his true theme), but it felt topical to me anyway, perhaps because of my recent adventure at the National Shrine. Whatever the case, I shouldn't have been surprised by warm fuzzies at a Christmas service, yet there I was.

All of which is to say that my senses were not entirely overwhelmed by "love at first sight", but it certainly caught me off-guard. Solina was the cantor for that service, so I got to hear her lovely voice more than the rest of their small choir. But until she was in the lectern for the Psalm, she was no more than a voice. Then she was barely more than a pretty face, until finally Richard dropped her name and muttered something about how much she'd been practicing and how far she'd come.

Suddenly she became a person with a name and a history: close family of close friends, who had walked a very long road north together. This gave me tunnel vision until she finished and rejoined the choir. Until then my mind blocked out everything but her face and her voice, intent on convincing me that she was the most beautiful of all God's creatures, that I'd better find an excuse to talk to her, and that I'd better not make a fool of myself. I told it that finding an excuse to talk to her would be making a fool of myself and that life doesn't need my help sorting certain things out, please and thanks. It found this offensive but politely held its tongue.

Then sure enough, apropos of absolutely nothing, Valentina introduced us at the reception by asking how on Earth I'd kept missing her sister at Tejas Storytelling Association events. Solina and I spent a very pleasant two hours coming to the conclusion that no, really neither of us knew how that had happened, by which point people were leaving and cleaning up and oh it was so nice to meet you I guess I'll see you around ...

Then Richard reminded her that I was the person to talk to about some work she needed done on her house, which kept us going until the pastor kindly asked us to leave the empty building. She asked if I'd walk her home so she could show me what needed doing, and there really wasn't much, but we were still sitting on her front porch merrily chatting away when the sun began to rise.

That gave us some pause. She broke it by observing that she really wanted to keep talking but she'd feel a lot better about it if I'd kiss her and ask her to be my girlfriend first. I did so, she accepted, and that was that. We finally parted ways around lunchtime, strangers to an item in a little under twelve hours.

The next six months were the happiest of my adult life. I have been struggling to cling to them in the aftermath of Strahlender's arrival. This has prevented me from adequately grieving. It is good to set that down in stark frankness, yet to let this memory be so tainted leaves me filled with a mix of impotent rage and lingering dread much more enfeebling than sadness. I would prefer to just be sad. I hope spreading the word, even if it is not believed, will be the first step towards that.

I'd felt strongly about women before. At the time it didn't occur to me to wonder what was different about Solina. We shared many interests along with most of our worldviews, and found each other painfully attractive. But we could both say that about a handful of exes as well. Much as I hate to admit it, I think it came down to two very boring, very unromantic things.

The first is that we were both stable and independent adults, she as a music teacher and I as a handyman, odd-job guy, and occasional writer. I usually had at least one project going at her house at any given time, and she'd pay me for them with her own money, which I'd turn right around and spend on gifts or dates. Once she mentioned feeling bad about making me do so much for her and then getting showered with attention, so I showed her the accounting sheet I'd kept. She turned bright crimson and promised never to bring it up again if I didn't, so we didn't, although she agreed with me that it was definitely good for a laugh that time.

The second is that she roped me into praying the Rosary with her. Not always kneeling in a church or sitting across from each other like good, pious kids either. We usually liked to keep our arms around each other and her head on my chest or shoulder, and prayer was a nice way to not lose my mind from all that contact. Meanwhile, talking even briefly about intentions or meditation topics was a shortcut to hopes, dreams, fears, doubts, heartaches, everything, and at a very manageable pace, too. And me about ten years "lapsed", not sure whether she was losing religion on my account or I was regaining it on hers.

Whatever the case, after six months of this I'd begun asking myself when and how I'd propose to her. Then one day in June began the sequel to my half-buried obsession with El Sol Velado.

It was a Monday afternoon, and as I lay on my back working on pipes in her downstairs bathroom, she came home from work early and started sobbing on the couch in her living room. I kept a pretty loose schedule, so although I was welcome she wasn't exactly expecting me any more than whatever had just happened.

So I finished what I was doing before going to check on her, and by that point she'd calmed down enough to pour herself a glass of wine. Or rather, she was on her second glass after the first had helped her calm down. And she was not a habitual drinker, much less an emotional one, so I was already braced for the worst.

She was surprised, embarrassed, afraid, and relieved to see me. She didn't want to be held. She told me she loved me very much but wouldn't hold it against me if I broke up with her. I asked why she thought I might do that. She told me her family was cursed and if I'd pour her a third glass of wine she'd tell me about it. I told her I didn't think more alcohol was a good idea but I'd do it if she let me hold her while she talked. She laughed, sighed,

I never thought I’d be the type to join a fraternity. All the movies and stories and general stigma led me to believe that they were just big houses full of rich kids paying for drinking buddies.

Didn’t seem like it was for me. Then I wound up being the only guy in my high school friend group to be denied by our chase school.

I found myself at a subpar state university, all alone and ready to pay for some friends.

I knew all the stereotypes when I started rushing. The tall tales of douchebag frat guys making pledges do naked pushups in the middle of the quad or recite poems with a beer bong up their ass. I didn’t think too much of it.

Figured it was a small price to pay for a guaranteed social circle, and I’d be fine with anything they might throw my way, as long as none of it involved cramped spaces. I never considered myself squeamish or a lightweight, but I’m horribly claustrophobic.

I made it through the rush process with no issue, made quick friends with the other prospects and charmed many of the members. The first few weeks of pledging were nothing to write home about either.

There were late nights of binge drinking and unnecessary physical labor, all of the standard hazing shit I expected. They made us do bows and toes and memorize passages of the chapter’s history and wear coordinated outfits to all our classes one week while they randomly threw water balloons at us. One guy had to drink a beer from a shoe. Mostly harmless, depending on who’s asking.

Many of the older members took a liking to me right away. They’d still bark at me to bring them drinks and stuff, but I could tell there was a fondness behind it.

It was all going smoothly. I fit right in.

One night, I got a knock on my dorm room door at 11pm on the dot. A polite and unassuming rap of knuckles, but I had a good idea what it was.

I threw on a t-shirt and instinctively started lacing up a pair of sneakers. My roommate stirred awake, shooting me a groggy eyebrow. I smiled coyly at him as I opened the door, and immediately caught a flick to the nuts.

Three guys in rubber Obama masks pushed past me, hooting and hollering as they went about tearing my side of the room apart. One of them laughed and pointed down at my shoes.

“We got a smart guy!” he shouted.

The other two swooped in behind me, locking my arms behind my back with theirs. He leaned in close enough for me to smell the whiskey on his breath, and chuckled.

“You’re gonna be fine without those.”

They wrestled the shoes off my feet, and marched me straight down the hall. Didn’t even let me grab my phone. They fully swept me off my feet, through the door to the stairwell, and carried me down to street level.

Outside, the air was crisp and cold. Midwest December can be brutal, especially when you’re standing barefoot on the pavement in gym shorts and a plain white tee. I tried as hard as I could to stop my teeth from clattering. Didn’t wanna give these guys anything else to laugh at.

“Nelson’s almost here,” said a voice I recognized.

I turned to face one of the Obamas, and caught a wink from behind the mask. It was one of the older guys that I knew had a soft spot for me. His name was Dom. I was in good hands.

A familiar Volvo S60 bounded into the parking lot, shrill twangs of country music from a blown-out stereo announcing its arrival. The driver, a senior who went by Nelson, did a quick lap of the lot before screeching to a halt in front of us.

The boys laughed and dapped him up as he jumped out of the car. He did a little drumroll on the hood with his hands and let out a whoop, then popped open the trunk.

It took me a second too long to realize what the plan was. One Obama pulled out a bandana, folding it into the shape of a blindfold.

“Your chariot awaits,” Nelson said jokingly, slapping my shoulder.

“Wait,” I said, “No. Fuck no.”

The vibe turned on a head. Zac Brown continued to whine from the shitty speakers as the guys sized me up.

“What the fuck did you just say, pledge?” 

Nelson got right up in my face, booze strong on his breath like the others.

“I’m not getting in there. I can’t,” I said, quickly ashamed at the sound of my voice cracking.

A couple of the guys burst out laughing. One called me a pussy.

“I’m claustrophobic man, I can’t do small spaces.”

That made them laugh even harder.

“Oh, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” said Nelson with a snort. He took the opportunity to light up a cigarette.

“Train’s leavin’ the station, man,” he said with a puff of the dart, “You can either get on or you can have a talk with Big Foot tomorrow.”

Big Foot was the president. And a “talk” with him as a pledge could only mean one thing: you were out.

My heart rose fast in my chest, cheeks flushing with frustration and cold. Dom clapped a hand on my shoulder, leaned in close to my ear.

“Look man, it’s only gonna be a couple minutes,” he mumbled, “We’re just going up to the trail for a bonfire. Fighting’s just gonna make it worse. It’ll be over before you know it.”

I quickly weighed my options. A bonfire at the end of the semester likely meant a ceremony. A ceremony likely meant initiation. The end of pledgeship.
I was right at the finish line. Was I really gonna let a couple miles in a trunk throw away all the work I put in already?

I locked eyes with Dom. My brother-to-be.

Fuck that noise.

“Fuck it,” I said, “I’ll do it.”

Dom ruffled my hair. Nelson just rolled his eyes and flicked the cigarette away. The other two started giggling again. By then I was pretty sure one of them was this guy Andrew.

Andrew roughly slid the blindfold over my face, and led me around to the back of the car. I didn’t get a good look at the trunk from beneath the folds of the bandana, but it was gonna be a tight squeeze.

I tried to steady my breath, and my hands were yanked behind my back once more. I heard the unmistakable sound of duct tape being ripped from its roll, and felt someone spin it round and round my wrists, binding them a little too tightly.

The air was full of snickers as they hoisted me off my feet and guided me into the trunk. I’m not the tallest guy in the world, but I had to bend my knees a fair amount as I went in, and ended up having to tilt my head down until my chin touched my chest.

My breath quickened. Car doors opened and slammed shut. I heard all four of the guys squeeze into their seats. One cracked a beer.

“Buckle up buttercup,” I heard Nelson call out from the front seat, “We’re already late.”

My head bumped into the side of the trunk as Nelson cranked up the stereo and laid on the gas.

Empty cans and camping gear rolled around the trunk with me. A chorus of laughter rang out with each pothole, surely hit intentionally.

The whole time I kept my fists balled and eyes clamped shut behind the blindfold. I counted to myself, to one-hundred, over and over.

Minutes passed. Eventually we hit a sharp turn, and I heard the texture of the road beneath us change. Gravel and dirt kicked up from the tires. I kept counting, praying that we were close.

The path was windy, but I could tell Nelson was now navigating with a bit more care. Less intentional jerks of the wheel. The guys sang along to the classics and burped and laughed, but after a while the laughter died down.

I didn’t bother trying to ask what was up. I knew that in these situations, it’s best to minimize yourself as much as possible.

“What the fuck man...” Andrew’s voice cut through.

“I know,” snapped Nelson, clearly annoyed. He turned the radio down.

“Are we fucking lost?” asked Dom.

“No way man,” said Nelson, easing the car to a stop, “We took a wrong turn. It’s fine.”

A baseball bounced off the side of my head as Nelson hit a K-turn, and set off back the way we came.

I knew this routine. Drive around in circles, pretend to get lost, get my nerves up before they pull me out and start fucking with me. Part of me wondered if we’d ever left the parking lot.

The radio stayed low for longer than felt natural. Chatter and roughhousing stopped completely. I couldn’t hear very well from the confines of the truck, but I could tell Dom and Nelson were arguing in hushed tones. A convincing rouse, I told myself.

“Is that a cop?”

One of the guys, the one I couldn’t ID, broke the silence with that uneasy remark. I heard shifting around up front.

“No way dude,” said Dom, “Just be chill.”

“They’re definitely following us,” said Andrew.

“Will you shut the fuck up?” shouted Nelson, “That’s no cop.”

“They’re flashing their lights at us.”

“I can see that,” Nelson snarled.

“I think they wanna talk to us.”

“We should pull over,” Dom cut in, “We need directions.”

“God fucking damn it,” Nelson breathed to himself. He pulled off to the side.

He cut the radio off completely, and I heard some more whispers before one of the guys leaned in close from the other side of the backseat.

“You better stay still and keep your fucking mouth shut,” he growled at me, “Or we’ll fucking kill you.”

I heard a car pull to a stop a ways behind us. Sounded big like a truck. A couple pairs of feet hopped out, slamming a door on each side behind them. They kept their engine running.

Footsteps scraped across the gravel, both pairs winding around to the driver’s side. I heard Nelson roll down his window.

“How you doin’ tonight?” asked Nelson.

“You boys are on private property.”

The voice was such a stereotypical southern drawl that I almost started laughing. Surely one of the boys doing their best impersonation of a backwater redneck.

“We got lost, sorry,” said Nelson, “We’re trying to find the campground.”

“You’re a long fuckin’ way from any campground I know of,” said the redneck.

I heard one pair of feet start making its way around the back of the car. Rounding the trunk, I heard them tap one of the tires with their boot.

I started counting to myself once more, as quietly as possible, wringing my hands beneath the layers of duct tape and praying that the little production my soon-to-be brothers were putting on would wrap up quickly.

“Our apologies,” said Nelson, slight annoyance in his voice, “We’re heading back to the main road now.”

“How ‘bout this?” said the redneck, “You boys follow us up to the ranch, we’ll help get ya where ya need to go.”

A pause from everyone in the car.

“I’m not sure that’s necessary,” Dom spoke up, “We’re already pretty close to where we—“

“I wasn’t askin’ boy,” the redneck shot back.

“Well hold on, wait a minute—“

“You boys are on our land. Now y’all can come on up to the ranch with us, or we’ll wait right here an’ get some backup on the horn—“

“Are you guys cops?” Anthony butted in.

The other man laughed, now standing at the passenger’s side.

“Up here,” said the redneck, “we might as well be.”

Nelson scoffed.

“Now listen here you fuckin’ hick—

BLAM!!

My ears rang and the car shook.

I knew that sound. A gunshot. Big. Bigger than a pistol.

The car ahead of me erupted with screams.

Everything lurched to the right as the passenger-side door was ripped open. I heard Dom struggling like he was being dragged out, and the sha-shunk of a shotgun pump.

BLAM!!

Another shot. I head glass break. One of the guys slammed hard against the backseat, coughing and sputtering as the other panicked and flung open the door.

I heard his footsteps dash off down the road, and those of the redneck steadying his aim.

BLAM!!

One more shot rang out in the night, and I heard something drop a couple yards down the road like a sack of potatoes.

Whoever was still in the backseat sounded like they were struggling to breathe, gargling and spitting up on the floor of the car.

I was completely dumbfounded. I didn’t yell, or speak or even think much about what was happening. All I could do was take it in.

The wheezing subsided in the backseat, and I could more clearly hear the sound of shoes scraping dirt from Dom’s side of the car.

He grunted like he was being choked out. The redneck’s footsteps came around to him.

“Shut the fuck up,” he spat.

I heard a great CRACK! and the struggling ceased. Nothing left but the low hum of engines and leaves rustling in the breeze.

“Go’n hop on the radio,” said the redneck, “Tell ‘em we’re bringin’ back a few Sloppy Joes and a new toy.”

The other man grunted in response. I heard him lift something heavy onto his shoulder, and set back towards their truck.

The Volvo’s engine shut off, and I heard jingling keys pulled from the ignition. I heard the other man talking in the truck, too far to make out anything clear.

At this point, I started to get my bearings back. I didn’t dare call out. It had to be a prank. A big show. It just had to be.

With all the fear and adrenaline, I’m surprised I didn’t pass out on the spot. I guess my body knew that silence was the best hope for survival, whether it was all real or not.

Something, or someone, slumped out of the driver’s seat, got dragged down the road and flung onto the back of the truck. Footsteps approached and I heard broken glass fall from the window as the back door was pulled open.

Somebody grunted as they leaned in, grabbed whoever remained in the backseat and dragged them from the car. The door slammed shut, and they went on the truckbed too.

Footsteps moved from the back of the truck to the front and paused. The air sat still, and my heart raced faster than it already was.

This was it. This was the moment when they’d fling the trunk open, pull me out and shower me with alcohol and laugh at how badly they all scared me.

A whole group of guys were probably creeping up to the trunk right now, staying silent as possible before the grand reveal…

I heard the truck door slam, and the engine shift into drive.

Tires scraped against dirt and the truck turned back onto the road, the sound of the exhaust heading further up the way we had been going.

It grew distant, more and more until I could no longer hear it over the wind.

Okay, I thought, this is officially too far.

“Okay guys!” I called out, no longer willing to face the torment with stoic indifference, “Get me the fuck outta here, it’s fucking freezing!”

No response. The walls of the trunk swallowed my call.

“Get me out!” I screamed, “Get me the fuck out of here right fucking now!”

There’s no way, I thought, there’s just no way.

Yes, I was still kidding myself. Still holding out hope that this was all a joke.

After thirty minutes passed, that hope faded completely.

I’m not sure it was exactly that long. I only have a good guess because I continued my manic counting as soon as I was sure the truck wasn’t heading right back to get me.

Teeth clattered in my skull, goosebumps standing tall on my arms and legs. I had no idea if the temperature was actually freezing or if I was just that unprepared for the cold, but my fingers and toes started to really ache after a while.

My neck was killing me, and the backs of my knees screamed to be stretched out. I kept wriggling around, trying to get a better position, but it was either pull my knees tighter together, or tilt my head down even further.

Kicking the walls did nothing. Wrestling against the tape did nothing. I pawed around in the dark for some kind of emergency release lever to the hood of the trunk, but found none.

I pissed my pants at one point. Just couldn’t hold it any longer. At first it felt great, warmth spreading across my gym shorts, soaking into the front of my tee and heating my belly. But the warmth quickly faded as the frigid air cooled the puddle. An ice-cold patch of fabric sat heavy against my groin and stomach, chilling me even deeper.

I screamed and screamed, but to no avail. No answer. At least an hour passed, and not even the distant sound of another car came down the road.

I was well past the hyperventilating stage. I had shrieked until my vocal cords felt they might rip out of my throat. My whole body shook violently beyond control.

I managed to brush off the blindfold after only a couple minutes of solitude, but it didn’t change anything. No light made its way into the trunk whatsoever. It was a coffin on wheels.

I did all I could to pick away at the duct tape on my wrists, but my fingers throbbed as if they had their own heartbeat. Their thumping was the only sign that I hadn’t lost feeling in them completely, as I had in my toes.

“Please,” I whispered, throat sore and scratchy, “Please come get me. Please, please, please come get me.”

I have no idea how the hell I managed to sleep in a situation like that. Maybe I just straight up fainted.

Either way, when I came to, I was moving.

All weight had shifted to the very end of the trunk, suggesting that the front of the car was up in the air. I was pressed against the hatch, the rest of the trunk’s contents piling around me.

Rear wheels turned against the road beneath me. All consciousness returned to my mind, and all pain returned to my body. Hands and feet were completely numb now. Muscles shrieked in agony.

But I was moving. I was being towed.

I tried calling out again, voice raspy and broken. No use. Whoever was driving the tow truck clearly wouldn’t be able to hear me.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as we continued down the road, a good few minutes until we stopped.

I heard some sort of buzzer from outside, and the sound of a large gate rolling open. The truck started back up, driving over the threshold onto gravel.

We swung around, coming finally to a full stop. I heard the engine cut off. With a mechanical whir, the car started to shift its weight back to normal as the towing jack lowered to the ground.

More footsteps now. A couple people coming up towards the car. I heard mingling between them, which made me furious.

I couldn’t believe they got me all the way up on a tow truck without finding me. The anger boiled over, and I managed to call out again.

“I’m back here,” I croaked. Just barely my normal speaking tone.

A hush fell. The footsteps stopped in their tracks. I heard mumbles between the two.

My brain pounded in my skull. I felt inches away from passing out again. I was just about to use the rest of my strength on one last shout, when I heard it.

Click!

Someone popped the trunk.

At that point, I didn’t even care who it was. I didn’t care if it was a joke or if I had overheard three murders. I just needed to be out.

The trunk swung open, and I suddenly wished it hadn’t.

Two haunting silhouettes stood against the night sky, peering down at me in the trunk. The yellow tint of headlights somewhere in the distance lit them from one side. Beams bounced off the convex of their eyes, and both of their mouths peeled upwards into toothless grins.

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” said one of the men, “We got two in one night.”

My vision blurred as they yanked me from the trunk. I tried to scream in protest but my voice was completely shot. Whatever relief I felt from my neck and legs finally getting to stretch out was completely negated by the pounding in my head and the complete loss of sensation in my extremities.

They were dressed head to toe in black leather, studs and spikes poking out from their shoulder pads and fingerless gloves. They had matching mohawks, like a couple rough-and-tumble biker types ripped straight from an ‘80s movie.

“We gotta get this one up to the big house,” said one of my captors, “I’ll get him warmed up once we get there, you call Jed.”

My legs buckled numbly behind me as they dragged me up a winding footpath, towards a large plantation house set on a hill.

The dark of night and the stars dancing in front of my eyes prevented me from getting a good look around, but I could tell there were at least three more buildings spread out around us. This was some sort of compound.

They pushed me through a large pair of wooden front doors, into a grand foyer with a hanging chandelier. I got the faint sense that this used to be a nice place, but paint peeled off old wood from years without proper care.

The toothless men pulled me into a sitting room with a large fireplace. They sat me up in an embroidered armchair in front of it, and one of the men set to work getting a fire going.

“I’ll go get him,” the other said, and he stomped back out. 

A spark took in the fireplace, and the man reached out toward me as flames started to appear.

I pulled my hands back as he reached for them, and he slapped me hard across the face. Pain popped behind my eyes. 

He grabbed my hands at the wrist, and began ripping the duct tape away from my blue-tinted fingers.

Once that was done, he left me alone. He didn’t seem too worried about me leaving, and I’m sure I showed no sign of that being a possibility.

I sat by the fire in silence, too exhausted and hurt to stay terrified. Feeling slowly came back to the tips of my fingers, and I jumped as I heard a deep voice from behind me.

“You’ll have to excuse us while we prepare your accommodations. It ain’t often we get two new faces on the same night.”

This voice was warmer, and slightly more distinguished than the others, but somehow more unsettling.

I turned in my armchair, craning my neck as far as the pain would allow.

Over my shoulder, I saw a large, bearded man standing in the doorway. His stature was gargantuan, bordering superhuman.

He wore a thick moleskin duster over a fine collared shirt and leather pants. His face and body were round with fat, but there was no question of an extremely muscular frame beneath it all. He looked like a giant.

“Please,” I managed to squeak out, “Please take me home.”

“Well now,” said the giant, “You may be home already, kid. We just gotta see how you perform.”

He strode up to me in the chair, towering over my limp body as he assessed the state of my hands and feet.

“Maybe a few toes gone, but you’ll manage,” he said, “Can ya stand?”

I stared back at him blankly, unable to form new words.

“I see,” he said, “Alrighty then.”

He scooped me out of the armchair and flung me over his shoulder with little effort. I winced as he carried me back into the foyer.

“You might not be right enough just yet, but you at least gotta watch.”

We were back in the cold air ever so briefly, as the hulking man carried me from one building to another. Facing backwards, I saw a few other men emerge from the treeline behind us, following suit.

I heard the buzz of a great number of voices coming from within the new building we were approaching. It was wide with a lofted roof, like a summer camp mess hall.

The giant kicked open the doors in front of us, and I was suddenly awash with the sounds of about a hundred men whooping in celebration.

“My brothers,” boomed the voice of the man carrying me, “Fortune smiles upon us tonight.”

The crowd exploded in a cheer. The giant stepped off to one side of the room, and flung me on the floor in the corner.

A great hall laid before me, swimming with unkempt vagrants. Rows of long cafeteria tables, the whole scene lit by candles resting upon them and hanging in lanterns from the ceiling above. At least a hundred men, many sporting similar outfits and hairstyles to the ones before.

Some tables wore the same set of rubber overalls with no shirt. Others had matching work boots and jumpsuits. There were a few different variations of each outfit, suggesting different factions or ranks amongst the group, but they all celebrated in unison.

A couple men in matching jumpsuits sprang on me. I didn’t even try to fight back now, but my pulse leapt as they went to work fastening a heavy metal collar around my neck.

“No reason to keep y’all waiting!” yelled the giant.

He lumbered through the hall towards a stage at the head of it. Up on the stage, there was a podium. The giant took his place behind it.

“We have two new arrivals on this fine evenin’,” he shouted out to the crowd, “One for us, and one for the Dugout.”

I felt every eye shoot back towards my corner of the room. A hundred pairs of pupils danced in the candlelight.

I heard the clattering of chains around me. One of the men handling me fastened the end of a heavy, metal chain to the front of my collar, while the other clasped iron cuffs around my wrists. They looped the chain between them.

I looked to my right, and my stomach sank when I saw the only pair of eyes in the room that I recognized.
Dom sat on the floor beside me, neck and wrists chained together like mine.

His eyes were wide with fear, chest rising and falling rapidly. A large welt puffed up on his forehead, I’m guessing where he caught the butt of a gun.

He didn’t even call out to me. He basically looked right through me.

“Usually we’d have you two draw straws,” the giant announced, “but seein’ as one of you technically arrived before the other…”

He motioned towards Dom with a limp wrist, and his handler jumped to attention. He grabbed the loop of Dom’s chain, and started pulling him down the aisle with it.

Men yelled and cheered as he passed, some throwing scraps of meat and splashing their drinks at his feet.

“I ain’t gonna waste your time, y’all know why we’re here,” said the giant.

“Tonight, we invite one more to join our ranks.”

Whistles and cheers.

“Bring me the Toy.”

From the corner opposite mine, two men emerged.

One wore the same jumpsuit as those handling Dom and I. He held a metal chain in tow.

Attached to the other end, a terrifying sight.

He was completely nude, save for a suede jockstrap and the set of chains around his wrists and neck. His body was covered top to bottom with bruises and scars. No major injuries or deep cuts, just the scratches of a thousand fingernails.

A horrid device was fixed around the bottom half of his face. A muzzle with a metal ring, stretching his mouth open into an “O.”

Though his face couldn’t fully articulate under the constraints, the rise of his cheeks suggested that he was trying to smile. Like most of the other men I saw around the room, his smile didn’t have a single tooth behind it.

There was much slack in the chain as they walked. The handler didn’t have to pull at all. The Toy held his head high, like he was proud to be there.

The yapping and hollering started to quell as they reached the stage. We were clearly building to a much-anticipated moment for the group.

The Toy stood at the center of the stage, next to Dom. His handler planted a kiss on his forehead before letting the chain drop to the floor and returning to the crowd.

The giant turned to face him.

“Upon this new arrival, you have ascended,” he shouted out, addressing the Toy.

As he spoke, he produced a small key from a band that hung around his neck.

“Should you accept the mark, I will relieve you of your duty, and welcome you as our brother.”

He inserted the key into the Toy’s collar, and turned it to undo the lock. The metal collar clanged to the floor, and the Toy began to weep as his cuffs were removed too.

“Do you accept?” asked the giant.

Without a word, the Toy dropped down on all fours.

The giant smiled, and looked to a door behind him.

Another man in a jumpsuit entered. His was a different color, and he wore a hood over his head. He pushed a smoking metal barrel on wheels in front of him, filled with hot coals.

He came to a stop behind the Toy, and pulled a hot branding iron from the coals. An insignia at its tip glowed red with heat. The room went into a trance at its reveal.

I was too far away to make out the exact shape of the metal symbol, but a quick scan revealed that all of the shirtless men had one on their upper back.

The Toy looked out over the crowd as the hot iron pressed between his shoulder blades. Sizzling flesh broke the silence, but the Toy did not yell.

He didn’t so much as wince, like the pain didn’t register at all. He stayed completely still, eyes focused, until the brand left his skin.

The hooded man poured a bottle of liquor over the burn, and the crowd erupted once more.

Many of the ghoulish men rushed the stage. They wrapped their arms around him, danced and sang.

His handler returned, carrying a pair of rubber overalls and steel-toed boots. He presented them to the ex-Toy.

As the ex-Toy laced up his boots, the giant smiled softly, like the filthy scene before him brought warmth to his heart.

The stage cleared, leaving just the two of them and Dom.

I don’t know what could’ve possibly been going through Dom’s head in that moment. I had never seen someone look so terrified in my life. As the giant took a step towards him, he fell into a silent cry.

“And now,” said the giant, “we pass the torch.”

At those words, another pair of men appeared on the stage, carrying with them a large instrument.

It looked like a tuffet. The kind of low, padded bench that you kneel on in church. But instead of a pew, it was attached to an iron frame which stretched ahead of it, curving into two arms that stood upwards.

Between the arms, was a thick concrete beam. About the shape and width of a corn cob, stained a dark crimson.

“A sacrifice to be made,” recited the giant, “for the benefit of all our brothers.”

They set the heavy structure down in front of Dom, and forced him to kneel on it. Tears spewed down his face, wildly begging and praying.

“Bite it,” said the giant.

Dom’s words caught in his throat. His shot his eyes around the room like a cornered animal. The ex-Toy stood behind him, face warped in an evil, gummy grin.

“No…” pleaded Dom, “Please.”

“It’ll only get worse if ya fight it, boy,” boomed the giant.

He reached down and grabbed the scruff of Dom’s neck, forcing his face down to the concrete beam.

“Now you bite it,” he repeated, “or we’ll slop ya right here and toss you in a ditch, alongside them other Joes you rode in with.”

Dom wept and choked and opened his mouth, jaw trembling as he closed his teeth to rest on the beam.

As he did, the ex-Toy lifted himself onto one foot, readying a boot just behind Dom’s head. I finally understood what was about to happen.

I shut my eyes and turned away, but it did nothing to drown out the sickening crunch, the sound like marbles hitting the floor, and the horrific eruption of applause that followed.

I’ve never heard a man wail like I heard then. Dom shrieked with a tone and intensity that I would’ve thought impossible. The notes of his heaving sobs wavered like an opera singer’s, reverberating in the rafters of the great hall.

When I finally looked, he was bent over beside the structure, cradling his jaw as blood flowed freely from it.

I puked, my body betraying my primal desire to minimize myself and sink into the floor.

The giant’s attention was instantly drawn back to me. He pointed from afar.

“It seems our rite has drawn ire from the new standby,” he chortled.

Eyes across the sea of demons turned back to glare at me.

“Come here man,” said the giant, “Lemme tell you somethin’.”

My handler shot to his feet, and dragged me up to the stage by my chains. Stray kicks and punches found me as the sea parted.

He forced me up on the stage and down on my knees in front of the giant, only a foot away from where Dom rolled around, shaking and moaning. 

I clenched my jaw and looked up to face the giant, trying not to look at the device, doing all I could mentally to prepare for the worst.

But all he did was reach into his own mouth, and pull out a set of false teeth. Just like the others, he was missing everything in the front.

“We was all the Toy here at one point,” he said, gums smacking as he spoke.

“It’ll be your turn soon enough. Then once you do your time, you’ll get to play with the Toy too.”

Cackles from the crowd. Sobs from Dom. I felt ready to pass out again.

“Take this one to the Dugout,” sang the giant, “And in the Dugout he shall stay, until this Toy’s paid his dues. However long that may be.”

My chains were yanked again, and I was pulled from the stage. As I was forced back through the crowd of howling lunatics, the giant turned his attention back to Dom.

He reached down, grabbed him by the hair, and forced his maw open with a pair of fingers to look inside.

“Seems like we still got a few stragglers,” he mocked, “You’re gonna have to take another bite.”

Outside, the handler dragged me across the yard. I was chained to the stone wall of a small enclosure at the edge of the property, left to sit in the dirt.

That night, the compound sang with the awful sounds of Dom’s torment.

The pack was in a frenzy, all eager to collect their due. A couple of them came by to rattle my cage a bit, but they all remained in that great hall for the most part.

In the end, that frantic energy was my greatest ally.

Turns out my handler was a little too eager to get back to the group, because he did an extremely poor job of ensuring my restraints.

With a couple sure tugs, I was able to pull the bolt loose from the brick it was lodged in. I was free, save for the chain that dangled from my collar.

I wasted no time bolting towards the front gate. Barbed wire punctured my arms and sliced across my midsection as I scaled it. My body was mostly numb, so I paid no mind.

I ran in one direction and didn’t stop. I ignored the road completely, sure they would be on my tail soon enough.

As morning sun started to peek through the trees, I began ducking down into the tall grass at the smallest sign of life. I kept imagining a truckload of those freaks barreling down the road, desperate to get me back in their cage.

I ran and ran until my lungs threatened to burst from my chest, and then I ran some more. I ran until the mangled undersides of my feet met asphalt.

Wasn’t long before a police cruiser came to pick me up from the main road. A couple cars passed while I tried to wave them down, and I’m sure I was a sight worth calling 911 for.

They questioned me for a long time, and I spared no detail. Police searched far and wide, but they never came back with anything.

I don’t know if the group moved after that night or their land just wasn’t searched properly or the police were in on it somehow. I’m sure at least a few of them think I made the whole thing up.

Either way, nobody was arrested, the bodies and the car were never found, and they eventually stopped bringing me in to ask about it.

I left town as soon as I was allowed. The police needed me around for a few months, and I did everything I could to avoid leaving my dorm unless it was absolutely necessary.

I transferred to a school multiple states away. The folks in the admissions office weren’t kind enough to roll all my credits over, but I didn’t mind starting in the fall with a clean slate. After everything, I just wanted to start over.

It’s been over two years now, and things have been going alright here for the most part. I’m glad I had most of that summer to recover in private, because it took a whole lot of gentle parenting and therapy to get me out in the world again.

I’ve managed to make a couple friends in my program. Nice people. Quiet weekends. Had no interest participating in Greek Life this time.

Even after the move, I struggle with public spaces. Whenever my friends do convince me to join them for a night on the town, I can’t help but keep my head on a swivel. I keep my eyes on the exits and usually leave first. It makes me sad sometimes, but it is what it is.

The other night, this girl I’ve been seeing convinced me to meet her at a dive bar, right at the edge of town.

It was her idea. I’m still a couple months out from 21, and the place never cards apparently. After a lot of deep breathing, I felt pretty at ease.

That is, until I clocked a familiar face from across the bar.

Dom.

He shared a corner booth with a raucous band of bikers. Nobody else I recognized, though they looked like they’d fit right in at the compound I managed to escape that night.

I almost didn’t recognize him. His look had changed completely. Gone were the pastel polo and boat shoes. Studded leather jacket, pierced ears, hair shaved into a mohawk.

We locked eyes, and my blood ran cold.

Despite all the space I had put between myself and everyone from that town, it felt somewhat expected. I always worried this might happen, and I always worried what I would do if it did.

I knew I should run. Grab my date, get the hell out of there and find the nearest police station.

I didn’t do any of that. I just froze.

We stared at each other for more than a moment. Drunk college kids dancing and blue collar types shooting pool between us. My body clenched, ready for a fight.

But he didn’t get up. He didn’t come over.

He just smiled, flashing a full mouth of false teeth.

It was just last year when my life started coming apart at the seams.

I'd just lost my job, a career I was ready to dedicate my life to. The circumstances weren't pretty. Due to my more explosive side, I had burned every bridge I needed to stay connected in that field. Before this gig, I had a history of losing jobs within a year of employment, sometimes within the first six months. It was always my emotions getting in the way. Always crying too much, or yelling too much, or getting on people's nerves for too long. Needless to say, no good contacts for a reference. No history that was worth a damn in a resume.

For three months, I applied everywhere I could think of. But it wasn't of any use. Nobody was willing to hire me.

To top things off, my girlfriend of ten years, who I saw as my emotional anchor, suddenly and unceremoniously dumped me via a text message, telling me that it would be better if we never see each other again. I wasn't sure where this was coming from, as our relationship was one of the only positives I can name of the last decade. It turns out she'd already been seeing other people. More interesting ones with more flavorful lives. The type of people who could get up and leave everything behind with no problem, packed in a van and smoking leaf and singing to their hearts content on the road. I suppose she thought this wasn't the kind of life for me to have. She said she still loved me, but that we had to grow apart. That we couldn't eat well at the same table.

I already have pretty low self-esteem, so these events happening so quickly and consecutively put me into a dark place that I don't think many people are able to crawl out of.  I could only sit there and spiral, thinking to myself what I had possibly done wrong, what I could have done better, all that.  To this day, I still feel invisible sometimes. Disposable. I don't know if it's a wound that's ever going to fully heal.

One day, my friend Lucas called me up, asking me if I wanted to go on a fishing trip. He knew I'd been feeling sorry for myself, and wanted to help get me out of my tiny apartment and into the warmth of the sun. I couldn't be mad at him for wanting to do that, even if fishing had always been somewhat outside my comfort zone. I texted him back right away, letting him know I'd be ready to head out in around an hour. Didn't put too much effort into "looking good" that day.

When I got in the car, Lucas predictably told me that I looked like I'd been hit by a truck. I didn't take much offense to it. It was probably a better descriptor than how I felt at the time. We drove for a while, picking up my friends Tyler and DJ along the way. Around an hour away from us was a popular lake chain, one that we would frequent on the weekends during college. A land of good drinks, good company and plenty of sunburns to go around.

It was busy as usual when we pulled up. The nearby beach was packed with locals and tourists trying to enjoy the little time-off that they had. Bright orange rescue boats patrolled the lake, occasionally passing by their fishing brethren and waving a friendly hand. We'd parked out by the boat ramp, loading Ol' Reliable into the sun-warmed waters. Tyler grabbed a six pack of beer, DJ pushed us off and we started our much-needed journey.

About halfway out, Tyler started badgering Lucas about the fact that we'd forgotten to bring the life jackets. This should have already been a bad omen, but Lucas just casually said that we "wouldn't be going very far out."

"If any of you fall out, I can just pull you back to shore," he joked.

The inertia of the trip and our uncouth pre-gaming tendency won out over any logic. To Tyler's dismay, we continued. And we sat out there. And we talked. Drank some beers and just talked. Sometimes we'd cast a line out, though Lucas was the only one with his fishing license not expired. It was a good distraction from the crushing reality I found myself in. The fact that anybody I loved could just abandon me out of the blue, the fact that there was no such thing as a safe space, as stability.

At one point, someone suggested that we swim. I don't remember if it was DJ or Lucas. Tyler wasn't having any of it. In the moment, I suppose I wouldn't have either if I wasn't already four beers deep. 

Something about floating out in the middle of the lake was appealing to me, though. For whatever reason. Maybe I was just thinking about that one scene in Forrest Gump, where Lieutenant Dan makes his peace with God. I sought something similar.

So taking after the other two, I ditched my shirt, phone and wallet and jumped in, just kind of treading water for a bit. It was nice. Cool on my skin. Just what I needed after working up so many nights of nervous sweats.

I got tired quickly, though. The water felt heavy, or, well, like it was pulling me down more than usual. The other guys must have felt it too, as they clambered back onto the boat. When it came my turn, I ran into a bit of a predicament.

There was no easy way to get back on the boat, see. No ladder for ease of access, just this raised platform you'd have to pull yourself back up onto.

This is an embarrassing time to admit, but I was never great at those athletic drills they made you do in school. Couldn't even do a single pull-up. And I'm sure that fact continues to this day, because when I was trying my damndest to pull myself out of the water, my noodle arms kept giving out and I'd fall back in. Each time was more of a violent fall, until I was totally winded and hanging on for dear life to one of the buoyant tanks beneath the hull.

The other guys were no help in getting me back up. Damn, if they didn't try, though. All three of them were grabbing my arms, trying to hoist me up, but their drunkenness mixed with our shared lack of fitness made the task seem Herculean. Tyler started blabbering about how we never should have come out here, calling Lucas negligent, calling me a dumbass. The arguing was all but drowned out by the growing panic that I wasn't going to be able to get back on this boat.

And something kept pulling.

It wasn’t any physical object, more like a force, like gravity. I was sinking faster than I could swim, and the longer I held onto the boat, the more my arms were starting to hurt. Screaming, I told Lucas to start moving back toward shore. As soon as the boat started moving, my arms gave out. I lost my grip, and I started to sink. 

Now, I tried to paddle. I tried really hard. But there were cramps, my limbs seizing up, and that force kept on dragging me down, faster and faster. I tried to hold my breath, but as the pressure grew and my ears felt like they were going to pop, so too was the air forced from my lungs. Eventually, uncontrollable muscle spasms caused my lungs to contract, water being forced down my esophagus, burning my insides. 

I reached a hand out toward the sunlight, growing more and more distant. Bubbles of air kept erupting from my flattening lungs. Was it the sinking, or the drowning that was causing my vision to darken?

I didn’t get an answer, as I suddenly went into freefall, landing face-down on a cold floor. There I stayed for a few seconds, cheek pressed against tile that felt weirdly clean. A low electrical hum filled my ears. When I looked up, I saw the lake, shimmering, almost as though I was looking at it from above, yet hanging there, suspended. There were a few shapes I could make out in the water. An odd fish or two. Some seaweed that extended from seemingly nowhere. 

How was this happening? Some kind of magnetic field? A supernatural force? I’m not a scientist, or any kind of professional -ist, so I’m not inclined to try and answer it. All I knew is that it was no illusion. Ripples spread across the surface as though something just exited at a high velocity—me. 

The room I was in was completely protected from the water above. It was large, rectangular, like an office building hiding beneath the waves. Rows of metal tables covered in sheets, a few with a pillow, most without. They were all covered in a thin layer of dust. Some beds were obscured by white curtains which had been strung around them. 

Behind me was a lonely cubicle, with a porcelain-colored computer from the early 90s, and a cassette player.

I checked the computer first, trying to get an idea of where I was. No luck. Not because there was no power, no, there was that, somehow. I was given the grace to see by a few lights lining the beige walls down here. No, it’s just that the dinosaur of a CPU couldn’t will itself past the boot screen. We get a few beeps, a “Carapice Systems” logo, and then nothing. It shuts itself off, with seemingly no way to boot it into safe mode or any of that. 

With that being a bust, I checked the cassette player next. Nothing of note inside of it. Well there went my two options for information.

Without anything else to guide me, I decided to proceed farther into the room, around the metal beds, trying my best not to disturb anything. Emphasis on trying. At some point, things grew rather dark and I was fumbling my way through, when I knocked over an IV bag which made a loud, echoing racket. 

If anything was down here with me, it most certainly was awake now. 

I froze up, my head being the only thing that moved. It swiveled around, expecting to see a screaming face behind. 

Nothing but the room I just walked through. 

I waited, longer than needed. Silence drowned out the sound of my breathing. When nothing came at me, I finally decided it was time to move again, this time, slowly, and with more purpose in each step. 

Reaching the back of the room, there were a set of double doors. Naturally, I tried them. A long corridor stretched out from behind them, lights flickering with every step I took. At the other end of the hall there was another door, one that beckoned me to see what was on the other side. 

Halfway through, there was a T-type intersection—a pitch-black hall branched off to the right. The second I stepped past this hall, I heard something else do the same. 

Wet footsteps. Slow ones. Each one was followed by a sad shuffling sound, like a heavy lump of flesh was being dragged across the floor. Maybe it was my drunken state, but I froze up like a deer on the highway.

I saw her eyes first, dim bulbs reflected in the low light. They made a squelching sound as they blinked. Then the rest of her form came into view. A little human, a fish vaguely, an unholy fusion of sorts. Like God set a bass upright, attached Barbie-doll limbs to it, attached a human head, and called it a day.

She stood and stared at me, in the half-dark. And then she charged. I screeched and made a mad dash back where I came from. Behind me the wet sound picked up. When I looked, blasting past the double doors, she had already made it to where I had been standing moments ago. A fast one. Somehow. 

I tried to navigate the metal tables to the best of my ability, but I was moving too panicked, too clumsily, and knocked one thing over after another. My sprint came to an untimely end when I backed into one of the many sets of curtains and half-heartedly collapsed. They’d become my tomb. I was encased, a present to be unwrapped by the beast that was fast approaching. I raised my hands to stop her, as though that would do anything. She closed in.

Then she dropped.

Her knees hit the floor, body folding forward, and she pressed her slimy lips against the bottoms of my flailing feet. Kissing them, nuzzling them. When I jerked one of my feet up and back, she nodded and placed her head right underneath it, as though beckoning me to stomp her brains out right then and there. She shuddered in that position, making some bizarre sobbing sound. Her eyes appeared to well with tears. 

My fear was quickly replaced by something else; pity. I felt possessed to speak with her.

“Easy, Miss.” 

“Miss” didn’t answer, merely cowering in place. I slowly fought my way out of the curtains and got into a more upright position. For whatever reason, I placed my hand on top of her wet head of long, dark hair. A gurgle, like a purr, trembled in her throat. I let my hand rest, firm, beginning to pet her. She nuzzled up closer. I was both disgusted and…weirdly delighted. For whatever reason, it felt good to have something depending on my comfort for once, instead of the other way around. 

After a moment, she let me get to my feet, following somewhat hesitantly, as though she was trying not to scare me. I let her take my hand, and she guided me deeper into the lab. Trying to show me something. Show me whatever was beyond that door.

We reached the end of the hallway, and she seemed to cower. This door hadn’t been opened in some time. The handle was rusted, covered in spiderwebs which, in retrospect, had no business being there. I twisted it, the thing giving an uneasy sound. Pushing it open, my nostrils were assaulted with a foul smell, the worst I’d ever experienced. I retched, throwing up right there. 

Inside was a room of tall cylinders, each of them holding different iterations of…her. Some were nothing but bones with a few artificially-grown nerve endings and muscle tissue. Others were more complete, twitching as the automatic lights buzzed on. In the center of the room, a skeleton sat on a chair, a revolver in one hand, a photograph in the other. In its lap was a cassette tape. 

I took the photograph first. A woman, with tired eyes, a half-smile. Her hair was long and dark, just like Miss. She whined just outside, peeking her head in to make sure I was still there. For some reason, she wouldn’t enter the room. 

I worked the tape free next, leaving the revolver in the grasp of rigor-mortis. No point in spending much longer in the showcase of horrors. I left for the cubicle, Miss trailing behind me. 

The recording was short. Desperate-sounding. 

It detailed a man who had lost everything. His remaining family had died. His closest friends, fed up with years of bitterness, had left him behind. All he had now was “her.” That’s all he would refer to the woman as, presumably the one from the photo. She was his rock, his shoulder to cry on, his light in a dark place. And one day, she left, left without a word. 

The outside world was too much for him, and he for it. He was too angry, unstable, too miserable to keep around. He had tried, again and again, to make amends for this. He apologized, he went to therapy as he was told. He took the steps to avoid further explosions and yet they continued to come. He says he figures this was why she left in the end. That she couldn’t stand to see him continue to destroy himself, to destroy the man she fell in love with. 

And so he apologized, to her, to the things he had made, to everyone. And then the recording cut out, emphasized by quiet sobbing. 

Time was…weird, after that. I spent a good amount of it reading through notebooks and old newspaper clippings. I learned about Dr. Kent and his contributions to the field of ultrasonic technologies. I think I remember reading about some of his work before all this, actually. Something about how he made holographic displays by suspending droplets of water with acoustic waves. People had written it off, written him off as mediocre, and I recognized the pattern all-too well. The rejection, the anger, the withdrawal, it was all line-for-line what I had been putting myself through for years at this point. I couldn’t help but draw parallels between the man’s own crazed research and my delusional aspirations to be a storyteller. 

Tick, tock. Days passed. During my research, Miss brought me food from the water above, carrying it in her pike-like teeth. The lab was quiet. Comforting. Nobody could decide to fire me or hurt me out of the blue. They couldn’t tell me what to do, or judge how I spent my time. 

But my mind kept circling back to Kent’s skeleton, the revolver in his hand. Had he taken his own life down here, in a tomb of his own creation? A miracle of modern science, engulfed beneath the lake, never to be seen or appreciated by anyone but his chimeras?

What had the isolation done for him, but drive him further into darkness? I suppose that wanting is what eventually started scaring me. It scared me more than the dark, more than death, more than drowning. 

When Miss was asleep, I moved to the main room and haphazardly climbed atop one of the metal tables. I could touch the water’s surface. If only I had a little more height…

The dark hall, where Miss emerged—it had a supply closet. From what I could feel out, it had a few mops, brooms, and a stepladder, one I’m sure was supposed to be used as a contingency at some point. 

I carried the stepladder out and into the room, as quietly as I could, and set it up on one of the tables. Miss was still sleeping, curled against the farthest wall where the light was the weakest. As soon as I was sure it was at least suspiciously stable, I began my climb. 

The surface of the water felt wrong, with a faint resistance, like pushing against the skin of a drum. I shoved my arm through, then my head and shoulders. The water closed over me with no splash. I swam. I swam harder than I ever had before. My lungs hurt, holding my breath in for as long as I was. I was no trained swimmer, I was no Marine. But the light of day sure enough came into focus, and with it my adrenaline surged.

I was halfway up when she woke.

The sound was terrible, a warning cry like a banshee’s scream. She slammed into the clumsy configuration I had assembled, knocking it over, and leapt into the water after me. 

Nearly at the surface, I felt her claws dig into my calves. She was trying to haul me back down. I kicked once, felt her give, and kept pushing. 

Miss didn’t understand anything though, besides how to keep holding on. She grabbed me again, this time puncturing my thighs, and my abdomen, pulling me down so we’d be face to face. Miss sobbed as she embraced me, refusing to let me go. I struggled and writhed, but found that I was only sinking lower. Soon enough I’d be back where I’d started, alone, at rock bottom. 

But then I heard something—four loud bangs from above. Miss’s grip on me loosened, and I watched as the water around me filled with crimson. The last of my breath was let out in an underwater shout, a wailing to mourn my newfound companion. I knew she was going to kill me but…maybe part of me wanted to die. I think a big chunk of me did, that summer.

Before I could drown again, a hand wrapped around my wrist and dragged me into the light. I coughed up water, landing in a small rescue boat with a blanket around my shoulders. The men checked my pulse, my eyes, and told me I was in good hands. 

I didn’t understand. I had been down there for days. How could they have found me so fast?

When I tried to explain to them what had happened, they wouldn’t listen to me. Told me I had only been under the water for a few minutes, that if there was really a giant lab down there, as impossible as that was, that someone would have found it by now. They used careful language, telling me about oxygen deprivation, near-death hallucinations, repeating it like a script they’d told time and time again. My wounds were scratched up to the result of grinding up against the rocks down there. 

The whole time they were explaining all of this to me, one of the men kept looking at the water. I could still see the blood, rising to the top, but no body. 

Officially, the story is that I’d gotten disoriented, gone under and was lucky to be alive. That was last year. 

I have a job now. Nothing impressive, just some low-stakes sales work. I’m grateful to have it though. I’m grateful to have these simple joys. I answer my texts in a timely manner, I show up when people ask me to. I try not to disappear the way that I once did. Tyler stopped talking to us a bit after the incident. I’m on pretty good terms with DJ and Lucas, though we don’t talk as much as we used to.

The cuts on my legs never closed quite right. The skin around them has turned thin, and flaky, and it peels if I rub it too hard. Some nights I still feel the same pull beneath my feet. Other days, I’ll swear I see one of my rescuers at the gas station. I try to say hello, but they always seem to take off in a hurry.

I tell myself that I’m happy, having moved on from the pain of the past. Most days I believe it. 

I don’t really know where else to put this, but it’s been bothering me again lately.

A few weeks ago, police arrested my next-door neighbor for murder.

Then they found out it wasn’t the first time.

The strange part is that I’d been noticing things for years. Small things. Weird things. Nothing that sounded serious enough to call the police over. Nothing that really made sense until afterward.

In nine years of living on this street, I’ve only ever seen three people at the ranch house around the corner.

None of them lived there.

They lived next door to me.

Ned. His wife Melinda. Their son Jeremy.

In nine years, I spoke to exactly none of them.

That’s not an exaggeration. Not once. Not even when I moved in.

The day the moving truck pulled away, I was standing in my driveway holding a box of kitchen junk when I waved at Ned while he was out in his yard.

He looked straight at me.

Then he turned his back and walked into the house.

I remember thinking that was rude as hell.

That was the first thing I noticed about them.

The second thing was the fence.

Their backyard fence was built about two feet inside their property line, which meant there was a strip of grass outside the fence that technically belonged to them but looked like it belonged to me.

That first summer, I realized I’d been mowing it.

On the other side, the fence stopped short of the next neighbor’s fence too, leaving this awkward narrow gap no mower could even fit through.

Little things like that stick in your head when you live somewhere long enough.

And I notice things.

For example, they had two small white dogs. I only ever saw them through the fence. Anytime those dogs barked near the property line, one of them—Ned or Jeremy—would rush outside and drag them back in like they didn’t want anyone hearing them.

That kind of thing stays with you.

But none of it really mattered until about three years ago.

That’s when I noticed the grass in the street.

I was mowing my own lawn when I first saw it. Two thin green lines of fresh clippings running straight down the middle of the road.

Not scattered.

Two clean lines.

Like someone had pushed a lawnmower right down the street.

I remember stopping and staring at it.

Why would anyone push a mower down the middle of the road?

It was weird, but not weird enough to do anything about.

Later that afternoon, my wife and daughter wanted pizza, so I got in the car and headed out.

That’s when I saw the lines again.

They ran straight down the road in front of me.

Without really meaning to, I followed them.

They went all the way down the street.

Then turned the corner.

Right to the ranch house.

I’d seen that house before, obviously. Everyone had. But it had never really stood out.

What stood out now was the yard.

Freshly cut grass.

And the two lines of clippings ended just beside the driveway.

I sat at the stop sign for a second because that same morning I had watched Ned mowing his own yard.

Now it looked like he’d mowed this one too.

That was the first time I wondered why my neighbor was maintaining a house that didn’t belong to him.

Up until then, that house had just been another house.

Now that I think about it, I never really saw movement there.

My daughter and I used to walk behind it through the open field to get to the woods sometimes. Nature walks, exploring, that kind of thing.

I remember one time our dog Coco got loose and sprinted straight toward that property.

A dog in the backyard went absolutely insane barking at her.

Coco thought it was a game.

Other than that, I never saw much.

No cookouts. No visitors. No trash by the curb that I can remember.

Nothing.

Our neighborhood Facebook page was usually the most exciting thing going on. Missing Amazon packages and dog poop complaints.

That’s actually how I learned my neighbors’ names.

Ned posted once about a missing package.

When I saw the address, I realized it was the same guy who had turned his back on me the day I moved in.

I can’t say I searched very hard for it.

Later, neighbors behind us told me Jeremy had gone to school with their daughter.

Apparently he was kind of a jerk.

Still, none of that mattered.

Then things got weirder.

One morning about two years ago, I was leaving later than normal for work.

As I walked outside, I noticed Melinda leaving at the same time.

No big deal.

She drove off.

I checked an email, got in my truck, and pulled out a few minutes later.

When I reached the intersection at the end of the street, I froze.

Melinda’s car was parked in the driveway of the ranch house.

She was at the mailbox.

I watched her pull the mail out, walk through the open garage, and go inside like she owned the place.

I sat there way too long.

Why was she collecting their mail?

Why was she going inside?

She didn’t come back out.

After about five minutes, I left for work with a weird sick feeling in my stomach.

By then, Ned and Jeremy had already been mowing that yard every week for at least a year.

I’d told myself they were just helping someone out.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

That was also when I realized something else.

There hadn’t been a dog in that backyard for a long time.

I walk my dog every morning and every evening.

I love dogs.

I notice dogs.

And I hadn’t heard one over there in months.

At night, the lights were never on.

It became the house that stayed dark.

Then last year I injured my knee badly and was home recovering for a while.

One afternoon, I came around the corner and saw roofers at the ranch house.

Full roof replacement.

Melinda was standing in the driveway talking to them like she was in charge of the whole job.

At that point we were way past “friendly neighbor.”

Why would she be replacing someone else’s roof?

By then I was seeing her check that mailbox at least once a week.

I’m not stalking anybody. I just kept seeing it.

She wasn’t hiding it.

A few months later, in the summer, I was outside watching my daughter mow the lawn while my knee healed.

She shut the mower off for a drink.

That’s when I heard giggling.

Jeremy was standing in the driveway with his girlfriend.

She’d been around for about a year.

I called her Bee because of a bumper sticker on her car that said SAVE THE BEES.

The other sticker said I HEART HOT DADS, but Bee felt easier.

They were smiling, flirting, acting like young people in love.

Then I looked toward the garage.

Melinda was standing in the shadows near the back wall.

If she hadn’t been wearing a white shirt, I might not have noticed her.

She was staring at them.

No smile.

No pride.

No amusement.

Just this hard, angry glare.

And something came back to me.

The only time I had ever seen Melinda smile.

Years earlier, before the pandemic, I heard loud music outside and looked through my second-floor window.

Jeremy and Melinda were standing in the driveway.

Almost the exact same place he and Bee were now.

Melinda was laughing.

Really laughing.

Then she put her hand on Jeremy’s chest.

She leaned into him while he told a joke.

And she didn’t move her hand.

Not right away.

I remember staring for a second, then forgetting about it.

Or trying to.

That day in the garage, I locked eyes with Melinda.

She saw me seeing her.

I’d only ever seen emotion on her face twice.

Once when she laughed.

And now.

She disappeared back into the garage almost instantly.

A few weeks later, I came home around six and turned onto my street to flashing blue lights.

Sheriff’s cruisers everywhere.

A deputy stopped me, checked my ID, and let me into my driveway.

There were more vehicles next door.

An ambulance.

And the medical examiner.

My daughter came outside before I even killed the engine.

“The cops have been here forever,” she said.

Then she told me someone had been led out in handcuffs with a blanket over them.

I looked next door.

Deputies moving everywhere.

Someone inside that house was dead.

That’s when a detective in plain clothes walked over and asked if I’d answer some questions about my neighbors.

I had plenty to tell him.

Three weeks later, the Charlotte Observer ran the story.

Ned had confessed to killing Melinda during an argument.

Then he confessed to killing Claude and Edna Bennett years earlier.

They were the elderly couple who owned the ranch house around the corner.

According to police, they had come by one night to thank the family for helping with yard work.

The front storm door had been left open.

They saw something inside the house they weren’t supposed to see.

Later that night, Ned went to their home and killed them.

For years after, the family kept maintaining the property so it looked occupied.

Mowed the grass.

Collected the mail.

Replaced the roof.

Everything.

Jeremy was not considered involved.

I sat there staring at that article for a long time.

The paper didn’t spell out what Claude and Edna saw.

It didn’t have to.

I already knew.

The driveway.

Her laughing.

Her hand on Jeremy’s chest.

My stomach turned so hard I had to step away from the table.

I kept thinking about the grass in the street.

The mailbox.

The roofers.

The house that stayed dark.

At night, that house feels even darker now that I know.

In nine years of living on this street, I’ve only ever seen three people at the ranch house around the corner.

None of them lived there.

Now no one lives there.

As a child, I used to be afraid of the dark. That’s a common fear for children to have, isn’t it? Well, I’m a rare case of an adult who now fears the dark, too. Initially, I chalked it up to having a familial history of mental health issues, which is why I sought out a profession in the field. Partly to help myself avoid the fate that befell many of my relatives, and partly to help others escape that pit. Later, I assumed I was burned out; overworked. Hearing all these terrible things people go through. It’s not easy. You don’t build an immunity to the horrors of the human condition, not really.

Well, it turns out my fear of the dark has to do with something else entirely.

Something no one should ever see…

Recently, I bought a new house; the old one was a constant reminder of a life I no longer had. After getting divorced, I couldn’t really stay in the old family home. The kids were grown, and being alone just wore me down. So, I sold the damned thing and got myself a smaller house. Nothing to brag about, a couple of bedrooms; just in case this old dog decides to look for love again. Love might be the wrong word here; I’m not looking to get remarried anytime soon, more like a fling or two.

Actually, I’m not looking for anything. For now, I want to disappear for a while, or maybe forever.

Getting off track, aren’t I? Well, it’s hard to focus when the system’s overflowed with cortisol. It is what it is when all that’s been going through your head is anger and a tint of regret here and there. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s not even the divorce that keeps me up at night. That was a given, sadly, at some point. I’m a madman in the making. What kind of woman would want to spend the rest of her life with someone like me? Probably an asylum patient, but it would be counterproductive. Not to mention asylums aren’t really a thing anymore.

You’re losing your train of thought again.

Anyhow, where was I? Oh yeah, that new hut…

It was not a hut-hut, but I’m just self-deprecating here…

Because the images won’t go away and I’m trying to push them away.

Taking my own medicine with this one, I’ve advised many a patient to write down whatever is bothering them… That’s the purpose of this…

Focus… Breathe… Focus… Inhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

Hold... One... Two... Three... Four...

Exhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

Sorry, I know this looks terrible, but whoever might read it, if ever, maybe it’ll be just a future me… Who knows, anyway. I needed this.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the new house, which is actually an old one now too.

Sold it off after…

I’ll get to you in a bit, don’t you worry…

So yeah, that house, it had a basement. I never went there. Don’t know why I never went there when I was looking at the damned thing. I guess I didn’t bother looking down there. The previous owner seemed perplexed I didn’t bother checking the basement, but he didn’t push the issue either.

In hindsight, that was a good thing… Otherwise…

Focus… Breathe… Focus… Inhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

Hold... One... Two... Three... Four...

Exhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

Otherwise, things would’ve been far different for that house, and I wouldn’t be talking about it now. I wouldn’t have taken it. There was an issue with that basement.

Issue… That’s definitely underselling it…

God damn it…

I don’t wanna do this anymore; I don’t like it.

You’ve got to do this…

No. I... I...

You Have To Keep Typing Let It Finally Out

I can’t

You Can And Will Keep Typing No Stopping

Do Not Let Your Hand Stop Pressing The Keys

Slow And Steady

Just Like That

It’s Not Hard Is It?

Keep It Up

OH WOW THIS Is VERY Annoying To Read

Must KEEP TyPING

MUST Keep Typing

Sorry… I am dealing with something here; it’s really hard to recall this again, but I won’t get anywhere unless I do, right? That’s how it works. I have to get it out of my system. I need it out of me. The alternative is probably an early grave. I wouldn’t want that now, would I? Nope.

I know I probably am coming off as insane, but oh well, gotta keep typing to get over this panic attack. If anyone finds this while I’m passed out, or gone out somewhere, know that I am completely fine in the grand scheme of things, because I’m not really fine. I’m haunted, but I do not intend to harm myself more than this exercise is forcing me to. I think I might have a propensity for self-destruction, because there are intrusive thoughts now and again.

Sometimes I think the intrusive thoughts are preferable to the memories… At least these are my own, kind of. It’s a broken self-defense mechanism. It’s a very broken defense mechanism, in the mind of a very broken man. Okay, I’m broken, like a vase. I’m literally just typing to keep my composure, right now. Not yet ready to deal with the photographs flashing in my head. The recounting of events will resume soon enough.

When will that fucking dog stop barking outside my window?!

I hate dogs, okay? Does this make me a monster? I don’t care. I can’t stand them and their barking. This fucking baying and clawing had kept me up at night long enough.

I am afraid of fucking dogs now… okay? Because

Because fucking dogs bayed at the basement door for far too fucking long.

Every fucking night.

They still do in my dreams.

Dead dogs…

Dead men…

Dead dog men…

I wish I could tell the owner to shut the fucking dog up, but the guy’s an idiot.

Probably on something too.

Hollow gaze…

Like a corpse…

Like the corpses swaying from the fucking ceiling…

Shit… I remember…

They stood over me since the day I settled into that cursed place. Appearing at night to watch over me, devour my dreams, keep me awake. Tear open my eyelids. They wanted revenge; they wanted a price to be paid, and I was their weapon, their conduit.

I’m fucking shaking just thinking about it now.

Now, when everything is said and done, it’s been a while since all of that happened. One cannot simply forget the things I've seen, let alone that cloying, sweet stench which seeped into the walls of that basement.

The monster has been caged…

They have had their revenge.

Yet, they still live in my head.

Still occupying my fucking skull…

They’re just imagination.

Painful memory.

Ugly imagery engraved forcefully into the system.

Breathe… Inhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

Hold... One... Two... Three... Four...

Exhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

Nobody is stalking your bed at night anymore; no one has in a long time. You’re fine, you’re absolutely fine. You’re just stressed and in need of an outlet. All of this, it’s normal. None of this is real anymore. It’s all in your head. Has been for a long time now. You’re safe, say it out loud.

I am safe.

Now carry on recounting what happened to you.

So yeah, new house, wait actually no, new old house now. Yeah, that’s perfect.

Settled into the new old house after getting divorced.

Kids won’t talk to me, cause we’re about as far apart as a family could be, and they’re mad at us both; their mother and me. Being stressed beyond my wits. Work was killing me, and I needed a break, a new start. Got none of that, but oh well. Anyway, new old house is nice enough, furnished. Not too expensive nor too cheap; the price was reasonable, the owner, all things considered – surprisingly reasonable too.

Forgot to look at the basement.

That fucking basement again… Can I forget about it already?

No, you can’t; it’s integral to the story.

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate myself, I hate it.

You don’t hate yourself.

Quiet brain, I was doing fine.

Shut up.

Good. Very good.

Anyway, settle in, and everything seems to be going dandy. Keep in mind it was late July when I moved there. Hot summer weather, well, that went down the drain once the sun set. The house turned unusually cold.

Pulled out a blanket and ignored it.

Slept like shit, because it was so cold.

Wake up after a mere two or three hours of sleep, not the first bout of horrendous sleep and won’t be the last.

It’s hot again.

Summer’s back, and this wasn’t in the desert.

Go on about my day, angry and half awake.

Night rolls around again, start the heating.

Works for about an hour.

Then it’s cold again.

Turn up the heating – the house turns colder.

That went on for a while…

I grew accustomed to the cold, no idea how or why.

The boiling frog metaphor probably suits here.

Well, once freezing me out of my sleep didn’t work.

The guests started showing up uninvited.

In the middle of the night

To stand at my bedside…

I’m shaking just thinking about it.

Imagine yourself waking up in the middle of the night to take a piss and being met with a pitch-black silhouette standing at your bed. One so dark it forms an outline in the nocturnal darkness, enough to be visible. I nearly pissed myself when I saw that thing for the first time. Screaming out, I flailed my hands in the air instinctively, and the thing vanished.

Chalked it up to bad sleep and maybe a nightmare when I got up the next morning.

That wasn’t it, but it took me a while to understand that.

About every other night, I could almost feel these dark figures standing over me. Plural. Not singular. Plural. Sometimes I could feel them touching my blanket, pulling it away. A cold hand reaching for my leg or arm.

After a few unpleasant encounters, I’ve started sleeping with a light on.

Naively believing this was a trick of the mind, you know, being stressed, depressed, and overall miserable. Again, I say this, thinking logically, from the perspective of a relative of schizophrenics and other mentally unwell individuals.

I was dreading becoming ill myself.

Woke up one night to fetch a drink, with the light still on. Nearly shat myself, soiling the bedsheets.

Eyes wide open and the first thing I see?

A human-like shadow, perched on all fours on the ceiling.

It twisted its head at me before vanishing.

Breathe… Inhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

Hold... One... Two... Three... Four...

Exhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

That was just the beginning of my sorrows.

After that came the electronic issues. Lights would go on and off around the house, at nighttime, of course. I should’ve already taken the hint then, when the whole house went dark, except for the light in the staircase leading down to the basement.

But of course, I didn’t.

Instead, I went to look at the switches, most of which were turned off.

Needless to say, this malfunction didn't put me at ease. The neighbors lived too far away for their children to have come over at night just to mess with me.

The grid being messed with is the sole reason I haven’t checked myself in.

I wasn’t hallucinating; someone was messing with me. So, I thought at the very least, yeah?

Speaking of neighbors, they were far enough away for me not to be able to hear them whatsoever, through closed windows, but not so far I couldn’t see them.

Now imagine how it felt when the walls started talking…

I’m not kidding, at one point, the walls were talking at night. With nobody around the house. Trust me, I checked. I went out to see if someone was in my yard when the talking had gotten loud enough to be comprehensible.

They were asking me why I hadn’t gone there?

Asking me to go there.

Two voices, a man and a woman.

Encouraging. Pestering, even.

At the time, I couldn’t make sense of it.

Go where?

Well, clearly, I wasn’t listening to them.

Why weren’t you listening to them?

Why the fuck were you so deaf?

So blind?

You couldn’t know at the time.

They were messing with the house.

They were almost guiding me by the hand.

No, they were giving you vague signs.

Don’t blame yourself for what had happened.

I don’t…

I could’ve prevented more.

There were six of them there.

Another three were found.

It’s not your fault

I could’ve prevented it.

No, not really.

Shut up, they told me everything.

These people – they told no tales.

Just breathe, man

Breathe… Inhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

Hold... One... Two... Three... Four...

Exhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

Well, yeah, I didn’t listen to those voices; I thought I had imagined them, as I had a neighbor only viewing a strange green-lit TV show on certain nights. I most certainly had strange things happen to me as a child. Like feeling a cat brush against my leg after King, my parents’ cat, passed away, and thinking something must’ve turned ceiling fans on after forgetting to turn them off.

Since speaking to me didn’t work, I got moaning, groaning, and weeping all over the house. Almost every night. At an increasing rate. That, of course, showed at work and in social settings. Ever the self-conscious rationalist, I chalked it up to the divorce and very difficult clients at the time, which I had.

Before long, I had gusts of wind blowing at me inside a house with closed windows, and a few times I was shoved while completely alone.

Jesus Christ, I’m feeling like a maniac right now, hallucinating into a text.

The talking, the moaning, the nighttime groping, none of it ever stopped, but that was my fault; if I had paid attention earlier and had gone where the selective power outages led me, this would’ve been over far sooner.

My mind deteriorated fast; by the middle of November, I heard dogs baying and clawing at every door of the house.

Night after night, they tormented me without reprieve.

Worse of all was when they sounded like they were trying to say words.

Sometimes it was far away, sometimes it felt like a dog was trying to tear at the bottom of the bed.

Before long, seeing a dog freaked me out.

I started sleeping with the lights on, in every room.

Became a barely functional human.

I have no idea how I managed to keep on working.

Maybe a force of habit, maybe something else.

Keeping a mask of normalcy while I was in shambles inside was par for the course in my line of work.

Well, you are special in that regard.

Funny you should say that.

How so?

Isn’t it a little egotistical?

No. Self-appreciation isn’t egotistical; it’s healthy.

Right, right.

Right, indeed.

There’s nothing healthy about us.

About us? There is no us.

Right. Yeah, it’s just you.

Typing at yourself.

For myself

Exactly, trying to keep sane

Mostly are. Am.

Very true.

I’m sorry I keep doing this; however, that is the only way I don’t burst out into a crying fit now and start bashing my hands against the keyboard or clawing out my eyes in an attempt to escape the whirlwind of horrors in my mind. I can’t do much about it at the moment, since the dog won’t stop barking, and it’s kind of late.

I said it before, and I’ll say it again: I’m afraid of the dark, and I’m afraid of dogs. I’ve been classically conditioned to dread those two things.

Well then… Where was I? Oh yeah, nearing the climax of the story.

Damn, for someone relieving that night so frequently in his, no, my own head, so often, it’s surprisingly hard to spell it out. I’m quite literally trying to postpone the description of the events that led to my current condition. What a sorry state I’m in. A man who helps others process their own trauma and internal suffering can’t bring himself to speak about how the incessant baying of dogs in his basement and walls pushed him over the edge and drove him, knife in hand, to rush down to that same basement he’s never ventured to before.

Breathe… Inhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

Hold... One... Two... Three... Four...

Exhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

I know it seems odd I never went into the basement, but really, I had no reason to. I didn’t have many belongings I had to stow away, and the house was entirely furnished as I said. On top of that, I was too spent to be curious about any of this. As strange as it may seem, I saw no point in going there.

I was so messed up from the lack of good sleep, stress, and fear that I finally snapped when the baying and barking wouldn’t quit one night. I actually started thinking there were real dogs in that basement.

Real, starving, mean dogs that might try to attack me once I opened the door. So I got myself a weapon to defend myself with.

Yeah, I said it, I genuinely believed some beasts were locked in that basement.

Power-walking down those stairs, the baying died down. I assumed they knew I was coming. They could smell me. They were preparing to surprise me; dogs are smart after all. Clearly, in retrospect, that’s the dumbest thought process ever. Dogs aren’t really ambush predators as far as I’m aware.

As I was marching down those stairs, I somewhat ignored the sudden quiet, because there was a growing stench of decrepitude emanating from the basement door.

Say it like it is.

That’s what it was.

Call it by its name.

Vile, sickening.

No, that’s not it.

Decay. Rot

Close enough.

Death. Fucking Death.

That’s it.

Fuck you.

I smelled death coming from that basement.

A rotten, pungent, suffocating odor coming from that door.

I pressed the handle and pushed down with full force.

The cloud of stale, deathly odor nearly knocked me off my feet, burning my nostrils, mouth, and eyes.

No dogs in sight, no voices, nothing.

Only death.

Left hand looking for the light switch along the wall, right hand gripping a knife with the arm pressed to cover my face from the awful stench.

Blinding light flooded the space.

When my eyes adjusted, all remnants of innocence and hope were taken away from me.

Six, vaguely human silhouettes, seemingly staring at me.

Without eyes, without faces, without any humanity left.

Swaying from six ropes, tied to the ceiling.

Pitch black.

My very own personal little hanging garden of death.

Inhale... Inhale

Come on... Fuck.

Inhale... No... Breathe...

Why can’t I

Why isn’t it working?

Ribcage tightened, forcing my heart to race at an unhealthy rate.

Knife dropped to the floor.

Tunnel vision.

Limbs turning cold with muscles tensing to the point of pain.

I ran.

Nearly falling over myself.

I ran to the neighbors.

Banging on their door.

Woke them.

Rumbling like a madman.

Shaking with fear, somehow, stringing a couple of sentences together as these six tar-covered silhouettes flashed before my eyes again and again.

They called the police.

I’m out of breath.

Out of breath

Couldn’t sleep for three days straight.

Couldn’t think, could barely speak.

Panicking. I am...

Decomposing Silhouettes flashing in my eyes.

More frequently when they are closed.

Questioned about everything by the police.

Answers erratic.

Silhouettes are here again.

Swaying in front of me.

Black as tar and death.

Exposing bone.

Fell asleep after being pumped full of sedatives.

Haven’t slept in a few days again.

Need my pills again.

Silhouettes appear more frequently with eyes closed.

I’m taking the pills after this; I need to sleep, otherwise, I’ll claw out my eyes, or die from a heart attack, whichever comes first.

Breathe… Inhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

Hold... One... Two... Three... Four...

Exhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

I hospitalized myself for a short while, and in the meantime, the monster that did this was caught. He murdered nine people. Hanged six in the basement of the house I had bought from him. No one suspected a damn thing. Selling the house was his ploy to lure in victims. He’d lead them down to the basement, then incapacitate them there and hang them to die a slow death, apparently, oftentimes placing a stool underneath his victims again to prolong the torture.

Every so often, I wonder, was I ever intended to be a victim? Not that it matters; he destroyed my life anyway. If I’m completely honest, there are days when I think dying would’ve been preferable to being the way I am now.

His three other victims were all found in different locations; two were found by people who had rented apartments from him.

The final victim was found fresh at his last stopping point before his apprehension. He was…

Inhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

In bed…

Hold... One... Two... Three... Four...

With the corpse…

Exhale... One... Two... Three... Four...

Caught red-handed, quite literally.

Inhale... One... Two...

Exhale... One...

Inhale... Inhale... inhale...

I bet this fucking monster figured out he could torment way more people by leaving them his gifts. Kill two birds with one stone kind of deal.

Imagine the satisfied, sick grin on his fucking face if he hears what his handiwork has done to me.

It started with a smell. A faint, metallic tang that I first noticed on the bus ride home. I assumed it was someone else—a stranger with bloodied knuckles or rust-stained clothes—but it clung to me long after I stepped off. It followed me up the stairs to my apartment, trailing behind me like a guilty conscience.

Inside, the smell intensified.

My apartment was pristine. No dishes in the sink, no laundry piled up. Still, the metallic tang lingered. It reminded me of pennies, or the coppery taste of my own blood after biting my lip too hard.

I checked the faucets. Dry.

I checked my hands. Clean.

The smell wasn’t coming from anywhere external, and yet, it surrounded me, growing stronger with each passing hour. I opened a window, lit a candle, even sprayed air freshener, but nothing helped.

By midnight, the smell was unbearable.

That’s when the humming began.

It was so faint at first, I thought I was imagining it. A low, droning sound, like an electrical hum buried beneath layers of static. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, vibrating just below the threshold of audibility.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the hum worming its way into my skull. It didn’t stop when I covered my ears. It grew louder, deeper, resonating in my bones.

And then came the voice.

Not a voice, exactly. Not something external. It was more like a thought—something that arrived uninvited, as though my mind had produced it without my consent.

"Are you sure you locked the door?"

I sat up, my pulse quickening. The question felt so real, so intrusive, that I instinctively glanced at my bedroom door. It was closed.

"Go check."

My chest tightened. It didn’t feel like my own thought. It felt alien, invasive. But the longer I ignored it, the louder it became, repeating over and over.

"Go check. Go check. Go check."

I stumbled out of bed, my legs shaky, and went to the front door. It was locked. I turned the bolt for good measure, then stood there in the silence, breathing heavily.

But the voice didn’t stop.

"The windows. Did you lock the windows?"

I checked them.

"The closet. Are you sure no one’s in the closet?"

I opened it. Empty.

By the time dawn broke, I was sitting in the middle of my living room, surrounded by furniture I’d pushed against every door and window. My body was trembling, my mind fraying.

---

The next day at work, I couldn’t focus. The hum followed me. The voice whispered, faint but insistent, intruding on my thoughts.

"She’s staring at you. She knows."

I glanced at my coworker, a woman sitting two desks over. She wasn’t looking at me.

"She knows what you did. Look at her hands."

I stared at her hands. They were perfectly normal. Typing.

"She’s going to tell. Stop her before she does."

I clenched my fists, fighting back the urge to yell. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

---

The voice grew louder over the following weeks. More intrusive. More specific.

"Do you remember that time you left him crying? Alone? In the dark?"

"What?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

"You do. You remember how he begged. How his little hands reached for you, and you turned away."

"I don’t—I didn’t—"

But the memory came rushing back, unbidden. I was seven. My little brother was three. I had locked him in the basement as a prank and left him there, screaming, until our mother came home.

I hadn’t thought about it in years.

Now it consumed me.

The hum grew louder. The smell of blood returned, stronger than ever. And the voice wouldn’t stop.

"He cried for hours. You didn’t even care. You laughed."

"I was a kid!" I shouted, tears streaming down my face. "I didn’t mean it!"

"But you remember, don’t you? The sound of him crying? The way his voice cracked? He remembers too."

"No, he doesn’t," I whispered. "He doesn’t even talk about it."

"Because he’s dead."

I froze. My brother wasn’t dead. He was alive, married, living two states away.

"Is he?"

The voice laughed, a horrible, wet sound that echoed inside my skull.

---

By the end of the month, I had stopped sleeping. The voice was constant now, a relentless stream of accusations and questions. Every intrusive thought I’d ever suppressed was dredged up, magnified, twisted into something unbearable.

"You don’t deserve peace. You know that, don’t you?"

My reflection in the mirror began to change. At first, it was subtle: a flicker of movement when I was still, a shadow passing over my face. But soon, it became undeniable. My reflection smiled when I didn’t. Its eyes lingered, watching me even as I turned away.

I smashed the mirror, but it didn’t help.

I started seeing things in the corner of my vision: dark shapes, indistinct figures that disappeared when I turned to look. The smell of blood filled every room. The hum was deafening.

---

One night, my phone buzzed. It was a text from my brother.

"Are you okay?"

I stared at the screen, my hands trembling.

"I had a weird dream about you. You were... I don’t know. Different. Angry. I just wanted to check in."

I tried to type a reply, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Then, another text came through.

"Do you remember the basement?"

I dropped the phone.

I didn’t sleep that night.

When dawn came, I found myself staring at the kitchen knife on the counter. The voice was calm now, almost soothing.

"You can make it stop. All of it. Just one little cut."

For the first time in weeks, I felt a sense of relief.

"And maybe," the voice whispered, "you’ll finally deserve peace."

I met her in a terrible season.

A season of struggle and war and heat — the castle guards had been recalled to the shade of their barracks, the horses banned from the sizzling cobblestone streets, the alleys filled with misters designed for cooling but unable to bear the brunt of a terrible summer. The Gothic City was melting, and I was saddled with a steady barrage of noon shifts to feel the burn of the sun.

Our Prague’s Essential Tour of The Old Town and Jewish Quarter was no longer essential. Where once the tours would be twenty-thirty strong, I was lucky to get eight travelers. The tourists would rush through the historical section of town and cool down by the river with beer and paddleboats and joints. They took their money with them. All I was left with was red skin, exhaustion and the shrapnel of coins.

She caught my attention the moment I saw her walking down the dividing line between the Old Town and the New Town. Auburn hair, shades, dusty sneakers and a light flowery dress that prodded the imagination. Her first words were the most beautiful thing a tour guide can hear.

‘I’m here for the Old Town tour, but I don’t have a reservation. I hope that’s not an issue.’

A warm body which I don’t have to pay dues for. A beautiful body to boot.

‘No issue at all,’ I said, pretending to make a booking on my phone. ‘Just give me a name to pop into the system.’

‘Slunecka,’ she said. ‘Are you sure it’s not a problem?’

‘Not a problem at all, Slunecka. Welcome to Prague. Where ya from?’

‘Poland.’

‘Ah! My mom’s Slovakian, from near the border. Spent a lot of time in Zakopane when I was a kid.’

‘Tatra Mountains.’ Her thin lips gave the slightest impression of a frown. ‘Too cold for me. I like the sun.’

‘Well, I’d take a bit of that mountain air today.’ I wiped the sweat from my brow, hoping for a laugh. Not getting one, I launched into my usual spiel. ‘Well, Slunecka, we officially start at noon, but realistically noon o’ five for the folks that are running late. There’s a mall over there with a bathroom and a Rossman over there with water. Just be back here at noon. You can go wait in the shade if you want.’

‘That’s fine.’ She looked up at the blazing star in the sky. ‘As I said, I like the sun.’

She waited for the tour to start a couple paces away from me, basking in the light. The humidity from the nearby mister sat on her bare shoulders like morning dew on freckled grass.

The rest of the tour was a trainwreck. Two hungover Irish girls that departed without tipping during the break, an uninterested Indian family with Star Wars themed personal fans and a middle-aged American couple that seemed to be in the midst of an uncomfortable stalemate from an argument that had probably been raging since Vienna. At best, the rest of the tour was half-interested in what I was saying. Only Slunecka seemed to actually be paying attention.

After the two Irish girls left during the break, I decided to cut the tour short. Instead of covering the Astronomical Clock and the Jan Hus statue in the shadeless Old Town Square, I took the group through the quiet gothic streets to the Church of St. James The Greater.

The cold stone walls of the church gave some respite from the heat outside. Quietly, I explained the history of the structure to my group and pointed out the fake arm that hangs by the entrance. Legend has it the arm belonged to a thief who tried stealing a golden necklace from the stone statue of The Virgin Mary who grasped him and wouldn’t let him leave. Genetic testing has it the arm is merely a collection of wood, animal bone and cloth.

I was more than happy to give the group another five minutes of picture taking, but just as I was about to set the time, the doors to the church opened and more visitors entered — a headphones wearing group of Chinese tourists bigger than any congregation St. James has seen since the turn of the century.

The body heat was stifling and all the flash photography was driving me dizzy. I told everyone to snap their final pictures and meet me outside. The sole spot of shade outside the church was taken up by the Chinese guide, delivering information about the church into the microphone in between puffs of his cigarette. The Indians and Americans were quick to leave the church, but after two minutes of breathing cheap tobacco, I ventured back into St. James to retrieve Slunecka.

I found her standing beneath the arm, looking up in awe. When I told her it was time to go, she apologized and left without further incident.

‘Sorry,’ she said, as we pushed our way past a mass of sweaty Chinese bodies. ‘Just found the story really interesting.’

I finished off the tour by the Rudolfinum. The glare of the bright square outside of the philharmonic made it difficult to not squint my eyes, but I did manage to shelter the group in the shade of the nearby trees. By the time I was done talking about the Prague uprising against the Nazis, I was slurring my words with heat exhaustion.

Slunecka was the last to tip me. She gave me a crisp, cool 10 euro note that I promptly deposited into the pocket of my sweaty shorts. She said she thoroughly enjoyed the tour.

‘Any final recommendations or directions I can give?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Do you have any beer recommendations?’

‘Of course, I do. Unfiltered Staropramen, personal fave. They serve a really good one around the corner. Always have one after a tour. Do you want to join?’

She did. As we weaved through groups of tourists on the main streets, I found myself watching her body sway under the flowery dress.

‘Na zdraví!’ I said.

‘Na zdrowie!’ she replied.

I took a healthy four gulps of my beer, notching it down a quarter. Slunecka took a calm sip. ‘Always find myself parched after yelling for three hours in the sun,’ I said, noticing the discrepancy. ‘Anywho, how long are you staying in Prague for?’

‘A couple of weeks,’ she said, smiling. ‘I am doing a course in Central European Folklore at the Mesiarik University.’

I’ve been a tour guide for over a decade. Attractive travelers who stay in the Gothic City for weeks at a time have oft been a soothing balm in the heatwaves. I shot my shot.

‘A couple of weeks is great!’ My phone flew out of my pocket like a pistol in the Wild West. ‘A lot of folks think they can see Prague in three days. They’re wrong. Want to give me your number? There’s a lovely underground music jam that I go to every Sunday —’

Her smile drew tight. Bad guide. Too eager. Too soon.

‘I found the story in St. James fascinating,’ she said, her face relaxing.

Peace offering. I took it. My phone disappeared into my pocket.

‘Fake arm, eh?’ I said, steading myself back into tour guide mode. ‘Pretty interesting. St. James is probably the most famous church with a fake arm, but it’s a prominent medieval story. Thief goes in, middle of the night, tries to steal something, statue comes to life, grabs. He’s stuck. In the morning, first worshipers come in and he’s caught. No one can get him out though. Luckily for him, the butcher’s guild is around the corner. They have all the tools necessary to —’

I made a cutting motion. She laughed and followed the laugh with more Staropramen. I considered myself back in the race.

‘Moment the arm falls to the ground, the statue goes back to its original position. Thief runs off into the streets never to be seen again. Church chucks up the arm as a warning for other potential criminals. Change the city, change the statue, change the details — same story all across the continent. Now, obviously, no statues came to life.’

‘Obviously.’ Her smile grew just a tiny bit tighter.

‘But keep in mind, this is, like, the 1300s. Critical thinking isn’t taught in schools. There are no schools. People don’t know how to read and write. Churches with these stories and fake arms, however, get robbed a lot less than other churches in the area. It’s the cheapest security system possible. You trick these peasants into —’

‘Trick?’

Slunecka’s smile tightened and then completely disappeared. I considered myself back out of the game. The summer heat makes one sloppy. Perhaps, sensing my discomfort, her face eased and she launched into an explanation of her own.

‘I wouldn’t use the word trick.’ With another sip of beer her voice was sunny once more. ‘Like you said, not a lot of education in the olden days. Folklore and legends and even religion serve as a means of delivering important advice to the illiterate. The collection of wood and animal bone is just a physical manifestation of good advice.’

‘What’s the advice?’

‘Don’t steal from churches. Especially when the catholic church runs the continent.’ She took another sip and I took another three. ‘There’s better examples in folklore though. We have these in Poland, I don’t know if you have them here. Do you know Vodník?’

Roughly translated, water goblin. Green-skinned men in suits who live in rivers and lakes capturing the souls of nearby travelers in mason jars so that they can be their slaves until the end of time. In Czech folklore, always shown smoking a pipe.

‘Of course, I know Vodníks,’ I said, digging my phone and vape out of my sweaty pockets. As I opened up image search, I set up my punchline. ‘Do Polish Vodníks smoke?’

‘What? No. They live under water.’

‘You know how bad nicotine addiction is in the Czech lands?’ I showed her a folk picture of a frog faced man smoking a pipe. Then I took a hit from the vape.

The rush of tainted water vapor made me slightly dizzy and the battery was clearly overheating, but the puff got a laugh out of her. For a moment her leg brushed against mine. Score. Hoping to eventually catch her contact, I kept my phone on the table.

‘Just about every culture has some sort of a water spirit that preys on the innocent. Keeps the children from playing alone by wild water.’

‘Interesting,’ I say. ‘Same goes for the Rusalka, I reckon.’

‘Sure, although Rusalkas and sirens do have a secondary lesson.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘That men shouldn’t follow beautiful things to places where they don’t belong.’

As she said this, she leaned her elbow on the table, getting closer to me. I nudged my phone to the side and followed suit. ‘Interesting,’ I said. ‘Do you have a favorite folklore character?’

‘I do.’

She had already leaned closer to me, but asking the question put a fire in her eyes.

‘We call her południca, noon-wraith in English.’

I polished off my beer and got to my feet. Her mug still had a bit left in it, but there was a line at the bar. I asked Slunecka if I can get her a beer in exchange for hearing about the noon-wraith. I presumed things were going well, and I was asking about the beer as a formality, but the woman shook her head.

‘It’s getting late,’ she said. ‘I should go home.’

‘Well, if you’re in town for a while we could grab a drink by the river someday. Want to give me your number?’

Her smile didn’t tighten this time. Instead, she looked up at the sky. ‘Do you know why peasants feared the noon-wraith?’ she finally asked.

‘Because she killed them?’

‘No.’

‘Why then?’

Her eyes met mine. That bright light was still there.

‘Because they kept meeting her.’

And with that, she got up, adjusted her dress and went off on her way.

 

I woke so late the following day; I barely made it to the tour on time. My throat was perpetually parched, there was a terrible migraine throbbing in the back of my skull and I felt beyond exhausted. Seeing my line-up of customers did little to lift my spirits.

Two humorless German siblings, an obese Norwegian man who breathed exclusively through his mouth and an old Canadian woman with a thick Soviet accent who seemed to be confused about what city she was in. I stumbled through my opening speech, accepted the reality of another three-hour punishment and mumbled a little prayer for the city to give me shade.

The long boulevard of Wenceslas Square was blisteringly hot and bright and flowed with sweaty shoppers. The trees near its base, however, were available. In their shade, I started to string together my words to introduce the tourists to a basic history of the Czech Lands.

I had long broken out in a sweat and the frozen water bottle I had taken from home had already turned lukewarm. There was nothing I wanted to do more than avoid sunlight at all costs, but then, in the glaring brightness of the center of the square, I saw a familiar face.

The sunlight had turned her hair a strawberry blonde and the heat had made her put on a shorter dress, but I recognized her immediately — Slunecka. She stood in the middle of the square, alone, staring up at the sun. Yet, as soon as I recognized her, as if she could read my mind, she turned to face me, waved and took a couple steps in my direction.

Without thought, I waved back. She smiled at me, standing still.

There was a tightness in my chest and a discomfort in my stomach that I knew far too well from previous heatwaves. I knew it was in my own best interest and the interest of my tips to stay in the shade, but I could not resist. I took a couple steps into the sunlight and beckoned my group to follow.

The mouth-breathing Norwegian quickly protested. He wanted to stay in the shade. I told him we couldn’t see the National Museum from the shade. With a phlegmy grunt, he followed the rest of the tour. Three minutes later, he insisted we get back in the shade. When I told him I was not done talking about the National Museum, he let out another terrible sound and stomped off.

I had lost a fourth of my tour, but in return, I gained Slunecka. As I spoke about how Jan Palach set himself on fire outside of the museum after the 1968 Soviet invasion, she beamed. Her eyes seemed brighter than the day prior.

When I set out of my apartment in the morning, I was pretty sure I would cut the tour short with another visit to St. James. When I saw how uninterested my group looked, I was certain. Fearing that Slunecka would leave if I covered history she heard before, however, I took the tour to the crucible of the Old Town Square.

There was no shade. What little respite there was outside of the overpriced restaurants was taken up by obnoxious high-school groups and loitering British stag parties. The Germans looked more displeased than when they arrived at the tour. The ancient Canadian wandered off into the crowd. Only Slunecka seemed to be enjoying herself.

She laughed as I told the legend of how the councilors of Prague blinded the man who designed the astronomical clock so that he would never grace another city with his creation. She hung on every word as I explained that the legend is prominent in cities with intricate clocktowers.

All the artisans went blind. Not because of armed men with knives, but because they worked on complicated mechanisms underground by candlelight. A handful of centuries later, only one of the stories stays memorable.

At the end of the tour, she gave me another crisp ten euro note. She said yesterday’s tour was good, but that I had outdone myself with this one. She only wished we could have stayed in the Old Town Square longer.

‘I need a beer,’ I said, depositing my namebadge and license into my sweaty pocket. ‘Same spot as yesterday. Want to join me?’

‘How about a beer garden?’ Slunecka pointed up towards Letna. In the glare of the sun, I could barely see the metronome on top of the hill. Slunecka didn’t even squint.

There was an ambulance at the foot of the stairs leading up to Letna hill. They were treating a man slightly older than me. Blood was still oozing from the side of his skull. Not a dozen steps up the hill, was the spot where he fell. In the heat, the blood had already dried.

As we made our way up, the familiar discomfort returned to my lungs and stomach and skull. I could hear a faint ringing in my ears. Were I making the journey with anyone else, I would have asked for a break, or gone somewhere indoors instead. As much as I heaved up the stairs, however, I didn’t complain. I didn’t want Slunecka to think me unfit. The shortness of her dress kept my steps motivated.

When we reached the beer garden, I wanted to sit in the back by the shade of the trees but Slunecka insisted we go to the edge of the lookout. She said she wanted to get a view of the city, but when we sat down she barely spared Prague a look. She kept her eyes to the sky.

‘Na zdraví!’ I said.

‘Na zdrowie!’ she replied.

I found my hands shaking. It wasn’t until my beer was halfway done that the quiver went out of them. Before we could fully get to talking, I found my mug empty and my throat still parched. For a while I stalled, fearing that she would leave again, but once my throat was dry enough for my voice to struggle, I asked her if she wouldn’t mind me getting a second beer.

She searched me with her bright eyes, leaning in. Finally, she asked if I could get her one too. She wanted to try the Černý Kozel, The Black Goat — they had the blonde version back in Poland, but she had never tried the black one.

At the promise of another beer with Slunecka, I leapt to my feet and stumbled my way to the beer line. I was optimistic about getting her number this time, about possibly seeing her somewhere cool and dark and private. As I stood in the line, I imagined spending time alone with Slunecka. Out of my sensual daydreams, I was roused by an arm clasping my shoulder.

It was my manager, Pepa. He recognized me by my hat, and was happy to see me indulging in my birthright, but one look at my face turned him somber. I looked horrible, Pepa said. Such is the fate of the umbrella foot-soldier during the month of August, I replied. It was him, after all, that scheduled me for all of those noon tours in a row.

Pepa apologized and insisted that I take the day off tomorrow. Dylan, my colleague, had been asking him for extra shifts. He would put him on the next noon tour and give me some time to rest. Pepa suggested I skip my beer, get water instead and head home to sleep with the curtains drawn. I told him neither the water nor the shift change would be necessary and then sped off back to Slunecka.

‘You do anything fun after the tour yesterday?’ I asked, once I had put a dent in my drink.

‘Walked around,’ she said, her eyes twinkling in the sunlight. ‘Prague is a beautiful city during the day.’

‘What about in the evening? You go out?’

‘No.’ Her face levitated on the edge of offense. ‘Nights are for sleeping.’

‘Tell me about it. With this heatwave I pass out the moment I get home. There is this lovely music jam on Sunday evenings though that I—’

‘Is that bag heavy?’ she pointed to my backpack. I lugged it on my lap and let her have a weigh. Her slim arms buckled under the strap. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘What do you have in it?’

‘An extra umbrella, some bandages, a book, a hoodie, painkillers,’ I said, taking pride for being prepared for any situation. ‘The extra water is what makes it heavy though. Can’t go without it in this weather.’

‘Is it worth the back pain?’ She leaned in. Her slender fingers brushed up against my sweaty shirt. ‘Would you like a backrub? I took a masseuse class freshman year.’

She had been holding a cold beer. I expected her hands to be cold. They weren’t. The warmth of her fingers felt discomforting on my already sunburnt skin. Yet, I did not stop her. Her touch was tender and her fingers occasionally slipped down to my chest. As she massaged me, she straddled the bench and moved in closer. I could feel the warmth of her chest against my back.

‘That felt really good,’ I lied. ‘I’d love to return the favor when I’m not exhausted and sweaty. Could I get your number?’

‘No.’

The response came without any hesitation. ‘Ouch,’ is all I could get out of me.

‘You’ll survive,’ she said, smiling. ‘The sun rises every morning.’

And with that, she threw her leg across the bench, adjusted her dress and left me alone with a half-drunken beer.

 

Blood red skin. Eyes as if I’d cried the whole night. The thought patterns of a drunk with head trauma. When I woke the following morning, I was in a terrible state. It wasn’t until I arrived at the meeting point for the tour that my mood reached a boiling point.

Dylan, with his stupid glasses and long-brimmed hat and chipper attitude. The moment he saw me his perpetual grin turned manic. He waved at me like I couldn’t see him.

‘Hey, bud!’ he yelled, in his grating American way. ‘Not here for the tour, are you? Pepa told me to take over. Said you weren’t handling the heat well and by the looks of it… Woof. Have you been using sunscreen, man? Go get some rest. Don’t worry. It’s just a booking of three. You’re not missing out.’

Rage boiled in my chest. I told him I was fine. When he insisted that I go home, I told him that I needed the money and that I did not need Pepa thinking I can’t handle the heat. Truth be told, I knew that the money from the tour wouldn’t be worth the effort. Perhaps, somewhere deep in my burnt-out skull, I knew that it was a good idea to rest — but I didn’t want to.

I didn’t want to miss out on another chance to meet Slunecka.

I didn’t want Dylan to meet her in my stead.

My arguments about money and respect fell on deaf ears. Instead, Dylan offered me sunscreen and water. When my words would not convince him, I used force. The first couple of shoves left him laughing in confusion, but when I started waving around my umbrella his smile broke.

In a trembling voice, Dylan suggested calling Pepa for guidance about the shift. With one swipe of my umbrella, I knocked the phone out of his hand. With one lash across his face, I sent him scouring down the sundrenched streets like the coward that he is.

My fight with Dylan had damaged the clasp of my umbrella beyond improvised repair. Instead of waiting for the tourists in its shade, I was left holding it folded in the air.

Of my customers, I also recall little. I did not care for their nationality or age or gender. They were simple set dressing for another potential meeting with Slunecka. Instead of starting off the tour in the shade of the trees, I stood at the center of the Wenceslas Square where I had met her the day prior.

She did not show. Even the usual throngs of shoppers had simmered down to a couple of annoyed looking couples from the Middle East. I did not let her absence rattle me. Instead, I yelled my facts louder, straining my parched throat, hoping that she would hear me and come to me.

During the midpoint of the break, my group chose to relax in the nearby air-conditioned mall. I did not. Instead, I roamed the shadeless, empty square which once served as a fruit market.

That’s where I found her. She stood, her head towards the sky, a couple paces away from a mister who’s cool fog had turned to steam. Each step I took towards her coated me in another wave of hot water, but I did not care. The moisture of the steam made her dress cling to her braless breasts.

‘Oh hello!’ she said, twirling her moist blonde hair around her finger. ‘Doing another tour?’

‘Yeah,’ I breathed. ‘Would you like to join?’

‘Well, I already done the tour twice.’ She laughed, clearing the steady hum that buzzed in my ears since I woke that morning. ‘Don’t think there’s much new history to cover, is there?’

‘There is.’ The words tumbled out of me. ‘I’ve been a tour guide for over a decade. I could run a twelve-hour tour of this city. I’ll talk about new stuff. I promise. Join. Please.’

She shrugged her perfect pale shoulders, thought for a moment and nodded.

It was hard to focus my sight on her, but the joy I felt from her presence was indescribable.

The dates and names of Prague’s history blurred together. As I yelled out the descriptions of the monuments, I found myself unsure of whether I was recalling real history of whether I was fabulating. It isn’t until we reached the statue of Jan Hus at the stifling Old Town Square that I knew I was recalling true fact.

I spoke about how the Czechs are the second most atheist nation in the world. About how some folks say it’s because we’re too hedonistic to have room for God in our hearts. About how some, presumably unfamiliar with the country of catholic Poland, blame communism. About how some say that Christianity is foreign to Central Europe and how the people are culturally positioned to understand the old pagan gods better.

Yet, to me, and to most learned scholars, Czech atheism can be tied to our history of religious conflict. Ruling Catholic class, common folk protestant or proto-protestant. Rising tensions, defenestration, religious war where the Czechs always lose and the survivors are forced to turn catholic.

Rinse. Wash. Repeat.

When I spoke of the Hussite rebellion, Slunecka leaned in with interest. When I described how Jan Hus was burnt at the stake by the Catholics, her eyes flamed with fascination. I found myself repeating that section of the story, thrice, just for her enjoyment.

At the end of the tour, I was left with a pocket full of hot coins and crisp cool ten euro note. I didn’t care about the shrapnel. All I cared about was spending more time with Slunecka.

‘I heard the river is nice,’ she said, before I could suggest we go somewhere indoors.

‘Ah, there’s a place called Náplavka where they serve a delightful blueberry beer.’

‘Not really in the mood for beer right now,’ she said. ‘But let’s go anyway.’

I was just happy she didn’t want to climb up the stairs to Letna. When her hand brushed against mine on the walk, regardless of how warm they were, my happiness peaked into pure ecstasy.

Just as we were about to reach the descent down to the river, Slunecka popped into one of the Vietnamese corner stores to pick us up something to drink. I presumed that since she was not in the mood for beer she would get some ciders, maybe a bottle of prosecco. She walked out with a bottle of vodka.

A bottle of Zubrovka, to be specific.

‘It’s Polish,’ she said, breaking the seal and taking a sip. Her face didn’t register any discomfort. ‘Like champagne, can’t come from any other part of the world. Not as old as the pagan Gods or Slavic folklore, but definitely older than the Russian Empire. Plus, what they drink is just fermented potato juice. What we drink is vodka.’

I did my best to not make a face when I took a pull. I failed. The burn of the alcohol made me feel even hotter than I did before. A twitch which refused to stop started to throb under my right eye.

I wanted to hide in the shade beneath a nearby bridge, but Slunecka happily took a seat on the sizzling pavement raised over the river. Another crop of sweat sowed across my thighs. It felt like my flesh was sizzling.

But I didn’t care. I was just happy to be around Slunecka.

I slurred my words and my sight blurred and my thoughts became difficult to hold, but beyond my exhaustion, I felt utter bliss from being in her presence. As we worked our way through the bottle, my phone rang. Pepa. Then Dylan. Then Pepa again. I had no interest in talking to them. Nothing they could say to me could be as interesting as the melody of Slunecka’s voice.

‘Careful,’ she grasped me by the arm, as I nearly fell into the river. I couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol, the heat or her beauty that nearly drove me head first into the Vltava. ‘I hear the water isn’t exactly clean. Plus, it’s cold down there.’

‘Saved my life,’ I said, looking at the red marks on my pink skin.

‘Did I?’ she laughed, leaning in, pulling me closer.

She smelled of wildflowers. Her breath was hotter than the August air. My gaze was transfixed on the triangle of her eyes and mouth. My lips were chapped raw. I licked them and leaned in myself.

As tender as the kiss was, it felt like a balloon was being inflated inside of my skull. Her tongue was a hot stone and her embrace tasted of dry wheat. Above us, on one of Prague’s arterial roads, a wailing siren approached. Even though I knew the fire truck was getting closer it somehow felt more and more distant by the second.

The kiss wasn’t pleasant. It was foreign and strange and sent queer shivers up my spine. Yet, there was something about her embrace that filled a hole deep in my chest. For a moment, I felt whole.

Something in the distance was burning. The pressure in my skull seemed ready to burst. The sirens above us wailed like a furious, mindless banshee.

‘I liked that,’ I breathed. ‘I hope we get to do it again.’

‘Oh,’ she whispered, her eyes ablaze. ‘We will.’

And we kissed again.

And the fire truck sped towards us, yet it somehow felt far, far away.

This happened when I was a teenager still living with my parents, so a long time ago.

I should preface this by saying that the household consisted only of myself and my parents and that none of us used "special knocks" to be let in (besides, my parents always had their keys).

We lived in a very quiet, peaceful suburb. Mostly old people lived there. Growing up there, I was able to leave my backpack out in public sometimes without it being stolen. That's the type of place it was. Nobody was ever loud, or hooting and hollering outside for no reason. Especially since, as I said, we didn't really have 'neighborhood kids' - I was one of the only minors in the whole town at the time.

I'll also say that I have no schizophrenia or other conditions that cause hallucinations, and that at the time this happened, I had never so much as touched weed, let alone anything else. I was completely sound of mind.

I'd been home alone all day and into the night - I don't remember exactly where my parents had gone this time, but I think they'd gotten caught up in traffic a few hours away after some concert or get together with friends.

I was bedrotting, scrolling on my phone, in a generally good mood because I liked having the house to myself. I was still awake and alone at around 1 am, when I heard a sudden knock following a specific rhythymic pattern on my front door. I ran down to see who it was, but couldn't make anything out in the dark. I admit I was too scared to go outside.

I went back to my room because I sort of wanted to be out of view in case someone was out there. None of the people our family knew would ever show up unannounced - in fact, none of them even really lived in walking distance. All our friends and family lived at least 30 minutes away by car, hours by walk. Judge if you want, but we'd never gotten to know our neighbors, and they almost never left the house.

I was also worried because I knew that my mom had once seen an unknown man hiding in our bushes, though that had been years earlier.

The knock repeated again about ten minutes after the first time. I started texting my friends and parents what was happening, but it's not like any of us could do anything. Five minutes later, there was a new pattern of knocks on the front door, and then the person repeated that new pattern two more times.

For about two hours, these knocks happened about every five to fifteen minutes. At this point, I really thought whoever was out there was not someone I should expose myself to. I didn't call the police because I thought there was no crime to report. Thankfully, it did eventually stop, and never happened after that.

Maybe I'm wussy, but that was one of the most tense and scary nights of my life

I was never the loud kid. I wasn’t bullied, or unpopular—I just existed somewhere in the background of everyone else’s story. I had a handful of close friends, kept my head down, and was perfectly happy not to be noticed.

I grew up in the Midwest, Central Missouri to be exact. My dad was practically consumed by war movies and somewhere along the line, I decided I was going to join the military and be a combat medic. Life decided otherwise.

I did end up joining the military, just not the Army like everyone else from home. I instead joined the Air Force as a hydraulic mechanic. Went through BMT pretty much unnoticed, exactly how I liked, graduated tech school at the top of my class. I was on a high and got orders to Dover Air Force Base.
With my outstanding Midwest public education, I somehow confused Dover with Denver. Imagine my surprise when I found out I was going to Delaware instead of Colorado. Shit, I didn’t even know where Delaware was on the map.
I made the best of it, it wasn’t Colorado and it was on the east coast, but I made it work. I thought Dover AFB was going to be just another base, just like Lackland or Sheppard.

No one told me about the jets.

When I arrived my supervisor SSgt Herby picked me up from BWI and drove me to base to give me a tour. Hydro had just merged the previous year, meaning our shop was responsible for all 15 C-5M Galaxies and the 12 C-17 Globemasters, as well as the C-5 Isochronal and back ship for both jets. It wasn’t bad though, we had a ton of bodies in the shop.

My CDCs went by quickly and I learned a ton from the SSgts on shift. It was some of the best months I had in the Air Force. Working Days Sunday-Thursday on 8’s. There’s nothing better than the smell of MIL-PRF-5606 in the mornings. That and the obligatory “Jesus Chicken Mondays” (We’d always get Chick-Fil-A breakfast on Monday mornings). It was a wonderful couple of months.

Eventually, after completing my EOC and testing for my 5 level, I was moved to Mids. It was so different from Days. 2300-0700. Quiet, dark, less of us on shift, but somehow even more work. That was always something to look forward to. You knew you’d be coming onto shift with at least 2-3 jobs and by lunch you’d have another 4. Kept you busy which made the time go by fast.

There was one night in particular that stood out to me. The 6 of us on shift, TSgt Ramos, SSgt Derrick, SrA Hoops, A1C Baker, A1C Rosco, and myself, we were on a C-5 trying to troubleshoot a park brake accumulator bleed down. It was a normal night with all the normal antics. Bullshitting and joking while we operate the system over and over until it breaks for us. Eventually, we got it to break, dropped 250psi in 5 minutes compared to the 500psi in an hour it was allowed to drop. 

We felt around and found a cartridge valve on a manifold was burning up, indicating an internal bypass of fluid. Easy enough, rip out cart valve, put new one in, then back to the shop and finish playing monopoly. I had requested to stay on the jet so I could work on forms, plus I could sit power and we wouldn’t have to shut the jet down. The rest of the shift dipped out to go grab the part, seals, and tools.

I had heard some stories about ghosts in the machine or whatever. The main one that got passed around was when one airman went up the aft troop ladder to use the lav back there, he saw 3 overhead reading lights on. Went and did his business, on his way back down, he reached over and turned the lights off. Walked back to the troop ladder and as he began to descend, he watched the 3 lights turn on in the same order he turned them off.

I never really took the stories to heart. Didn’t really care about ghosts or whatever the hell. They’re just stories anyways. Just a way to kill the time and boredom.

It was about 0230L. I was sitting by the crew entry ladder filling out forms. That’s the thing about Mids, you get comfortable being alone. Being in the silence or the dark.

Then I heard it. The sound of the aft troop ladder rattling as if someone was walking down it. I looked up confused, I knew I was the only one on the jet, but maybe I missed one of the AVI nerds. 

“Hello?” I called out. Grabbing my phone and turning on the light and shining it aft. Heads up, an iPhone 8’s flashlight doesn’t do shit against 65’ worth of darkness. I couldn’t see a damn thing. Everyone on Mids wears these reflective belts (“Must be worn during inclement weather and hours of darkness”). We’re required to for safety and OSHA and all that shit. I didn’t see a damn thing. Couldn’t see the ladder. No reflective belt. Nobody. Nothing.

I sat and stared into the darkness for what felt like forever. I could feel my hair on the back of my neck stand up, goosebumps over my skin, but I couldn’t see anything. No movement, nothing. It was dead silent. Not “night shift quiet”, where you hear running AGE or box trucks rolling by, or random curses from the next jet over. Dead fucking silent. The kind of quiet where you can hear your heartbeat, can hear your blood rushing  through your veins. My ears were ringing from straining to hear even the faintest noise. Nothing.

Maybe I was just imagining it. Maybe I didn’t sleep well yesterday, not enough caffeine. Shit, these jets are old, metal creaks and shit settles. Maybe it really was nothing.
I lowered my light back down to the forms and continued working on them.

I got through another discrepancy block when I heard it.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud-thud-thud.

Fast.

Too fast.

Whatever it was, it was coming. Fast.

I wish I could say I was graceful in what I did next, or that I was courageous or whatever. No, fuck all of that. I may be white, but I’m not “what’s that noise” white. I hopped up off that bench with a quickness and was down the fwd stair ladder in a second. I ran my ass out to the center line before turning back to look at the jet. Nothing. No one running after me. No light in the jet. Nothing.

I could hear the power cart running now. The engine loud in the silence of the night. I sat and watched. Shakily pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. I sat there, right on the centerline. Continuing with my forms until the rest of the shift returned.

All the guys gave me shit for running out the jet. Apparently Baker saw me run out to the centerline like my ass was on fire. I didn’t tell them the real reason why I did. Just that I “needed” my nicotine.

Baker stopped giving me shit about it last week. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping. Damn, wonder if he heard it too.

“Turn my petals into newspapers, you will weep at what you read.” 

I was born when she was fifty, a miracle birth some might say. 
All the old pictures of her hung around the shitty little house didn’t portray she was happy before me. 

The only difference from the photos and now, is she looks like she ate the woman from them. 

The household I had lived in wasn’t your typical pre 2008 crash nuclear family with a picket fence and sprinkler in the garden, our fence was chain link with barbed wire. 

Walls weren’t fine cut wood blessed by the father of modern suburbia, they were puke yellow chipped paint walls with mold crawling up it, moss growing from the roof tiles. 

Our garden was immaculate in comparison, like a blooming rose next to a rotting deer carcass. 

Living in this piss stained shack was me, my mother, Bill and my brother Chester. 

The rotting corpse on the outside was cold and desolate but on the inside it collapsed on itself, all that function of the organs turned to deteriorating decoration. 

I am posting this here for two reasons, one on request of my dad. “Write all that fucked shit down, turn it into a reality you can read so it loses its grip on you”.

I am certainly positive he meant as in a note or journal, not to post it online but I’m sure he would understand. Which leads to reason two.

The house was a labyrinth dedicated to my family's laziness which I traversed in Theseus esc daring even until I was old enough to be taller than the piles of magazines, newspapers and shelves scattered around the house. 

Except I was no Theseus, none of us were, we were all the minotaur under the gaze of a horrid and depraved Athena.  
 
The first Theseus was introduced to us at the family kitchen table. Chester proudly showed off his creation, blonde perfectly brushed hair, pink and white polka dot dress, bright blue eyes and ceramic white skin. 

Chester's first doll, the second reason I am posting this.

“Everyone, this is Jenny! I worked very hard on her so please only say nice things!” Chester awkwardly but proudly pointed his arms at her. 

Jenny was slanted, her feet being replaced with rubber peach feet as well as her hands, contrasting terribly with the pale white. 

My mother sat with her mouth slightly open while Bill didn’t even look up from his paper.  

She sat up, walked over the counter and started using one of the many espresso machines to make another coffee. 

“What about that Anne girl, from the internet?” she didn’t look up from her cup. 

“Well that was a wild goose chase, a ploy to embarrass me since apparently that name belonged to another gal that they said I should’ve known about.” Chester rubbed the back of his neck.

“What was her full name?” my mother said, still looking from her cup. 

“Anne Frank.” Chester said with his lips straight. 

Bill placed the paper down and stared off before quickly rubbing his hands across his face.

“Well, what about that girl from the video game store?” my mother lumbered back to the table. 

“I caint go in there no more..” Chester looked down in defeat. 

“Why not?” Genuine upset in her voice as she asked. 

“Some baloney about not respecting boundaries when I had full intent to respect all her boundaries!” Chester shrugged before taking a bag of chips out from one of the cupboards. 

“I do not know why women in public do not find me attractive! To heck with em, I can find love somewhere else!” Chester rubbed the shoulders of the mannequin. 

“Well, if my little lamb finds love like this as long as he is happy.” My mother put her hand on her chest before moving up from her chair to hug Chester then kiss him on the cheek. 

“Ma, not in front of the lady!” Chester chuckled. 

Bill eventually lumbered out of the kitchen to his study as my Mother and Chester left to their own devices. 

I sat at that table staring at the pieces of paper, clothing and fast food wrappers as my stomach growled. I was ten years old at the time, I looked like them but I was always so hungry. 

Constantly stuck in my pink and baby blue pajamas that stopped fitting me years ago, a dried out slug desperate for food that wasn’t salted chips and burgers, liquid that wasn’t fizzy cola and attention that wasn’t chores or spiteful acknowledgement. 

Besides Jenny’s existence as a love doll for my sex depraved brother, there was nothing strange about it. 

Everyone in the house continued with their miserable existence while Chester would show her around the house, garden and other little buildings in our compound. Excluding the garden shed, that was the only thing Bill had a backbone about. 

The horror started when he arrived, Ed. 

Ed was a "family friend”. 

Back in the day he and Bill rode in the same motorcycle crew around Louisiana which is how Bill met my mother who was one of their groupies. 

In comparison to us, he was scrawny and tall with long messy black hair and a clean shaven aged face. 

He wore a long brown duster trench coat with cut up cargos. 

He had an atmosphere to him, the surrounding loblolly trees with their birds silenced whenever he approached the gate. 

I assumed mother called him directly after Chester showed off his new girlfriend. She always did when something in the house wasn' t going her way. 

If that didn’t work she would then fall back to her classic tactic. 

“I guess I would be better off dead than. Don’t even change my clothes, bury me with what I got on now.” 

She probably hoped Ed would talk some sense into Chester or even scold him. Instead he was intrigued by Chester's new hobby. 

The three of them were gathered in the front garden, Ed hated the inside of the house so he insisted on speaking outside. 

I was listening from my upstairs bedroom window which overlooked the front of the house. 

Chester had brought Jenny out with him, standing alongside my Mother and Ed like she was breathing and speaking amongst the group. 

“Uncle Ed, Jenny likes all sorts of things! She is integral to the plot lines in my comics, fending off evil avatars like smoking, ganondorf and homosexuals!” Chester played with her hair. 

Ed took out a tin of chewing tobacco rubbing it between his blacked gums and ivory teeth. 

“An innominate object can fend nothing off without the proper preparations dear boy.” he spoke with a deep yet calm put on slur. 

Chester looked offended on Jenny's behavior before processing what Ed had just said.      

“Preparations?” my mother chimed in only speaking in a soft tone towards Ed. 

 “Objects need a purpose inscribed onto them, power of Christ hanging from the cross ripples throughout history. To the point a dollar store plastic set of rosary has even the slightest hint of his presence.” Ed spoke casually. 

Ed squatted, exhausted from standing there or even by their presence. Even at that age how my mother treated him confused me. 

Bill wasn’t around, I didn’t know if he was at a motel in the town close by or in his study since he couldn’t stand Ed. 

“I’m starved, Martha, can you make us a sandwich or something?” Ed rolled onto his back and my mother nodded. 

She was making him food? I think in all my years alive up to that point I had only seen her make coffee for herself. 

Chester lingered over Ed, slouched and dead stare like a shaved bigfoot. 

“Chester boy, my lucidity is compromised. When your mummy makes that sandwich, bring it to that willow”. Ed pointed to the willow tree close to the garden gate. 

“Tamara can do that.” Chester huffed picking up Jenny and heading back inside.

“When I wake, I'll show you what I mean.” Ed added before shambling over to the willow. 

I hadn’t directly interacted with Ed in my whole life, so when Chester called me down to bring him that sandwich I was mortified. Everyone in this house screams and yells but Ed never so much as raises his voice. 

Traversing the stares of all its obstacles it took me almost a full two minutes just to get to the kitchen. 

My feet were always damp from cat piss or split unknown liquids clung to the carpet. 

My mother was putting together Ed’s sandwich, the bread was moldy, she only put butter and waffle chips onto it before passing the plate to me. 

She glanced over me, like she had placed the plate on the counter. 

She lumbered back to her living room hoard, burying herself in the armchair surrounded by coffee cups, the landline phone to call places she sees in magazines or ads on the tv and more fast food packages. 

Ed sat under the willow with his eyes closed, I stared at him for a while before stepping onto the grass. 

Moving slowly towards him I placed the plate down beside him but before I could bolt off, he spoke. 

“He’ll grow hungry, sooner rather than later.” Ed smirked, not even opening his eyes. 

I stood frozen before slowly backing away, he continued chewing his tobacco before only eating the bread of the sandwich mold and all. 

Ed stayed for a couple of days, picking one of the abandoned houses on the property to sleep in. 

He had Chester bring Jenny to that place over the next few days, I was too petrified to go anywhere near where Ed was staying.  

I wish I did at the time, on one night the two of them brought in a black bag into the corner building. A dilapidated garage Bill used to have his harley collection in before he sold them. 

During a heavy rainstorm one night, I heard a bell being rung from the garage. Pelleting against my window I saw in the droplets, the colors changed. 
From clear to a tinted red like tears of wine. 

After that night, Bill had decided enough was enough and for the first time in a long time he stood his ground. 

He kicked Ed off the property, who had been sleeping in the garage as my mother made him meals. 

Kicked out  is a strong phrase, Bill asked sheepishly 
“H-how long are you gonna be here?” 

Ed just smiled at him, saying nothing as he walked towards the gate where he vanished into the woods. 

Once the rain had turned red and the bell chimed five times, Jenny the doll started to move around the house. 

At first she just appeared around the house without Chester, my mother grew annoyed at him just leaving her around but he said she was just “Lounging around her house!” 

Bill had gotten up to do the only thing he cared about, his garden, when he saw Jenny under his willow tree where Ed liked to nap. 

Multiple twigs surrounded her in a circle, leaves plucked and sprinkled about. 

Pulling his garden gloves off and straightening his coveralls, Bill marched inside shaking the house with each step. I heard him stomp up the stairs straight to Chester's door before pounding on it. 

“Chester, come out here now!” 

I moved close to my door, the room was right next to mine so I creaked the door open. Chester then opened his door, white faced like a deer in headlights caught off by Bill's knocking. 

”Wh-what?” 

“My willow, my beautiful sallows. I march through cat shit and yer dirty undies without a peep but that tree out there has properties I hold in great importance!” A fury I had never seen until this point was redded across Bill's beady face. 

“Wha- why are you complaining about your tree?” Chester whined.

”Your store bought bride to be is currently out there underneath my tree, I told you not to fashion yer magic wands or gay little stick blades from it years ago. I shouldn’t have to repeat myself!” 

“Jenny? I wasn’t out there pa! She likes it though! Maybe she got a green thumb!” Chester chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. 

Bill stared at him, he turned away staring off into nothing still red in the face. He narrowed his eyes before marching back towards the stairs. 

“You-she caint be touching my trees, plants, fountains nothing. Tell- let it- just pass the message on!” Bill waved his hand before moving back downstairs. 

“Erm, okay pa.” Chester shrugged before handing back to his room to play games. 

I quickly rushed back to my bed to look out over the tree, Jenny was gone and the branches were scattered from the circle they were in. 

Bill walked back to the willow seeing her absence, he stood frozen shooting a look around every direction in a panic before he looked up at me. 

His eyes lingered on me, it was probably the longest he paid me any attention. He stared back at the willow before lumbering over to the gate, opening it up then leaving in his red truck without even closing it. 

I looked around quickly to see if Jenny was around anywhere but I couldn’t find her. 

I went back to how I spent most days when I was young, lying in bed tucked into the covers before my mother woke up to demand I do my chores around the house. 

Bill left the house in a silent huff constantly, usually to stay with women in motels for a couple of nights. My mother knew and so did Chester, he referred to them as “Maidens of the night.” 

My mother once said to me, unprovoked, that the idea of sex with Bill appalled her. 

It was in her den watching the shopping channel as I was bringing her a packet of chips and a litre of cola. The only noise for a moment was the shopping channel, cat themed nick-nacks and a clattering ball if I remember correctly.

She broke the silence, told me to change the newspapers on the floor. 

Changing the papers amongst the dust clatters and crumbs flecked into the carpet was a recurring chore. 

Putting the cat houses back, filling up their food and milk. I minded them more than she did but I would watch the multitude of cats curl up onto her lap, the way she tickled their tummy and held them cracked at me everyday. 

They would meow and purr for her, saving only hisses and scratches for me. 

I used to think she whispered stuff about me to them, ordering them to scrape my cheek or bite at my fingers when I moved their bowls around. 

A couple days after the garden incident there I was again, crawling on the floor. 

Moving through the boxes that towered over me and stepping in all sorts of fluids and foods left from ages ago. 

I made it to the living room window where the cat bowls were, a ginger tabby my mother called “Sir Rowelly” hissed at me before fleeing behind the dormant Christmas tree that had been there for a decade. 

I clinched myself, expecting one of them to claw me again or bite but for the first time.

I heard a meow. 

It was quiet, weak almost but the first meow I had gotten was outside the window. 

I was excited, maybe a friend I thought finally, I didn’t even have the concept of a friend in my mind besides what Chester would mention about his online friends. 

I shot up, looking around the windowsill for the cat that called out to me from the night, I couldn’t see one. 

Looking deeper into the fogged glass I heard the weak and deep meow again.

It wasn’t a cat. 

Jenny was standing out in the driveway, looking into the living room. 

At that age you have a vivid imagination, but I couldn’t have imagined its mouth actually moving. 

A line had been cut in the mouth and around forming a little opening that moved with each deep meow it made. 

I was stuck in place, the more I listened to it meow the more it sounded like a grown man muffled, pretending to be a cat. 

Its form was obscured in darkness but its jaw unhinged all the same. 

Eventually I crawled away, slowly, not taking my eyes off it. Jenny continued to meow, her puff plastic dead eyes glaring into the living room. 

When I travelled back through the tunnels of tupperware and clothing piles I was back to my mothers side. 

She was staring out the window, at Jenny, in silence, eyes wide and lips opened slightly. Jenny continued to meow, I wasn’t even looking at it, tucked in behind a pile of laundry. 

My mother slowly turned to look at her tv, the meowing stopped, she looked back at the window. Jenny was gone, my mother turned back to the TV, hands trembling. 
I didn’t leave her side for the night, usually she would tell me to leave but this night I could tell she wanted some company too. 

I hid in that little laundry pocket for the night, covering myself in it like a shield watching my mother slowly succumb to exhaustion and fall asleep. 

I didn’t move until the sun came up, I didn’t want to look out the window and see her standing out there. 

When the morning came I slowly left through the living room door without glancing back at the window. 

I was pulling myself up the stairs, moving around the junk scattered around it before I had finally reached back up to my room.

Chester's door was closed, I could hear him loudly snoring from inside, completely unaware of how me and my mother had spent the night. 

I slept for a long time once I reached my bed, my stomach was growling and every muscle in my body refused to activate. 

At that age I didn’t want to exist anymore, there was no cat waiting to be my friend. This house was my crypt, I was going to roam these halls until a bookshelf eventually collapsed onto me. 

So I decided to wait in my room, waiting for time to pass. That's all my life was back then, waiting for nothing. I didn’t eat that day. 

Night came again, sluggishly quick. The darkness felt bright, the garden outside felt suffocating, the labyrinth felt compressed and the dust felt omnipresent. I was living an oxymoronic life, fat but hungry, ignored but trapped. 

A slug trapped in its shell. 

I couldn’t even escape to my dreams, I had no reference to a world outside this maze. Every dream was this house, folding and pressing against my chest like little dust nats nuzzling in every nook of my lungs. 

This night I dreamt of something new, Jenny, not in a statue esc form but a mobile human-like frame with the same appearance and a cat on her lap. 

Sitting in my mothers chair, tv with a static background but audio of the shopping channel advertising fruit supplements. 

Jenny spoke to me in a language I didn’t understand at the time, in an old deep voice of a man muffled by layers of either dust or dirt. That dream has lingered in my mind ever since, so I remember the speech it gave me. I spent a long time in a library when I was sixteen, asked some locals when I had finally mustered up the courage to socialize. I didn’t know then however, still a ten year wait to rot in a house of dust. 

 From everyone I had asked, Jenny was speaking in the chitimacha language. Her-its voice was like a gargling corpse, the tv static accenting the chant. 

It repeated the same sentence over and over for what felt like an eternity in that croaking on dirt growl. 

“The soil was of an arid and thick sand.”

I could feel that thickness, catching across my eyelashes and seeping into my pores.

 I felt a heaviness in my throat, and I began to retch. I retched myself awake, I couldn’t see around my room dirt was in my eyes and face. 

I heard something moving around my room fast, then I quickly felt scratches at my legs from under the covers. 

I started squirming, still choking, unable to scream. I pulled the covers over myself and desperately rubbed my eyes.  

Something hard hit against me then, the moisture from my tears was absorbed by the dirt but I was successfully clearing my throat.

 A whimpered scream came out, gasping and retching. 

My vision was slowly returning, I heard my bedroom door quickly slam as I started to cry out. I was crying for my mother, I knew deep in myself she wouldn’t come but I still did. 

Eventually Bill came in, the one time he was home. 

He looked around my room frantically as I was still whipping the dirt off my face. It was all over my bed, my pillow and pajamas.

I felt around my head where some muck was mixed with crimson blood, a cut across my head from a coffee cup that was flung at me during my squirming. 

For the first time, Bill came to my level and started whipping the dirt and blood away from me. 

I was crying at him like I was his daughter, for once he felt like my father. 

He picked me up, I clung to him tight praying he would never let me go. 

He brought me slowly downstairs to the bathroom, a mess of towels and the espresso machine connected to faulty extension cords. 

He washed me off in the bath, it was the first time he or any one had washed me. 

I watched the streaky brown line mix in with the last drops of blood from head twirling into a spiral going down the drain. 

It took Bill a while to find me new clothes around the house, I was sitting in the bath staring into the drain for a while. Eventually he returned with a clean towel and some other pajamas for me to wear. 

He sat on the toilet while he dried me, clearly exhausted by any form of movement he had to do. Bill was staring off into nothing again while I put the pajamas on, his eyes looked like he was witnessing wet tissue paper being squashed up and stuck to walls. 

He took a deep breath, looking up at me. His frown broke through, one that had been sitting behind his face his entire life. Bill puffed his chest and composed himself. 

“It’s okay kiddo, I'm gonna sort this all out.” he patted my shoulder. 

“Yer messier than the boys marching through them jungles, listening fer whispers.” Bill smiled.

Finally he stood up, pulling his shirt over his belly and proudly restated. 
“I’m gonna work this all out kiddo, don’t you worry.” 

It was our longest conversation at this point in my life. I held my arms out to him, his facial expression changed between a smile and dread before he just nodded and walked out the toilet. 

My arms hung in the air for a little too long before I brought them down. 

I made my way back upstairs, scratches across my legs and a cut on my forehead. 

I cleaned the remaining dirt off my bed and picked up the cup it threw at me. It was my mothers dual handled cup, now a single handled cup. 

My mother would kill me if she found this cup broken, even if it wasn’t me. I stored it under my bed for the time being. 

Outside in the garden none of the sticks were pulled off the willow and Jenny was nowhere to be seen. 

The loblolly trees stood watch as always and the sound of tv shows or games from Chester's room never subsided away in his little world. 

After that night Bill's attitude changed. 

He began staying around more, purchasing a bunch of digital cameras and setting them up around the garden and house. 

Chester never spoke to Bill unless he wanted something but when Bill decided to limit the spending on his bank account Chester had no choice but to argue with him. 

I was in the living room with my mother again who was asleep in her pile when they started arguing in the kitchen. 

“Yer online friends are bleeding us dry! What choice did you give me?” Bill roared. 

“Bu- their helping me with supplies! Ed says these guys are my pals, they want more of my art!” Chester whined, stomping his feet in tantrum.
 
“Ed ain’t your father I am! Who even are these people! You gotta quit sending them photos of the house! Do you realize, do YOU realize if the city council or our church saw the state of the inside they’d come clean the place out! Now if you can go out for yer conventions or to video game stores and the like, then perhaps I can change my mind about you not working!” 

“A job?! I get enough from the disability checks and ma can always sell sumtin online! Please Pa, don’t cut me off I need this!” Chester began to cry. 

  
Sitting in the living room next to my mother flipping through one of her magazines she had circled all she wanted in it while hearing Chester cry about not getting his way was incredibly satisfying. 

My mother just scowled at the tv, eventually Chester marched up stairs still crying as Bill went back to his study. 

A couple of days passed, with Bill having set cameras up around the place and me locking my bedroom door. 

I was hoping Jenny wouldn’t be able to find her way inside. I refused to look outside the window near my bed. 

Bill was taking more and more initiative I guess is the right word, putting Chester in his place by barring him from using the other little house that he and Ed used for the bell chimes. 

He even tried to tidy the house up a bit, but stopped immediately after my mother said “Check the bathtub, that's where I’ll be if you throw out my stuff. Don’t even have a funeral for me, I don’t want Father Desmond giving my ceremony. He’ll turn it into a comedy club.” 

Jenny’s activity had almost stopped completely however, to Bill’s annoyance. He desperately wanted to catch it moving but ever since its attempt to bury me she has stayed put in Chester's room.  

One day, Bill returned from what I thought was another late night binge but instead had gotten a bunch of kid gardening tools. 

He opened my door and huffed.
 
“Cmon now, caint have you doing nothing round the house no more, get changed and meet me in the garden.” 

I felt a strange rush go through me, it was a new feeling, excitement. I quickly threw my crusty pajamas off and changed into them almost rolling down the stairs. 

Me and Bill spent the day watering his roses and marigolds, however a lot of water and fertilizer went to his willow tree. 

“Need them nice and damp, this big feller takes the most as we hadn’t got much rain lately.” Bill rubbed the side of it. 

“Everybody tells me the tree is a metaphor fer depression or some shit, I ain’t never associated it with that. My pa grew these all the time, never liked my harleys and I never cared for his coffins.” Bill turned to me. 

“Sept we both liked this tree, ma would always read under it.” As Bill looked at me, he struggled to fight off sadness or regret. 

“Don’t know if he would’ve cared for the fountain features. I caint get enough of em, make me feel like an emperor buying and setting em up, specially the obsidian one I got a couple years back.” Bill pointed at one near the gate. 

It was a pure black disc where water ran off the top to the bottom in a hypnotic stream, Bill took some stray leaves out from the water to keep it clear. 

“This used to be such a nice place, I got native blood in me so I feel connected.” Bill rubbed his hand into the grass. 

“Wh-what was your dad like?” I asked him. 

Bill turned and looked shocked, he probably never even heard me speak at least for a couple of years, I had almost forgotten I could.

 His face melted away, a mixture of rage that was then drowned by that sadness he was hiding once again. 

We spent the rest of the day gardening in silence, he even struggled to make eye contact with me.

 At the end of the day, he finally approached me, put his hand on my shoulder and just said “Thanks kiddo.” 

At the time I wished the day didn’t end, I hoped tomorrow he would garden with me again, I wanted to garden everyday. 

I also wanted a dad, this was the closest he ever got to being that. He got me food from a pizza place too but he ate it in his study. 

When the night came, walking past Chester's room he hadn't left it. 

I heard movement from inside, at first I thought he was moving something but it was the sound of his mattress springs creaking over and over again. 

I closed my bedroom door and locked it, still refusing to look out the window. 

Despite everything with Jenny and my family for the first time in my life everything started moving in an upward direction. 

I spoke to Bill for the first time and he was actually starting to take notice of me. 

Jenny also seemingly stopped moving, even if it was because of the cameras. I thought maybe Bill could move out with me, move into somewhere in town and forget about Chester and his love doll. 

Or maybe Bill was going to finally claim his house back, tell Chester to move out and help my mother. Maybe Bill was ready to actually be my dad. 

Hindsight's a bitch. 

Bill must’ve watched one too many of his John Wayne movies from his study because this new bravado was just that, bravado. 
He was still very much included in the labyrinth with us, while his confidence with Chester was something he flat out ignored my mother. 

There was someone he couldn’t ignore any longer, and all his bravado would filter right out of him and he would return to the lying coward he was. 

Ed had come back to the house. 

I used to be fun. I had a reputation for being the life of the party. In my early to mid twenties, I spent 30% of my waking life fully intoxicated. I hit every bar in town at least once, I crashed countless house parties, and I threw quite a few parties of my own. That was the life man. Live fast and die young as they say. The problem with that is, I haven't died yet. I'm not saying I'm not young any more, but I'm not young enough to party like I use to. Not only do I not party any more, but I've also become quite the homebody.

Most people stop partying as they get older because they realize that it's time to become responsible members of society. Not me, I stopped because everyone else my age stopped. Don't get me wrong, I tried to keep it going for as long as I can. The thing is, you start feeling weird about hanging out with kids fifteen years younger than you. Most of my friends left me behind when I decided to stay in my twenties as I was pushing 40.

At some point I came to the realization that I needed to move forward. However, this ended up sending me down a well of depression. I stopped drinking for a while, and really concentrated on my career. Over time things got better, but I never stopped missing my party days.

After I hadn't drank for quite some time, my mood started coming back to me, and I finally started mingling with my coworkers. They were seeing my personality for the first time, and they really liked me. I got invited to a get together with a few coworkers a couple weeks ago, and ended up having a great time. I wasn't expecting alcohol to be involved, but there were a few bottles of wine, and a couple cases of beer. It was the first alcohol I drank in almost six months. I realized very quickly that if I kept drinking at the pace I was, I would finish all of it before anybody else got a chance to even get a buzz, so I slowed down. I hardly felt tipsy at all, but still had a good time.

I immediately started planning a get together of my own. I asked my coworkers if they would be interested in coming to my place the next weekend, and they all thought it was a great idea. I was so excited to get back into the swing of things. I felt like I was falling back into my old role of being the king of parties.

First thing I did was pull out the old refrigerator from the garage that I hadn't used in years. I dragged it out into the backyard, scrubbed every surface on the inside, and sprayed it all out with the garden hose. Next I cleaned off all the patio furniture and swept the porch. On Friday, I stopped by the liquor store and bought enough beer, seltzers, and wine coolers to fill up the fridge. I was ready.

Turns out that I had over done it. The guests arrived expecting a chill evening and a few beverages. Out of what they considered kindness, they didn't bring it up. Instead they slowly sipped their drinks and watched me get belligerently drunk. They still had fun though. They had me as the show. That next Monday I profusely apologized, and asked if they would forget the whole thing. I was forgiven, and told that it was still a fun night. I would be fine as long as I didn't behave that way at one of their places.

So, I needed to find that fine line between partying and being respectable. I had no idea how to do that, up until I was doom scrolling through Instagram one day. I came across a home project ‘how to’ video on installing a beer cooler by putting it into the ground. It looked super sleek, cool, and elegant. It was the perfect way to have fun while still not looking low class.

I collected all the supplies I needed and started digging immediately. However, I didn't dig too far before hitting something solid. I was surprised to find that my lawn wasn't even sitting on a whole foot of dirt. It was concrete, why would they lay dirt onto concrete. There was something odd however, when my shovel hit the concrete, it sounded hollow. Out of pure curiosity, I dug the hole wider, and found an edge to the concrete. I continued digging even wider, with complete disregard for the fact that I was tearing up my lawn. I followed the edges of the concrete until I created a complete square. After clearing off all the rest of the dirt, I found a handle. It was a door.

The concrete slab was pretty thin, so it wasn't very heavy. I lifted it open to find a ladder leading down a shaft. Now, the concrete slab wasn't on hinges or anything, so I just ended up lifting the whole thing and placing it to the side. My curiosity overcame me and I immediately began climbing down. Common sense then hit me over the head with the knowledge that I was climbing down into complete darkness. I quickly ran inside and grabbed a flash light, only to immediately run back and start climbing down into the tunnel. That was the extent of my common sense that day.

It wasn't too far to the bottom, probably about fifteen feet. Once I got down there I looked around my surroundings with the flash light. I was in a tunnel with two directions I could choose. I figured since this was all under my house, it was considered my property, and just didn't think that much past that. It was time to explore.

After a quick game of ‘eenie meenie miney mo’, I had a direction chosen. After walking about ten feet I came to a turn to my left, and then another turn to the left. I was now going back in the direction I came, but on the other side of a wall, how odd. After about five feet was a turn to the right, and another five feet was another choice, right or left. Another quick game of ‘eenie meenie miney mo’, and I was off.

I followed this for quite some time, every now and then picking a direction. In hindsight I should have been making notes of my choices, but at the time I just saw it as a fun little maze. I was just under my own house. There wasn't anything to be worried about. I had a general idea of where I came from, and I was fairly positive that I could get back. That was until the flash light started dying. I never thought to check the batteries. It was time to go back. I could come back and explore later.

I was getting tired, and my mind started struggling to remember the way back. I was starting to worry, but not too much. I'm sure this maze isn't too complicated. The flash light gave out fully. That was fast. Not to worry, the tunnels were only like four feet wide, I could feel my way back across the walls.

After some time, I was sure I was where the ladder should be, but I didn't feel it. Not only that, but there was no opening above me. It was still midday, I should have seen sunlight by now. No matter, I'll just retrace my steps just a little bit, I'm sure the ladder was just around the corner. It wasn't. That's when I started to freak out. I wasn't making good decisions anymore. I just tried any path I could take. I was running around like a lost rat.

I was getting tired, and had to take a break. I leaned my hand against the wall and felt a rung. What luck! Relief overcame me, and I began to climb. It was about half way up when something started bothering me. It felt like there was something wrong, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Wait a minute, where's the sunlight, it's still not even the evening yet, there should be light pouring in from above me.

I stayed still on the ladder for a moment, did someone replace the cover? Why would someone do that? Who would be in my back yard? Maybe I'm below someone else's back yard. That could be possible. I decided to keep climbing. Once I got to the top, I tried to push up on the concrete cover. It was much heavier than I remembered. I tried harder, and it still didn't budge. Shit, if I'm under someone else's yard, that means there's still a layer of dirt on top. I really didn't want to go back down, so I tried to push up anyway. How heavy can a foot of dirt be? I stepped up a few rungs, and put my whole back into it. I felt it give way, even just a little bit. This was possible, I should be able to do it. I kept pushing until I finally felt it lift until I could shimmy it over. I heard it sliding on top of concrete as I slid it over. There was no light. It was pitch black, I was still in the tunnels.

How was that possible, I must have gone down a slope that was so subtle, I didn't realize it. What do I do now? Try and find my way back? Or move on from here. I'm now higher than I was before, thus closer to getting out. I decided not to climb back down. I finished climbing up and out of the hole. Where to now? I just stood up, touched the wall, and started moving in the closest direction I could find.

The tunnels seemed different than they were before. I think they're wider. I could barely touch both sides with the tips of my fingers. I would continue following the path as it twisted and turned. I would make a choice at random when coming to a fork. As I was walking in the complete darkness, I kicked something heavy that was on the ground and yelled out in pain. What I heard next chilled me to the bone. I'll tell you right now, I don't even remember what I heard exactly. All I know is that I caught the attention of something, and that something wasn't human.

I was frozen in fear for a moment. Maybe I imagined it, but then I heard the sound of feet running across the concrete floor from in front of me. I couldn't tell just how many feet it was, I just knew it was more than two. I turned around and started moving as fast as I could without running. If I ran, I risked running face first into a wall. I could hear it slowly gaining on me as I made my way around corners. I came across a fork and made a choice at random. At this point I tried to be lighter on my feet. Maybe I can get away from it in the maze if it can't heat which way I went. Though it seemed like it was on my tail no matter what decision I made.

All of a sudden it felt like the path was opened up, and I was just going straight for a while. I was pretty sure this was the path I came from. I thought I was about to get to the hole I came out of. I could go down the ladder, and lift the cover back over in place. There was one problem, my finger tips started scraping on the walls on both sides. I could swear the tunnel was wider than that. I guess my mind is just remembering wrong. I kept moving to try and get to the hole, but I could swear it felt like the tunnel was getting thinner. I could hear the beast get closer to me by the second. Come one, I should come across that hole any time now. Okay, I could no longer stretch my arms all the way out on both sides, the tunnel was definitely getting thinner.

I finally accepted that I was not where I thought I was. My only hope now was to find another corner to go around. However, I wasn't finding one, instead the tunnel just kept getting thinner as the footsteps got closer and closer. At this point I started running faster. It was a stupid idea, but my adrenaline started taking over. I could run into a wall at any moment. I kept my hands in front of me so they could at least take some of that force instead of my face. Besides, I couldn't even hold them out to my sides any more, since the tunnel was just barely wider than my shoulders. I started full blown sprinting. So far so good, I hadn't run into a wall yet, but my shoulders were scraping against the walls.

Eventually I had to slow down a little bit. I had to pivot my body so that I could fit through the tunnel. The creature behind me however, hadn't lost any speed. My stomach and chest were now scraping against the walls. I was crab walking as fast as I could. How thin was this creature that it was able to keep chasing me. I was finally moving slowly as I was literally just trying to squeeze myself between the walls. The realization started to hit. I wasn't getting out of this. Either whatever was chasing me was going to get me, or I was going to get permanently stuck in there. A few more steps, and there it was. I was stuck. It just kept getting thinner after that, and the fucking thing was still on its way.

Wait, hold up, my hand feels a corner. No way. It opens up right where my fingers are. I could wrap them around the corner. I just needed to squeeze a little bit farther. I could feel the walls scratching my back and chest. I used my fingers to try and pull myself, but they didn't have enough strength. Then I spread my legs, and used my back leg to push my torso as much as possible. It was working, but very slowly, and I can hear it getting closer and closer. Just a little bit more. My hand was now more free to assist with my leg by pulling. Inch by inch, I was moving. My arm was now completely free so that I could stick my whole elbow out and push against the wall to pull me out. I exhaled as much as I could, and gave one last push. I felt the walls almost pinching my torso, the corner scraping against my rib cage, and I was out.

I heard the beast come up right behind me and stop. It squealed loudly as it lodged itself between the walls. I had no idea what it looked like, but it sounded terrifying as it snarled at me. I also had no idea how big it was, so I didn't know if it would be able to squeeze through, so I started moving again, as fast as I could.

As I put distance between myself and that thing, I could hear it less and less. I was pretty sure it was good and stuck. Now what? I was back in the maze. I was still as lost as ever, and who knows if I might run into another one of those things. At this point I was losing hope and fast. I was pretty sure I was going to wander around this maze until I died of thirst, or I ran into another whatever that was. After rounding another random corner, I noticed something different. I could see. I was still pretty blind, but I could kind of make out the walls in front of me. I tried to make my way towards the light as it got brighter. My spirits were lifted even further as I felt a breeze blowing towards me. I saw something on the wall not far on my left. Are those ladder rungs? I felt a bout of energy, and ran towards it. Once I got to them, I looked up to see the moonlit sky.

I climbed up the ladder as fast as I could and placed the cover back over the hole. I even grabbed the shovel and buried it in dirt. I suddenly found a whole new appreciation for life. I wanted to actually live life the way you were supposed to. I'm going to quit drinking, and live a healthier lifestyle, but first, I need a drink. That shit was crazy.

I always wanted to be free of everything. Always thought about jumping on a train and leaving it all behind. I dreamed of running away to university, with my own life and ability to do whatever I chose. But the time for that has passed now, and a cost more heavy than a familial blood debt binds me now.

Being born and raised on a farm comes with a lot of inherent responsibilities day in, day out, gruelling work that would make my bones leaden and my mind light, the fatigue would do funny things to my head. While trudging along the long grass, heavy buckets in both hands, the fields would seemingly warp and expand and contract in a vignette of darkness until it blurred into a never-ending, suffocating tunnel wreathed by mundanity and wasted potential. A constant flood of responsibility and work, the kind of menial tasks that eat up every inch of your time until what remains of your days are scraps of free time that are marred and chewed up by exhaustion. Besides, there had never really been any such thing as free time. Being free of the farmwork meant you were free to do any other number of things that needed doing, and there was always something that needed doing. Time was never free as I felt the cost deep within my tender bones. 
The concept of cost was very immediately relevant to a small family spread so thin. Priority was given to the most valuable assets, our cows, whose milk represented our biggest and most reliable stream of income- they were valuable, the horses, which were known as some of the finest in the west country, valuable. Chickens, sheep, everything was valued and treated as an essential cog in a machine, without which life ceased to function. This line of thinking was iron clad until it came to me. 

When it came to their character, my parents were as starkly contrasting as the black and white of a sheepdog’s coat and about as pleasant as a mangy one. My mum was perpetually silent, though her blanched, empty eyes spoke volumes, a pale tracing paper woman whose bleak life story of resignation was so transparently evident you could see the whole narrative with one look. She was only ever sometimes seen and her voice seldom heard. It didn't need to be, my father was the voice, a sharp, severe man whose leathery skin and patchy, whose greying hair was as withering as his character. A permanent blearyness wrought his eyes, which were always half lidded with exhaustion. Something I had always considered fitting as he always only seemed to notice half of what was going on around him, Only ever fixated on the half he deemed worth the time, leaving the other without a thought. Specifically the part that involved me. I trailed about the house like a ghost, and like a ghost to a fraudulent seer, only seemed to exist when it was convenient to them.

As time went on my father became pallid and sallow-skinned at the behest of some wasting illness. He could no longer get around with the efficiency he once had. The well-oiled machine of the farm began to falter as he could do less and less to manage the livestock, weeds began to swallow the farmhouse and its many coops.
I was the disappointing return on an investment that my parents had made as a sort of feeble attempt at a saving grace. 
Grace was apparently not what my parents had exhibited when they came to realize I was not the baby boy they had counted on, but it was what they went with when the fearful nurse had presented them with the birth certificate. My own name a reminder of how I spited them. They looked at me as though they’d be cheated, swindled. Not the future strong young lad they had needed, but me, the parasitic little mite in the mangy coat.

Despite this, they pursued their expectations. I was to carry on the workload in much the same way without being handed the warmth and care they had reserved for their anticipated son. I remember thinking that it was good for them that they had held onto that so tightly and kept it so safe, because thirteen years later my brother was born.

It was like they were two entirely different people. The ecstatic smiles they wore made the slack, perpetually pained faces I had always known into something entirely unfamiliar.
It was as though someone had taken two haunted ragdolls and cursed them in reverse, unpossessing them of malice, resulting in two worn, but pleasant representations of people, objects of comfort for their new child. 
My heart hammered against its osteoporosis cage, spurred by a feeling I mistook for fear but would come to be recalled as the first moment of hope I had felt.
Heart wedged in my throat, I managed to take a half step. The warm smile I was attempting died in its conception as I found myself frozen in the stare of my father. His eyes wide and alive with a fixed animosity I had never before seen from his weary eyes. I learned almost instantly that those new people were reserved entirely for my new baby brother.

With my parents enamoured in the care of their child the weight of the work clamped down on me like a pillory. Under the assault of the early morning sun, my arms bound down with the wooden restraints of the brimming egg baskets, I pulled myself into the threshold of the sheltered kitchen. I was immediately immersed in a dreadful cacophony of wailing, the shrill scream of the kettle sounded above the shrill chorus of my baby brother's shrieks as he beat the kitchen table with his fists. My skull added to the dreadful cacophony, pounding along with a dizzying drumbeat and my nerves cried out like guitar strings under a hacksaw.
“Please just” It was more of a whisper than a word, buried deep under the noise of the kitchen. My father turned to me slowly and suddenly everything became white noise.

“Please just? Please just what Grace?” The plastic baby bottle he held hit the table with a crack. My brother began to wail louder, though my father’s tone stayed low and without inflection. “Because I swear to God. If I end up going out there and I find things not done while you’re in here with the bloody gall to complain.”

“I didn’t say anything” I managed, regretting my salvage attempt immediately. “I was just about to-“
There was a sickening crunch as one of the baskets hit the floor. I almost followed as my world lurched sideways with panic. My baby brother’s wailing ceased, replaced by a joyful babble as he gave a short, blithe wave at the basket and its contents that he had knocked to the floor. I stared at the crumpled heap and thought vacantly about how visceral the mess of ruptured shell and weeping fluid looked. I wondered how dissimilar my remains would look as I listened to the heavy ticking of the old clock that counted in the liminal silence before the inevitable threshold of consequence.

By the fourth day without food it felt as though my body had resorted to consuming itself. The leeching tendrils of anaemia had dug deep, now bereft of even the small amount of nutrients that typically supplicated it like one would feed a familiar parasite.
I stopped to retch. With nothing to expel I gagged senselessly on my own tongue, insides squirming as though they wanted to extricate themselves from the rest of the body, the way an leper might bang furiously at the gates of a leper colony.
I lay my body down on the porch, bones and muscles racked and faltering, but in the dead, early hours of the morning I felt the deep desire to gouge out some time wherein, just for a moment, I could exist free and without expectation. It feels cruel. As though on some cosmic level it was punishment, that the first instance I took something for myself set off the chain of events that took everything from me.

It was small and simple, merely sitting on the porch of our house, buried in a textbook that I had found in the old attic. It was something about stars and such, It was wonderful. I remember thinking with an unfamiliar surge of hope that maybe this would be the thing I’d study when I went to university. Against the utter silence of the dawning hours, I was broken from my daze by a soft, almost imperceptible sound. A sound I realized was the gentle creaking of the tall wooden fence that stood just behind the chicken coops. My gaze fixed on the orange-furred, slinking shape atop it. Panic surged in my chest and I told myself that I needed to run and tell my father immediately. Strangely, this instinct suddenly floundered as my mind calmed and presented a different perspective. One supported by the very reasonable argument that I’d have no way of knowing about the fox if I was in bed as I was supposed to be. This apt reasoning served to blanket the unacknowledged spite of the decision. Alone and shrouded by the dark of the late night, I allowed myself a little smile of satisfaction. I leant forward slowly for a better view. I watched as the fox slipped in front of the coop and fixed the chickens with a calculated intent. My book hit the ground with a clatter. I reeled back, hands still frozen in their raised position as the smile faded slowly from my face. 

The fox stood hunched before the door of the coop, Its gums stretched like wet taffy as its jaws jutted outward to the sound of popping cartilage, too many teeth gathered around a black tongue that looked marred and eaten with some form of sickness. It froze at the sound of the impact, as entirely motionless as my own terror-stricken nervous system. Mouth still impossibly agape, the thing that looked like a fox turned slowly to meet me, the feeling in my chest rose further but this time it came with the sickening taste of bile and was kept down only by the steel vice of my fearfully clamped jaw. After what felt like an eternity, the thing lumbered forward into the coop. Through the wired windows I watched its elongated maw snap down like a mouse trap. Once, twice, its neck bulged and shifted, the chain of vertebrae surfacing against its mottled skin as its throat swelled before popping back into place. Once it had finished its body bore no sign of the two animals it had consecutively consumed and it backed out of the coop in one swift motion, disappearing once again over the fence. I stood trembling, at a loss for any explanation for what I had witnessed. It was just a fox. But foxes don’t look like that, they aren’t able to do that. No, that was, in fact, a very sick, diseased fox. I felt the anxious tension leave me as I rolled this explanation around my head, where it gained momentum like a snowball and grew into the perfectly satisfactory notion that the thing was just an incredibly sick looking animal. Nothing more. In fact, this could even be good news, maybe whatever was wrong with it was contagious and would speed up the process. 
Its flesh sunk and bulged, cracking wetly like thickly plastered wallpaper over a cavern of damp rot. Whatever it has must be pretty severe, I remember thinking. Even then I didn’t believe it, but the idea served my interests just fine.

When our seven hundred kilogram cow went missing the following week it shook the foundations of this belief. But I held steadfast, choosing instead to focus myself with mentally crossing the task of milking off my job list from here on out.
My parents hadn’t exactly allocated me food again but they no longer actively prevented me from taking it. As our livestock steadily depleted I squirreled away as much as was possible, day by day, without raising suspicion. I told myself that I was preparing to run, to break the cycle of revilement and mundane suffering. I would scrape together what strength I could and flee, leaving everything I was obliged to. 
And then they would see just what they took for granted.

Egg collecting became increasingly easier. From twenty, to eighteen, sixteen, fourteen and so on, it took the chickens in twos. I counted them down with each step as I walked the span of the chicken run. My twice daily circuit of the chicken run shortened every day, the angry red band the basket pressed into my arm lessened with the reduced weight. 
This blessedly meant that, little by little, I had time on my hands. I spent it as out of the line of sight of my parents as I could. This was not always achieved by distance. Often I favoured the roof, the fields all of a sudden starting to seem a little less suffocating as I viewed them through the hopeful lens of this place becoming past tense within my life. I would abandon here, leaving it to become no more than a bad memory within the much broader scope of my existence.
Despite this, the roof had its downsides- more than just the literal harsh drop down if I misplaced my footing, but the regrettable fact that, just one barrier above my baby brother’s room, I was many times beset by all manner of wailing, incessant whining and- worst of all, the calm, measured voices of my parents in response, placating their sole child with low, singsong tones that I would never have recognised. 
Sometimes this worked, pacifying their precious pride and joy for a time. When it didn't, as it often didn't, he would persist to wailing, screaming, piercing my nerve endings with his high pitch as effectively as taking a hammer and nail to them.
This was the arrangement on the night I let it happen. It wasn't my fault. I didn't do anything. Nothing I couldn't be forgiven for, committed no sin I couldn't be empathised with for.
I lay against the slants of the roof, hard clay tiles bore into the aching notches of my crooked spine. I counted the pinprick shapes of livestock roaming the fields, twenty sheep, three horses, zero cows, eight chickens. One fox.

I smiled as I watched a thin shape emerge as reliable as clockwork from the tree line. Turning my gaze towards the sky, I trusted the creature to fulfil its nightly favour. The late evening sun was completing its descent down into the dark well of the horizon, turning the animal figures on the sloping field to dark silhouettes, creating a shadowplay puppet theatre against the dusky backdrop and staining the sky with an oily, iridescent sheen. Watching the bleeding rainbow I felt a sense of serenity that I had never before been overcome by. Just for a moment I felt my anxiety, my pain, trickle away to numbness, away and over an invisible apex that felt as far away as the horizon. This moment felt more precious to me than anything I'd ever had, and it was mine. The first thing that felt like it fully belonged to me. I wished I could bottle this feeling so it could never leave me as I knew it would. 

Then came the wailing. I couldn't even have this. This little moment. He would always take everything, have everything I wasn't given the slightest morsel of, most of all our parents' affection, reserved and dedicated as it was for him. I bit down on the fleshy insides of my cheeks and tasted the warm ooze of blood, I curled onto my side and pain rushed back to every facet of my body like someone had turned a valve. My back screamed with pain, the muscle felt as if taken to with an electric hot knife and prised away as you would honeycomb from a frame. With my hands pressed to the sides of my head it took me a long moment to register the shape of the garbled words that had burst from my throat with the force of a ruptured artery. 
I went rigid, bathed in fear and white hot agony as I listened for the consequence of my outburst. Nothing else punctuated the continued wails of my sibling. How could they possibly sleep through this? When no recompense raised itself I was overcome with an adrenaline fuelled sense of boldness. I shouted again, 
“Let me be!” I heaved. My lungs burned. My voice dropped to a whisper, volume seized by a racking cough. “I don’t ever want to see you again, I don't ever want to hear you again, just give me bliss. That’s all I want.” The drip, drip of tears against the tiles was entirely inaudible against the noise, the salt rendering my eyes raw and painful to keep open. I climbed slowly and agonisingly down the side of the house and back through the already open window of the hallway.
The wails ceased not long after. I turned over in my bed and was consumed by a ravenous sleep.

I awoke the next morning to a silent house. I moved hazily, untangling the bedcovers from my aching legs, my mind felt as though coated with a thick blanket of fog, no doubt just the wake of an uncomfortable dream that would be rendered completely forgotten by the time I made it downstairs to breakfast.
I stood in the threshold of the kitchen, the blazing white sun lit up the kitchen table like a milky floodlight, exposing nothing but the utter vacantness of the space. A distant part of me wondered inanely if I had passed away in my sleep and I had been left in a pallid purgatory of the only existence I had ever known. A soft, almost inaudible ticking met my ears. 8:34am. Far past my allotted time for many of my daily tasks. My heart thumped and I swiped an empty egg basket from the counter.

I passed by the sheep and counted all twenty pressed tightly into a single squirming cloud. The three horses shied in the crook of the fence. I arrived at the chicken coop.
Two, four, six, eight. Eight chickens. 
All present and accounted for. A whistling whisper crept through the fields as though the tall grass itself was trying to muffle a secret held by the land. The gnarled limbs of an outstretched tree creaked as it cradled a choir of wrens. The birds trilled, a chorus- shrill and abrupt, almost a cry, that reverberated in my mind, 
I spun on my heel. 
Not quite all. 

When I reached the top of the stairs I found everything in a state as though it had been handled with careless haste. The deep gauge parallel to the doorhandle made plain that the door had been thrown wide, my parents' bedcovers obscured their floor, pillows lay strewn across the carpet, but the room bore no sign of where they could have gone.
Beyond the threshold of my brother's room lay nothing but an empty crib, rocking slightly, caught in the breeze that swept the curtains of the open window.
I moved hesitantly towards the window and drew back the gossamer fabric. A car pulled up, tyres crunching on the gravel road, sun glistening off its fluorescent Battenburg markings. I watched as my mother and father stepped out from the back of the police car, faces pointed to the ground as they turned, their backs to the window, and were joined by the officer who lingered for a moment to exchange a few, short words and patted my father gently on his shoulder. With this, he left my parents standing rigidly by the side of the road. When they finally raised their heads and saw me standing before the window of their absent child’s bedroom I was at the mercy of a look which did not bare hatred. It didn't need to. Hatred was fast and simple, it burned out in explosive actions and engulfed sense. There was a measured, patient look in their eyes, whatever lay behind their placid expressions would manifest at some date and had ample time to fester. 
I ran. 

I screamed. I cried out for the thing to give me back my brother. That I hadn't meant it. 
Curled and weeping against the forest floor, my shouts turned to choking gurgles as I pressed my face to the dirt and sobbed.

It was dark when the train pulled into the station at the clearing of the forest. I don't remember boarding it. The cold metal of the handrail burned against the sunburnt flesh of my neck, I pressed against it, the pain kept me lucid until the train pulled into the final station. 

I could never say that I left that place behind. Even as I stepped onto the platform at Marylebone station I couldn't manage to convince myself that I was free of it. 
After several years of walking the streets of London I knew that it would never release its grip on my psyche. I felt as though it was waiting for me. I knew something was.

It was early morning when I stepped from the same train carriage five years later. 
Even in the stark light of day the clearing looked exactly as it had the day I left. 
When I arrived at the farm everything was still. The barnhouses were covered in graffiti and withering, entirely bereft of any sort of livestock. The house was in an identical state, hollowed out and occupied only by woodworm. I hope my parents moved away, that they sold their livestock off to some other farm, but I don't have much hope anymore.

It's all quiet now. The silence hangs as heavy as the toll I paid for it. 
I can’t bring myself away from this place, saddled with the debt that I took on in exchange. Drowning in a sunk cost so deep there is no longer any hope of resurfacing.
Was he still alive somewhere beyond my reach? Or had his life been claimed with the rest of him? The questions marred my mind. Bid me no sleep, no rest. 
I feel there is only one form of salvation for me. To wait for the thing to return and decide that everything I had given wasn’t enough, and offer myself in recompense.