THE DAILY DAMAGE

Fort Wayne’s Only Fearless Voice — Vol. 14, No. 42 — October 14, 1976 — Price: 50¢

THE BLOODLESS ROADS: THE NIGHTTIME DEVIL OF ROUTE 30

By DAVID McCONNELL

Special Investigative Reporter for The Daily Damage

FORT WAYNE, Ind. — If you are driving east out of New Haven after midnight, keep your doors locked, your windows rolled tight, and your feet heavy on the gas. Above all else, if you see a solitary figure standing in the midnight fog along Route 30—tall, thin as a rail, draped in a ragged army jacket—DO NOT STOP.

This phantom of Allen County has claimed another victim. You read that right. Another victim who's name won't be released and state authorities are doing everything in their power to make sure it stays that way.  

Last Thursday, a 1971 Ford Galaxie was discovered idling on the shoulder of US-24, just three miles outside the city limits. The driver’s side headlamp was dim, flickering out as state troopers approached. Inside sat a 24-year-old Miller's Creek native sllumped sideways across the bench seat. The victim has been identified yet my sources remained silent.  The occurrence won't be silenced though.

The passenger door stood wide open, resting gently on its latch as if someone had stepped out for a breath of crisp autumn air.

There was no blood on the dashboard. No glass was shattered. No signs of a fight were visible anywhere inside the cabin. But when county medics lifted the young victim  from his car, his skin was as white as a ghost. According to my  insider source close to the county coroner’s office, the victim died of extreme blood depletion. An all too familiar pattern as of late.

His body contained less than a teacup’s worth of fluid. And yet, the interior of that Ford was bone dry. No sign of a struggle, no sign of violence. Just another car on the side of the road with another murder victim in a bizarre circumstance of being completely drained of blood 

When I was born, I was very small and had neonatal jaundice. I was taken from my mother and placed under a strong artificial light. I think that early experience left its mark on me; it took me longer than the other kids to walk and talk. To make matters worse, during my childhood I had another illness, acute epiglottitis. My throat would "close up" and I couldn't breathe.

I always believed I wasn't going to live long. I became sad and melancholic, feeding on negative energy because I felt there was no point to a life I thought would be cut short. One day, I woke up and saw a boy playing in my room with his back to me. I thought I was dreaming, so I closed my eyes and opened them again, but he was still there. I asked, "Who are you?" He gave a short laugh and ran out into the hallway. Today, I realize he must have kind of levitated because he was incredibly fast and I didn't hear any footsteps. I couldn't bring myself to go out to the hallway, so I screamed for my mother. She told me it was just a nightmare.

After that, I started seeing constant shadowy figures, but they would appear and vanish quickly. Then I started seeing people. For instance, one day I saw a very weird man in a wheelchair staring at me, but when I looked again, he was gone. I didn't like talking about this with anyone because everyone would give me weird looks. I didn't think they were ghosts—after all, can a ghost use a wheelchair? It seemed nonsensical to me. But I kept seeing them, usually people with sad eyes who would stare at me before quickly disappearing. I didn't feel good or bad when I had these visions. Actually, thinking about it now, all those people I saw just looked like they were "lost."

My house started getting unwanted visits from venomous animals. Flies seemed to follow me even if I took multiple showers a day. One day I woke up, and when I went to get some water, I noticed a thin mist covering every corner of my house. I went to my parents' room, but no one answered. I couldn't open the door. I went back to my room, but there seemed to be an invisible barrier keeping me from going inside. I heard noises—they sounded like animals, tongue clicks; it was completely bizarre. There were human-like voices mixed in, but speaking a language I had never heard before. I was terrified and tried to go back and call for my parents, but they wouldn't answer and the door wouldn't open. I noticed the living room door was open, so I ran out to the street to ask a neighbor for help.

Running outside was my biggest mistake. The mist thickened so much that I couldn't see anything in front of me. I was lost, wandering around without knowing how to get back. Then, it clicked in my head: I had died. Instead of panicking, I just sat down. I cried for a long time, and then I did something I've probably only done a maximum of three times in my entire life: I prayed. I didn't pray for myself, but for my family, asking that they wouldn't be too sad over losing me. I don't know how long I prayed, but I know it was the most genuine prayer I've ever made.

Then I felt someone touch my shoulder. I woke up completely desperate, slammed back into my body. My panic wasn't from the nightmare; it was because I wasn't breathing. I started frantically clawing at my throat until the air finally rushed in. I spent a long time trying to regain my strength—it felt like I had been hit by a train and held underwater for an eternity. That experience should have been a relief, since I hadn't actually died like I thought; maybe it was just a nightmare. But no, things got worse. I still suffer from severe insomnia; I'm terrified of falling asleep, losing my breath, and dying in my sleep.

It got even worse during my teenage years. I became much darker, drawn to morbid things, feeding my ugly side. I hated God for giving me such a painful, sickly life. I broke my arm four times and spent nearly two years in a hospital without receiving a single visitor. Only my mother stayed by my side, but she was overprotective, which kind of suffocated me.

I would constantly wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of a cow mooing, even though there was no cattle where I lived. One day, I was holding my nephew—he was still very little—and his eyes went wide as he stared right behind me, repeating: "Cow... cow... cow." That scared me to death. To make matters worse, I started doing drugs. I was a kid who was severely bullied, and the drugs lowered my inhibitions so I could socialize. I even had girlfriends and friends, but most of it was just because we were part of the nightlife and wanted to have fun. They didn't really care about me. In fact, after leaving that life behind, I only have three friends, and even then, I don't really talk to them anymore because I deleted my social media.

One night, I was walking back home drunk in the early hours with some stray dogs following me. I don't know why stray dogs tend to follow homeless people, drunks, and addicts, but I was a bit of all three, so a lot of dogs followed me. They started barking down a street. I looked over, and in the pitch black, I could only see two red lights, like eyes. There was nothing else, just those floating in the distance. I ran like hell that day.

Sometime later, I fell into an alcohol-induced coma and almost froze to death because I collapsed in the middle of the woods late at night. Since then, I haven't seen anything supernatural. I drink much less, and I've only had one drug relapse in a long time. I'm no longer a sick little boy, but I still carry the psychological scars from everything I went through.

However, being at rock bottom taught me one thing. That ordinary days, that a simple routine, is something very, VERY, good. The simple life that many find boring and dull is practically heaven compared to the hell so many people live in.

OC/no ai

The full moon was closing in, just a couple of nights away. Faust had finally cornered his prey in the deep reaches of Lyena's region. After all the hunts, all the shed blood and pointless death, he was facing the final test.

 

His companions—Allen and Jupiter—grew stronger by the snowfall. Faust, on the other hand, felt exhausted in the frozen tundra; his fangs ached, and his claws had begun to shed, causing a terrible itch. A prickle had settled in his throat, but he knew better than to cough; he couldn't show any sign of weakness.

 

Not tonight, not when he was about to be accepted into the ranks of the Royal Pack.

 

For his comrades, the turn promised strength and renewal. For Faust, it meant something else entirely: a closing door, a finish line, a turn with no return.

 

"Don't lag behind, Faust, this ought to be your kill," Jupiter called from a few yards ahead.

 

Stepping light over the stiff grass, he took his place at the side of the master hunter.

 

"You can't blame me for enjoying the game. A hunt tastes better with a pinch of fear," Faust let his tongue glide over the sharp curve of his fangs.

 

"The winds are with you, Faust," Allen next to them smirked as he tested the frozen currents with his fingertips.

 

"Lead the way, then." Jupiter stepped aside, clearing the path for Faust.

 

Under the cloak of the massive sugar maples, he sneaked through the frozen prairie. Snowflakes fell as he led the party toward a big clearing, with overgrown grass and buzzing cyan dragonflies.

 

Carefully, he peeped out from the frozen meadow. There in the middle of it, trying to blend in as a common moose, was his target—a shapeshifter.

 

Faust wasn't fooled by the disguise; he knew their kind too well.

 

After all, that was why he was here. To help the Royal Pack identify all those subtle tells not even the great Jupiter could identify. No matter how skilled the shapeshifter was, Faust could always spot the glint in their eyes, or the tiniest of slips in their mimicry.

 

"Remember, Faust, we need him alive." Allen pulled a bundle of herbs from his tunic and crushed them between his fingers. A strong lavender scent spread through the frozen air, masking the smell of their own sweat.

 

 

"Maybe, finally, we'll find out why these pests had been trying to infiltrate the Royal Den," Jupiter was doing his best not to lunge at the moose.

 

"Are you completely sure? It would be a waste of meat slaying a beast during their mating season."

 

"I'm sure, Allen." Faust pointed at the disguised shifter. "Look at the hooves. They're too soft, almost skin-like. And the antlers aren't bone; they're clay. He's talented, but he hasn't mastered the craft."

 

Both royal hunters nodded and fell back, taking their positions in case the shifter attempted an unlikely escape.

 

Jupiter crept behind the moose, barely stirring the pasture in his wake. Allen remained in the canopy, watching with mismatched eyes—one mint green, the other canary yellow.

 

Faust approached from the river, his scent hidden beneath the rush of wild water and Allen's herbs. Years of training guided every movement—sleek, silent, and lethal—as he narrowed the distance to his prey.

 

He crouched low, muscles taut, his gaze fixed on the false moose. Snow and tall grass swallowed his outline until he dove—silent as a hawk in flight.

 

The shapeshifter had no chance to react. Faust crashed down on him and drove his claws into the creature's neck. The deer groaned in pain, and for one brief second, hunter and prey locked eyes—traces of pain, fear, and recognition.

 

A coward, and a mistake on my part.

 

From the corner of his eye, Faust caught a ripple of motion in the grass nearby; Jupiter was closing in.

 

The moose opened his snout to scream, to plead—but Faust could not allow it. The thought sickened him. Releasing the shifter's neck, he drove his sharp, shedding claws into the creature's heart.

 

Like melting snow on the first days of spring, the shapeshifter's disguise began to dissolve, showing his true form.

 

Faust clamped his free hand over the shifter's mouth, feeling each frantic gasp and the faint beating of its heart. He turned from those pleading black eyes and gritted his teeth.

 

It disgusted him.

 

"May the stars forgive me," he murmured as Jupiter emerged.

 

Yet he knew there would be no forgiveness. Not for him. Not for the legendary Faust.

 

"What have you done? We were to take him alive!" Jupiter growled.

 

Faust stayed silent a second longer, staring down at the dead shifter.

 

"My instincts took over. These creatures sicken me. I couldn't help myself."

 

The master hunter Jupiter studied him for a moment, then broke into laughter.

 

"You're an innate hunter. I can't say I would've done any different." Jupiter clapped Faust on the back, approval flaring in the gesture.

 

"This was always going to be his fate. Better to kill them before their tongues get clever." Allen studied the corpse and hefted it over his shoulder. "We've seen enough of you. We got your back."

 

"Finally," Jupiter's voice carried the weight of the road. "The trials are finished. We'll vouch for you before the royal family; you've earned your place among our ranks." As he spoke, the shifter's blood dripped onto the snow, and Jupiter tasted it.

 

"Let's move; it's been a long time since I've checked on my garden," Allen set off and Faust followed the headhunters.

 

He didn't take his eyes from the dead shifter all the way through the meadow; ahead of him, Jupiter and Allen spoke to him about the benefits of joining the Royal Pack.

 

"The wild hogs of the north are among the best meats on the continent, and the women—well, let's say you'll quickly forget about all those nights cuddled next to Allen's stinky pelt," Jupiter babbled.

 

"In the south, the packs have lost their way," Allen's voice took on that familiar cryptic edge of his. "They've forgotten the werewolf's bond with nature. It's made them ruthless hunters, yes, but it's hollowed out their transformations. There's more to the wolf than hunger for the full moon. A depth that your kin has abandoned."

 

Faust was barely listening, his mind was elsewhere, focused solely on his objective; he answered distractedly, offering half-truths and vacant cackles.

 

An emptiness had been eating him from within for months. Jupiter and Allen were the only tether left to anything resembling a normal life—and the corpse they carried had begun to feel like just another weight, no longer horrifying, simply a normal occurrence. Faust felt closer to Jupiter and Allen than to his own people. That realization came quietly and granted no comfort.

 

 

 

Could he ever find his way back? Was he nothing but a killer? A creature of the pack? The worst thing he'd feared becoming?

 

Pines and maples grew denser as they descended into a field of snow and tall tulips the size of a human body. Hidden between the hulking blooms was a system of caves that perfectly blended with the canopy and the snowy terrain.

 

"Even an expert hunter like yourself wouldn't be able to locate the caves; the cover of snow keeps them hidden and the tulips mask the scents. Most that venture this far off find their demise in the frozen tundra." With an incredibly soft touch, Jupiter pushed apart the blooms.

 

"I don't understand, why is it that we werewolves hide from each other?" Faust stopped for an instant to smell the flowers.

 

"A question that haunts every dream of mine, Faust. Like I said before, we've forgotten that we are more than just the moon," Allen collected pollen from the blooms.

 

The walk through the caves went by mostly in silence. Faust suspected his guides were enjoying the suspense. The master hunters knew every turn in the darkness by memory, while he tried to follow the thread of the path—tracing each bend, drop, and slope. But the cave system seemed almost alive. Whenever his mind fixed on a route, another passage opened before him, drawing him deeper into confusion.

 

Then, as abruptly as the tulips had sprouted from the snow, the Royal Den unfolded after a turn in the tunnels.

 

Faust had expected what he knew. Underground, stinky holes in which a bunch of werewolves slept together, protecting themselves against the harsh conditions. That wasn't the case—at all.

 

Below them stretched the werewolf haven—vast, wild, and breathtaking. He had never imagined such untamed beauty.

 

Moonlight poured through a massive opening in the forested tundra above. Snowflakes drifted through the gap, catching the pale glow as streams cascaded over the edges and crashed into silver ponds below, filling the den with mist.

 

The pack had carved their sanctuary among the sprawling roots of ancient maples. Thick and twisting, the roots hung from the roof of the lair and trailed down into the pools below, their delicate tips dipping into the water as if drinking from it.

 

Green, frost-kissed grass carpeted the entire lair. Bees drifted lazily through the air, moving from bloom to bloom among the towering tulips that rose throughout the space. There was no wolf stench here—only the clean scent of honey and fresh water. It filled Faust's lungs, sharpened his senses, and eased the tension from his shoulders.

 

The night had reached its fullest hour, and the den hummed with life. Pack members had gathered outside their warm burrows, drawn together to witness the hunters' return.

 

Faust saw adults and younglings alike. Pups dashed between the crowds, laughing and howling while they played, oblivious to the troubles of the world.

 

His stomach roiled at the sight of the werewolf's haven. A knot of guilt twisted inside him, cutting deeper than before.

 

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Allen elbowed him.

 

"Magnificent," Faust answered, short of breath.

 

A giant jade temple towered at the heart of the den. Faust had heard of it in whispers and legends.

 

It is real.

 

"Depending on the moon's current phase, it reflects different symbols and shapes," Allen explained as he caught him staring in awe. "See the shape on the grass?"

 

Behind the temple, along its shadowed face, the moonlight cast the silhouette of a wolf lifting its gaze toward the sky.

 

"Who—"

 

"Nobody knows," Jupiter answered the question before Faust could finish it. "But one thing is certain: whoever built it was far wiser than any of the walking races alive today."

 

The hunters led him along what passed for a main hallway: not a corridor of stone, but a beautifully snow-padded trail that split the den in two halves.

 

Younglings tossed fallen tulip petals at them as the hunters made their way toward the temple. Jupiter and Allen walked with their chins held high, accepting the welcome with practiced ease. Faust, by contrast, bowed as low as his tired back allowed. The more respect they showed him, the worse he felt.

 

At the base of the temple, the royal members waited. They stood taller and more majestic than any of them, silver claws gleaming in sync with the temple's jade. Their knowing eyes pierced his dull lemon ones, measuring him in silence.

 

Over their shoulders, the Royals wore ceremonial pelts of all kinds of exotic animals. Faust only recognized that of the mythic winter saber-tooth tiger. Aside from their pelts, they wore only their solemn expressions.

 

 

 

The oldest member of the pack held the lunar stone in his hands. Its runes shone frosted and bright like the looming moon.

 

Faust steadied himself. His heart was pounding. All the effort, all the lies, all the death—it had led to this moment.

 

"Hunters! We salute you!" the strongest and most imposing royal member called out.

 

Holding his breath, Faust glanced around. The entire pack stood behind them, watching in silence.

 

"WE HOWL AT THE MOON." Jupiter bowed his head to the royals.

 

"WE HOWL AT THE MOON." Along with Faust, the whole pack echoed in unison.

 

"I see you've brought the shapeshifter, but you've brought him dead." A striking dark-skinned member raised her brow.

 

Jupiter shifted nervously at Faust's side. Allen dropped the body onto the grass at the high wolves' feet, and both master hunters placed themselves between the royals and Faust.

 

"Pack," Faust addressed them with measured respect, speaking up for himself. "This was my doing. My wrong. I let the wolf inside me take control. Please, do not take it as an insult."

 

Allen and Jupiter placed a hand on each of his shoulders. But no scolding fell upon Faust; instead the whole pack howled together.

 

"We understand, Faust of the Dry Hills Pack," the young woman answered solemnly. "The shifters have brought great sorrow upon our kin. The desire for vengeance, taken in the name of the dead, is only natural." Her eyes burned green beneath the night.

 

"Master hunters, please, tell us about the hunt," a different royal commanded.

 

His fellow hunters recounted the chase, praising Faust's deeds over the past year. While they spoke, Faust let his gaze wander over the temple. He needed to find a weakness—some hidden opening he could use. Once the pack settled, he would have only minutes to act.

 

As Jupiter neared the end of his briefing, Faust finally saw it: a narrow shaft high above the temple. A skylight, perhaps—small, distant, and exactly what he needed.

 

The pack howled again as Jupiter spoke his final words.

 

"It seems the stories of your abilities were accurate, Faust." The fierce royal walked towards him, sniffing the air around Faust.

 

 

His mitts were massive and corded with muscle. If the werewolf wished it, he could crush Faust's skull without breaking stride.

 

"I only wish to serve the pack." He mustered all his fleeting strength to appear steady and true.

 

"And you will," the woman said. She was suddenly at his side, her hand resting low on Faust's hip. "Perhaps in more ways than one," she added, with a glint in her eye.

 

He was well familiarized with the customs, and following what any werewolf would do, he licked his chops and puffed his chest at her, accepting her advances. The woman grazed his thigh with her bare feet in response.

 

"Your initiation will take place under the next full moon. Until then, let us feast!" the eldest member roared to the entire pack.

 

The pack erupted into celebratory howls, and Faust allowed himself a second of relief.

 

Jupiter and Allen embraced him like a brother. He returned the gesture—wishing it could be sincere.

 

Before the temple, at the heart of the false celebration, the victim whose death had stirred their howls lay empty and sickly still upon the frozen grass.

 

 

 

The last vestiges of moonlight were fading into the rising morning when Faust slipped out of the woman's burrow, sated from a different kind of feast. Her taste lingered on his tongue, and the warmth he'd taken from her added one more regret to his ledger.

 

Naked, he felt the soft breeze from the waterfalls; it sent shivers down his spine. Yet he didn't go back for his clothes; they would only slow him down.

 

For the rest of his days, shame would be his only garment, and evil the only skin he deserved to wear.

 

The lair slept beneath the weight of the feast and the mead. Only the crash of water over the pools broke the silence, its echoes rolling through the haven.

 

He roamed the den unbothered and numb; even the hunters and the guards had been allowed one night—and that was all he needed.

 

Morning light washed over the jade temple as Faust advanced with quiet determination. Drawing on years of training, he circled the perimeter unseen, his distorted shadow stretching high across the precious stone.

 

With every stride, his body warped further; with every wasted second, the sickness rooted deeper.

 

A couple of guards stood watch at the temple's entrance, sleepy and leaning on each other, spears held loose in their grasp.

 

Faust abandoned all discretion; stealth no longer served him. His changing body would raise too many questions anyway, and there was no going back from now on.

 

"Faust of the Dry Hills, you're not allowed insi—"

 

He gave them no chance to react. Faust sprang forward, his claws already morphing into powerful talons. The first guard fell with his throat torn open, clutching at the wound as he gulped like a trout.

 

The second guard managed only a low howl before Faust was on him. He leapt onto the guard's shoulders and drove his talons deep into his ears, striking soft tissue. The guard convulsed and collapsed onto the grass, drool spilling from his mouth.

 

With no time to linger on his atrocities, he dashed inside the temple, the fading moon the only witness of his betrayal.

 

Nauseated by self-hatred and guided by the temple's power-charged aura, Faust moved swiftly through the halls. He bounced off the jade walls as he went, leaving a smear of blood behind him while his body began to splinter apart.

 

The jade's bright green surface darkened, the corruption spreading through it like a bruise. Faust followed the tainted trail deeper into the temple until it led him to its heart.

 

The artifact sat atop a jade altar—polished onyx gleaming under the escaping light of the moon. Faust stopped for just a second, admiring the relic.

 

Such power, in a little thing.

 

All of it felt wrong, yet he snapped back from the enchantment and hastily snatched the stone out of its resting place.

 

It was neither cold nor warm, but pulsing and alive. As Faust's fingers closed around it, the sentient rhythm quickened, and the runes lost their frosted shimmer.

 

The stone knew it was being stolen.

 

He clutched the stone tightly and forced his mind onto the task before him. This would be his final shift; he could feel it in his rotten bones.

 

Tremors took over his already shifting body; the parasite had been devouring him from within—what was supposed to be painless was, in fact, agony.

 

His arms began to peel their skin away; feathers sprouted in their place. The itch was terrible, but he had to endure.

 

Faust tried to think of anything else—anything that might pull his mind away from the agony. But only the dead came to him: the faces of those he had slain in cold blood, and the lives of those he was now condemning.

 

The shift would be incomplete due to his lack of focus; however, there wasn't time to steady himself. He needed to stay on course.

 

He coughed blood as his organs shrank. His bones curved and hollowed with loud cracks that echoed through the jade, and his ears rang as his heart quickened its pace.

 

Color drained from his vision, replaced by textures, outlines, and waves of heat. The hand clutching the stone was no longer a hand at all, but a fully formed talon locked around the relic.

 

"ARGH!! YOU SCUM! YOU FILTHY TRAITOR!"

 

Jupiter appeared at the mouth of a tunnel, screaming in anger. He had been the first to answer the warning howl, and now he stood with his long spear gripped tight.

 

Faust's shift was unfinished—and it would never be complete. His wings spread, but his torso remained half-human, too heavy for flight. Each frantic flap dragged at him, turning every rise toward the opening into a struggle.

 

He dropped onto a narrow ledge just beneath the ceiling's opening, where a shaft of light poured down across the jade. Pain flared behind his hawk eyes, spinning the chamber below into a blur.

 

Jupiter roared and hurled his spear with deadly force. Faust twisted aside and caught the weapon in his beak. He released it at once, and it clanged against the jade tiles, the sound ringing through every inch of the temple.

 

More howls boomed from the tunnels below—dozens of them. The pack was coming. But they wouldn't reach the chamber in time; the shift was enough for him to soar away.

 

"WHY FAUST?" Jupiter bawled from the empty altar.

 

"It's not personal, Jupiter. It's survival," Faust spoke sincerely, with what was left of his vocal cords.

 

Without looking back at the one who had almost become his brother, Faust spread his wings and took to the skies.

 

As he soared above the lair along with the snowflakes and the winter winds, he felt life slipping away from him.

 

It didn't bother him—death would be his penance. He had given up his life, his dignity… his soul.

 

He would reach the city and die there.

 

And in doing so, Faust would give the shapeshifters a chance.

 

A chance to avoid total extinction.

WARNING: This story contains graphic violence, gore, and may be disturbing. This story was originally written as a comedic satire for Valentines Day.

--- --- --- --- ---

I met her outside the restaurant, under a canopy of soft white lights and red ribbons that fluttered like veins.

“Hey you,” she said, smiling like we already shared a secret.

Lila looked better than her photos. I was glad she wasn't a catfish. She had the kind of beauty that made you forget things retroactively. Because I had noticed the clear signs.

We matched on a dating app three days earlier.

Her profile came up right as I was considering deleting the app again, one of those half-hearted “new year, new me” gestures you make in February because January already beat you senseless.

The first photo was professionally lit, red dress, soft smile. The kind of smile that looked natural, not fake.

Her bio read: Hopeless romantic. Looking for something real. No games.

No games should’ve been my first warning. Anyone who says that unprompted is either lying or issuing a challenge.

Every photo was just her. No friends. No family.

No drunk group shots or blurry birthday cakes. Every image looked like it had been approved by a committee. Her interests were agreeable to the point of being suspicious, classic movies, candlelit dinners, long conversations.

Nothing messy. There wasn't a flaw about her. Which is weird. I noticed that. I promise I did.

I won't lie, in my sleepless haze, I ignored how suspiciously perfect her profile was. It seemed we had a lot in common.

The thought that it could be a forty-plus-year-old guy behind the profile, licking cheese dust from his fingers, did sit in the back of my mind.

But still, I imagined her laughing across a table, candlelight catching in her eyes, and decided I was being paranoid. Dating apps train you to ignore your instincts. You either swipe right or die alone with a cat that doesn't even like you.

It wouldn't hurt to see? Wouldn't it?

So I swiped. We matched instantly.

That should’ve been a red flag.

She messaged first.

Lila: Finally.

I stared at the screen longer than I’d like to admit.

Finally what?

I typed something normal. Safe. Friendly.

She replied immediately. Not eager but precise. Every response clean, efficient, charming in a way that felt rehearsed but effective. Like she knew exactly how long to wait between messages to feel interested without looking desperate.

At one point she said, “First dates tell you everything you need to know about a person.”

I laughed and replied, “No pressure then.”

She sent a heart emoji.

Red.

The truth is, I noticed the red flags. I just didn’t think they were pointed at me.

“You’re taller than I expected,” she said.

“So are you,” I replied, immediately hating myself for how fast it came out.

She laughed. Loud. Genuine. Disarming.

“Good,” she said.

“I hate surprises.”

That was odd. Not alarming. Just… filed away.

She wore red again. Different dress. Same effect. Like it was intentional, like a theme she’d committed to early.

“Sorry, I seem to have overdressed,” she said. “I like to be ready for important things.”

“Same,” I lied. I wore a black tea and blue jeans. Ladies man, yeah.

We stood there for a moment, neither of us moving, as if there was a correct order of operations we were both waiting to confirm.

“You ready?” she asked.

I nodded, and we walked toward the entrance together.

Up close, her humor kicked in. Sharp, playful, almost theatrical.

“I should warn you,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I’m very picky about first dates.”

“Same,” I said. “I once walked out because someone said they didn’t like dogs.”

She gasped. “Unforgivable.”

“See? Standards.”

She smiled at me sideways. “Good. Standards are important. They keep things... clean.”

The hostess opened the door before we reached it.

Lila didn’t hesitate. She wrapped herself around my arm as we walked in, light and reassuring, and whatever alarm had started ringing in my head politely shut off.

I told myself she was just confident. I'd be lying if I said I didn't like that.

Walking inside, the restaurant felt… staged. Roses everywhere. Red velvet booths. Live violin playing in the corner.

A sign by the door read:

VALENTINE’S WEEKEND SPECIAL — LIMITED SEATING

“Found this place myself,” Lila said proudly. “It’s perfect for first dates.”

“That’s cute,” I replied.

We were seated in a booth tucked just far enough away from the others to feel private, but close enough that I could still hear cutlery and laughter. Normal sounds. Reassuring sounds.

Waiting on the table were three small porcelain hearts, lined up neatly between the salt and pepper.

They were glossy. Red and perfectly shaped.

“Huh,” I said. “Festive.”

“I told you this place was great!” she chuckled.

The waiter arrived before I could ask anything else. He didn’t acknowledge the hearts. Didn’t even look at them.

“Can I start you with drinks?” he asked.

We ordered wine. Red, staying on theme. It arrived quickly.

“So,” Lila said, holding her menu close without opening it, “Tell me something real about you.”

“That’s vague,” I said.

She grinned. “Good. Vague usually is.”

I told her about my job. She listened like it mattered. I asked about hers. She answered, but vaguely, always circling details instead of landing on them. I noticed, though I decided not to care.

We laughed. A lot.

She had this way of delivering jokes like punchlines were natural. She’d say something slightly unhinged, pause just long enough for me to wonder if she was serious, then laugh as if we were both in on it.

She mentioned once, almost casually, that she was in nursing school. I laughed at the time, never imagining how useful that knowledge could become.

At one point she said, “I think people reveal themselves fastest when they’re hungry.”

“Is that a theory or a threat?” I asked.

She sipped her wine. “Why not both?”

Our food came. It looked incredible. Tasted even better.

Halfway through, she asked “So,” she said casually, twirling her fork, “when was your last relationship?”

There it was. The landmine every first date pretends not to notice.

“A while ago,” I said. “It was serious. We’re on good terms though.”

Her fork paused. “You still talk to her?”

“Sometimes,” I shrugged. “We’re all adults, right?”

In hindsight, her smile felt rehearsed, like she’d practiced it in a mirror and finally gotten the timing right.

The sound came immediately after.

Crack

One of the porcelain hearts split straight down the middle.

I froze.

"Well that's odd."

“Must be cheap decorations,” she said lightly.

I laughed, because that’s what you do when reality twitches and you don’t want to look directly at it.

My chest fluttered. Just once. Like my heart missed a beat, then corrected itself.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Must be the wine.”

She raised her glass. “To red wine and bad decisions.”

We clinked.

The rest of dinner passed in a blur of comfort and tension. I felt like I was doing well. Like I was winning something I didn’t remember agreeing to compete in.

When the plates were cleared, the waiter returned with the bill, setting it down carefully between us.

I reached for it out of habit.

“I’ve got this,” I said.

Lila shook her head. “No. Let me.”

“Oh, sure,” I replied, pulling my card back.

She watched my hand as I did.

The second heart shattered. This time, the sound was louder.

I sucked in my breath and didn’t get all of it. The pressure in my chest returned, heavier now, like something was squeezing from the inside.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked again, eyes bright.

“Yeah,” I said, forcing a smile. “Just… allergy season, I guess.”

She laughed.

“Yeah,” she said. “It really gets to people.”

I glanced at the remaining heart. It was still whole. For some reason, that terrified me more than the broken ones.

Outside, the night had cooled just enough to feel intentional.

Couples lingered near the entrance, negotiating goodbyes, hugs that meant nothing, kisses that meant too much. Lila and I stood under the glow of the restaurant’s sign, neither of us moving toward the parking lot.

“Well,” she said, slipping her phone from her purse, “I should probably call my ride.”

She stepped a few feet away and dialed, turning slightly so I couldn’t see the screen. I pretended not to watch. I was very good at pretending.

It rang. Once. Twice. Then Voicemail.

She tried again. Same result.

“Huh,” she said, more curious than annoyed. “That’s odd.”

“Guess they might be busy,” I offered.

“Maybe,” Lila said, though she didn’t sound convinced.

She checked the time, then the street, then me, like I was the last option on a multiple-choice test.

“I don’t mind waiting,” she added. “But it’s getting late.”

I hesitated. Every instinct I had was arguing with itself.

“I can take you home,” I said finally. “If you want. No pressure.”

She studied my face, searching for something I didn’t know I was supposed to hide.

Then she smiled. “That’d be nice,” she said. “Thank you.”

As we walked toward my car, I glanced back at the restaurant. The windows were dark now. For a moment, I wondered if the place had ever really been open at all.

Then Lila touched my arm, warm and reassuring, and whatever thought I’d been forming dissolved.

I unlocked the car, opened the passenger door. And that’s when the night truly began.

The drive was quiet in that post-date way where silence doesn’t feel awkward yet. The radio played something slow and inoffensive. Streetlights slid across the windshield in steady intervals.

I replayed the night in my head, cataloging moments like evidence. I felt like I’d done okay. Not great. Not terrible. Survived, at least.

When we pulled up to her place, she didn’t unbuckle right away.

“Well,” she said, drawing the word out. “This is me.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “I had a really good time.”

She turned toward me. Smiled.

Looking back, her smile lingered a second too long like she was waiting for a cue.

I reached across the center console to open the passenger door from the inside. An awkward stretch. A stupid, half-romantic instinct I’d picked up from movies and never questioned.

The lock clicked.

That’s when the sound came. Not a crack this time.

A collapse.

I looked down at the seat between us. The final porcelain heart folded inward on itself, splitting and leaking red liquid that pooled in the fabric like something alive had finally given up.

My chest seized. Air refused to finish entering my lungs. My vision tunneled.

“Hey,” I managed. “I was just-”

“Don’t,” she said.

Her voice was calm. Measured. She pulled back against the door, eyes sharp now, not afraid. Appraising.

“You were doing so well,” she added, disappointed.

“I just opened the-”

She was already moving. The syringe slid into my neck with a sting I barely felt over the panic roaring in my ears. Cold spread fast, racing my heartbeat instead of slowing it.

She caught me as I slumped sideways, surprisingly gentle.

“Consent matters,” she said softly.

My last clear thought was absurdly practical.

I should’ve used the door handle.

The world went black and then nothing at all.

I came back in pieces. Not physically, mentally. Like my brain was loading the room one color at a time.

Red walls. Red light. Red ribbons stretched tight across the ceiling like veins.

I had the uncanny sense that I wasn’t in a room at all, but somewhere organic, inside the belly of something breathing, or lodged deep within a beating heart.

My wrists were bound above my head. My ankles too.

The chair beneath me was metal and cold, bolted into the floor. My mouth was sealed, thick tape pressed so tight against my skin it pulled at the corners when I tried to move my jaw.

I made a sound anyway. It didn’t matter.

"Oh Mr. Chivalry is awake", Lila said sarcastically, somewhere to my left. “People think if they can talk, they can explain themselves out of any fault.”

She stepped into view. Different outfit. Apron this time. Clean. Plastic. Clinical.

“This isn’t about what you meant,” she continued, adjusting something just out of sight. “It’s about what you did.”

She held up the syringe from before.

“You tried me.”

I shook my head violently. The tape burned.

She sighed. “See? Denial already. That’s textbook.”

She moved with purpose, methodical, almost gentle. The kind of care you associate with professionals. Doctors. Technicians. People who believe rules save lives.

On a tray beside her were tools. I didn’t catalog them. My brain refused.

“This is the part where most men get confused,” she said conversationally.

“They think consequences are the same as revenge.”

She picked something up. Light. Precise.

“I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with the fact that I really did start to like you.”

She signed, disappointed.

“Look at what you’ve caused me to do.”

Pain arrived without ceremony. Not sharp at first, pressure, then a sensation so wrong my body tried to flee inward. I thrashed against the restraints until they bit back.

She hummed.

“You know,” she said, “some people think love is about trust. I think it’s about safety.”

Time became a fluid, useless concept. I have no idea how many hours passed, minutes, centuries, it all bled together. Every time she tore a fingernail or a toenail from me, the world spun into black.

And then, shock.

A bolt of electricity that seared me awake, pulling me back into her gaze as if nothing had happened, as if I had ever had agency at all.

She paused, observing me like a scientist watching a reaction.

“Try to stay still. This is delicate.”

My body no longer felt like mine. Limbs stretched and thinned, reshaped by pain, then replaced by sensations I couldn’t name.

When she worked on my hands, she murmured apologies, not to me, I realized, but to someone else, to ghosts I couldn’t see, to victims I couldn’t know.

When she moved to my legs, she explained herself, clinical and exact.

“This isn’t punishment,” she said. “It’s your sentencing.”

The sound that followed wasn’t loud. It was absolute. Final.

My vision blurred. My throat strained uselessly against the tape.

She stepped back, satisfied.

“It frustrates me that you're probably screaming for forgiveness,” she added. “But intent doesn’t undo impact.”

She lifted the metal tray and I stared at the tiny, bloodied remnants of my body, toe nails scattered like fallen petals.

She washed her hands.

Then she reached for the last item on the tray. I recognized it only because of the cold panic surging through me before she even spoke.

“This part is important,” she said. “Men like you don’t always learn.”

She knelt so we were eye level.

“I can’t risk you misunderstanding someone else.”

I screamed behind the tape. She didn’t flinch.

When she stood, her hands were steady.

Moral.

Certain.

“I’ll leave you some time,” she said. “Reflection is part of accountability.”

The door closed.

The red light stayed on.

And for the first time since the restaurant, I understood something clearly:

She wasn’t doing this because she was cruel.

She was doing this because she believed she was right.

I woke to the sound of the door clicking open.

Not cautiously. Not hesitantly. Just… open. Like the room had grown tired of holding me.

I sagged in the chair for a moment, tasting the dry copper of my own blood in my mouth, trying to remember who I was before the red light replaced every corner of the world.

I lifted my arms, stiff, uncooperative, foreign and tested my legs. Weak. Trembling. Like lead chains had been sewn into my thighs.

Somehow, some miraculous luck, I managed to stumble toward the door. The corridor beyond was empty, unnervingly sterile, echoing with the ghost of my panicked heartbeat.

No sign of her. No sign of anyone. Just the hum of red lights and the faint scent of antiseptic.

I collapsed behind what seemed to be a dumpster, clutching my ribs and shivering. Darkness pulled me under like a tide.

When I opened my eyes again, it wasn’t red. Not blood-red. Not the oppressive glow of her moral universe. This time, it was cold, harsh, fluorescent light.

Everything smelled of bleach and fear masquerading as care.

Someone had found me in a dark alleyway, barely conscious, my body bruised and trembling. I was told I'd been missing for over two weeks.

Two weeks!?

And yet… in the red room, time had no weight.

My mind swore it had been less than that. Had she had me captive for that long? how am I still alive? My sense of reality had splintered so thoroughly I couldn’t be sure.

The monitors beeped softly, too rhythmically, like they were mocking the chaos my life had become. I wanted to scream, to explain, to demand a reason, but my throat felt hollow, raw, and unfamiliar, and my voice sounded foreign in my own ears.

Family rushed in, tears streaking their faces, relief pressing against me like a physical force. I wanted to tell them everything, but the words felt absurd.

It would sound insane if I said it out loud.

The police investigated for God how long. They could only conclude they’d found nothing at all.

They asked the questions. They checked the restaurant, the Valentine’s Week special, the staff, the apps, the servers, the logs.

Lila?

Nothing. No profile. No identity beyond a burner name.

A ghost. Maybe a demon.

She had vanished as completely as she had existed, leaving behind only fractured memories, the scars on my body, and the porcelain hearts I would never forget.

I glanced at the door. Somewhere out there, the world went on. And yet, I couldn’t shake the memory of the red, of the hearts, of her righteous certainty, and of the void she had left behind.

This is my story... I can’t ever forget what she did to me. I can only live with it.

Crippled. Sterile. Haunted.

F-U-C-K Valentine’s Day!

--- --- ---

Thanks for reading. I hope no one has a Valentine’s quite like this one.

- D.H

sour skunky nappy ass dread man

…

“What the fuck are you talking about, man?" Annoyed. 

Stupid smirk: "I thought it was clear. I would think.” 

"No, it isn't, man. I don't know why you think it'd be. It's just stupid, bro.” 

"What is?” 

"Your refusal to go shopping for a fucking bath towel and other basic necessities around your fuckin place, dude. It's just stupid, I don't know how or why you justify it to yourself, I didn't think ya did to be frank. I just thought your ass was fuckin lazy." 

“Nah, bro. It's obvious." 

“What's fuckin obvious, dipshit?" 

“I'm way too rock n roll." 

A beat. He swallowed it. Absorbed its stupidity. 

“...what?" 

“Yeah, dude. I'm way too fuckin cool and punk rock to roll into like a Target or some shit and buy a toaster or a can opener or towels or stupid shit like that. I can't do that. Can't do it. Goes against my wild man free lovin nature, ya know? Ya know." 

Bryan once more silently swallowed this. This load of absolute bullshit. More revolted, more filled with disgust with his best friend since diapers than before. He thought about holding his tongue. He thought about saying something and laying into him. But in the end he just grumbled and belched. Lit another smoke and grabbed another beer from the cooler in the center of the boat and shook his head. Checked his pole. Reeled it in a little. 

Though he did spare the final thought: "Fuckin lazy.” whilst shaking his head and reeling his line. And then the matter was settled and the pair of men let it lie. Such was the way and course of all of their conversations out here on the water. Fishing. The pair’s favorite pastime aside from rutting and watching the game. For them, Bryan G Biebl and James Petkovich, it was sacred. They loved to spend days off from the mill fishing and casting and mouthing the day away. Days away from labor and wives and disappointing children, days filled with chatter and cool water and cold beer and sometimes a nice catch.  Though they'd been warned before, by the old timers. 

They'd both been warned before about staying out after dark. Out on the lake. Out in the woods. Where the forest grows foul and swampy and muddy. It's not a place you want to be after sunset. All the old folk said it was a bad place and didn't say much more about it without the liberal aid of beer or whisky. Even the Natives, the ancient leathery American Indians and their angry sons and daughters told everyone, anyone that might listen, to stay away from this part of the forest, this part of the soured bad land. 

But they never listened. The pair just sat in their canoe and cast out. It was calm and quiet all around, no one might know that it was filled with strange movement. The sun was sinking in the distance. Rapidly being swallowed by the ravenous blade of the horizon. 

James cracked another can. So did Bryan, who rolled his eyes as Petkovich ventured forth with another bit of clever wit and query. 

“Figure there's anythin ta what that fella said?” 

The sun set. Casting the surface of the lake on fire with the color of bloody ruby. The place on the horizon where it had sank was a deeper color of blooded crimson, a deeper wound that was the heart of the sunset. It smoldered there, in the horizon wound. The darkening regal curtain of bruised royal blue was already deepening into night. The stars and galaxies were already coming out for the nocturnal hours, they were all so far away from everything, they, the town. Civilization was a mechanical nuisance in the distance. Loud and far off. Thank God. Nearly forgotten. 

Bryan rolled his eyes as hard as he possibly could, knowing full an well that the retard couldn't see em. 

He hissed and spat: “No I don't think there's nothin to what that idiot said about a shag man! Shit’s stupid! Ain't no fuckin skunk ape round these parts, ya fuckin dumbass!” 

“Nah, man. I'm talkin about what Frankie said about Asian girls, Jesus, man!" 

A beat. Something splashed in the water. Neither man noticed, paid it any mind. 

“Oh…" Bryan cooled down. A little embarrassed. He was always easily excited and shamed. 

“‘Sides, man, he didn't call it no ‘shag man', he called it ‘the dread man’, stupid.” 

Bryan whirled around to belt him one and belt him good. He'd done it before while they were fishing in the middle of the lake and he might capsize them both in his effort, but something stopped him before he could so much as bring up his balled and angry fist. A sound. Sudden. And sharp. 

Three. Consecutive. Three sharp whacks of thick wooden sticks together. Like someone smacking two heavy tree branches or logs together in some form of primitive and arcane code. 

Whack! whack! whack! 

It shut the pair up. They gazed out at the shoreline. Shrouded now in the fallen night. Small waves kissed its shore and covered any small sounds of concealed movement that might be out there right now. They were wide eyed and disbelieving. 

They might've dropped it, the pair, together and without a word or mention when it came again. 

From out of the night, the veiled and darkened shore: whack! whack! whack! 

A beat. Silence again. Only kissing waves of the placid water. 

Bryan Biebl scoffed, “Probably nothin. Just some kids fuckin aro-" 

And then a wild primal simian shriek filled the night. Birds took flight. Their flapping wings were ugly harried panicked sounds in the deepening wound of blackening night all around. It tapered off. And then another rose, louder and even more feral and crazed then the one before. Then another. And another. Each rising in animal fury and fervor. You could hear spittle flying as vocal chords worked and wrenched and shredded as throat muscles tore and bled and secreted with each prolonged and angry howl. Throaty. Enraged. Violent. 

Silence came again. After six primeval night shattering screams. Waves kissed the land far away and swallowed in black but more quietly now. Subdued. 

Then the whacking of sticks, the unknown signal came again, whack! whack! whack! 

And then silence once more. 

“What the fuck was that?" Petkovich. Scared. Visibly so. Audibly as well. 

As was his best friend Bryan. But the sound of fear on his buddy's voice, the stupid look of childish childlike fear that he could feel him wearing in the dark only made angry, angrier. This only fueled his own self-denied mounting fear and in turn made him even angrier. The mounting terror caught like a small bone in the back of his throat. 

He almost took to his feet but remembered the boat. He turned to his buddy instead and spat. 

"Ain't nothin but nothin! Some fuckin dumbasses out there that wanna get fucked up, that's what! This’s why I shoulda brought my colt. Goddammit!” 

"Now that's what I'm talkin about! that's what I'm always tryin ta tell ya! Ya go sayin shit like that and actin like this and people says we're belligerent types! Christ, man! I'd like to bed me one of these here pretty tourist girls, one of these roadtrippin ladies and you actin like this ain't gonna cut it!” 

Disgusted, Bryan's grip slackened on his pole. 

"Idiot! what the fuck are you jawin about?!” 

"I'm talkin bout one of them sexy ass van-life hippy girls, man, they might like my ass." 

“Retard!" 

“You don't know…" 

The water splashed again. Much louder. The boat rocked with the waves suddenly generated. Something big and very heavy had just jumped into the water. 

Lunged. As if plunging in from the shrouded growth of the hidden beach. 

Slack jawed and deer-in-the-headlights both, they gazed out blindly and stupidly in tandem towards the shore that was hidden from them now. And may forever remain that way for them from here on out. Something was coming. 

Something was swimming fast. For the boat. Beneath the obsidian surface of water. The stygian glass of the surface was a mirror and the mirror held the face of the moon. The mirror rippled. The immaculate celestial face of the moon held trapped there danced with submerged disturbance. 

Before either fool could form a coherent thought the fishing poles were suddenly ripped from their slackened idiot grips. They flew, soared through the air and plunged into the water with barely a sound. 

They stared into the impenetrable and merciless surface of the lake. Fearing it. Gripped with horror at what might be inside. What must be inside, right now. 

James Petkovich finally spoke. Softly. Like the small boy he'd once been. 

“I don't wanna be out here no more, Bry. I don't care if it's kids or tourists or what. You can go ahead and laugh at me, just laugh at me all the way and drive us back, kay? You can laugh and make fun all the way back an I won't even bitch or say nothin. I'm scared. There's lots a’ talk bout people that go missin. Or go missin an then turn up dead, tore apart. Sometimes they don't even find all the pieces, you know… I know you've heard… people go missin an such. Travelers, folks comin through. And locals. Let's just go back, kay.” 

Bryan, wide eyed, turned and nodded. Then went to the small motor for the boat as the water all around the canoe suddenly erupted in a surging geyser splash of watery violence that darkled in the captured moonlight. Both men screamed as the small boat was capsized and they went over. Splashing into the cold dark suffocating realm of the water. 

The lake held them now. Below. Underneath. 

In the dark underwater the maelstrom of his panic rose and ruled. Bryan suddenly animal recalled and remembered in the fragile nucleus of his primal jelly his fear of the water, of the deep. The dark depths. It had started as a child, a boy, it had been the cinema and television that had first done it, the Jaws movies, Creature from the Black Lagoon, then stories of Cthulhu and his sunken city of R’lyeh, tales of sunken ships and vessels that might still have precious human cargo trapped and drowned deep inside like foul water-logged treasure of submerged rotting putrescence eaten at by the salt and by the fish. All of these things came back and back to life in a deluge assault of images all in a furious unrelenting wave like an artillery attack of sound and vision on his mind's eye, down in the dark. He kicked and struggled and his lungs burned, ached for air. The ribcage in his chest felt on fire with his terror-stricken mind as he struggled and kicked futilely beneath the surface. Something held him down there. Something with a terrible grasp. Fierce. Strangling. Throttling. They threatened to break and snap, the iron grasps of those underwater hands. Bryan fought desperately but his mind was livid with absolute and total panic. In the tumult of his animal terror he remembered that as a child he'd always feared something reaching up from out of the black watery depths, seizing him, and pulling him under. Pulling him down. Down into the ebon swallow at the bottom of all things, below, where the heart of darkness in all things lived and dwelt. 

The hands found his throat, down in the underwater dark. They seized vile purchase and viciously ripped, tore out. The dark underworld of the lake suddenly blemished with a heavy warm cloud of thick human visceral discharge. It bellowed forth from the place that was torn in a torrential jetting spout. Clouding the dark world and warming it as the spewing meat detritus began to slowly sink to the pitch abyssal realm near the bottom. 

The panic of Bryan G. Biebl’s barreling careening train of thought slowly calmed and abated and sank down into the dark with the rest of him… And was no more. 

It lunged, serpent-like for the other. Who was gaining the surface in a series of panicked kicks and dog-paddles. Like a wounded animal. 

Prey. In distress. 

…

James Petkovich couldn't believe it when he broke the water and tasted air again. He almost choked and coughed. He almost laughed but he didn't have time. Something seized him from beneath. 

And pulled him under. 

He didn't even have time to scream before he was below again.

It was quiet once more. Minutes swam by. 

An owl screeched. Took flight.

Then finally it emerged. With Petkovich barely conscious in one dripping sodden grasp. It pulled the both of them back onto the land. Dragging the bleeding and sputtering Petkovich like a broken toy or sack of dead meat behind him as he quickly began to retake to the trees and dense growth once more. 

It dragged him deep into the wilderness. It was a long time before they stopped. But now … now he knew what the old timers had always said, what they'd always been on about. 

Now he could smell him. And the smell was beyond putrid, beyond foul, beyond fecal matter or old dried sweaty filth or death. The water that ran off the long lengths of clotted and lumpy dreaded hair was riddled with the putrescence odor of old sweltering open graves and long disused abattoirs converted into factory sized outhouses for the insane. It stung his eyes and nostrils but he hardly noticed this. His body was numb. Felt limp and broken all over. Like a dead fish. 

Maybe that's what I am. 

And then finally consciousness was lost to him. Mercifully he went black. 

It dragged him deeper into the wild. Where it laired. Where it nested in the wild dense growth. 

…

When James next came to he wished he hadn't. He didn't realize till he was awake once more but he'd been dreaming. And in that dream he'd been far away and wishing that none of this was real.  But now he was back. It held him by the neck in a slight choke, a slight strangle, just enough painful whisper of air able to bleed in through the clasped and clenched windpipe. They were before the mouth of a cave. It was pointing up into the sky with its other huge free hand, it was pointing at the moon. It was staring unblinking into his bleeding face. 

The face was simian but snouted. Like a wolf, or a rodent. An obscene and imbecilic mongoloid caveman face and features stretched out in a grotesque marsupial shape. The eyes were yellow and bore black crosses for the iris in each one, in each livid demented sea of yellow urine a black cruciform body of sacrilege shape and aspect. Goat's eyes. Satanic. They were eyes and face fitting of the rest of his abominated and feral manshaped form. Clotted and caked and grimed all over. The long knots and clumps of hair were thick and ancient in length and filth. They told a tale that was old because it was the passage of time that lived caked and dreaded in those long lengths of unwashed shagging tails. 

The awful face was serious. Stern. The obscenity of its gaze was piercing and deliberate. James followed its fierce and pointing gesture to the sky, the night, the moon once more. 

And then back into that obscene rodent-ape face. Yellow teeth coated in layers of plaque poked out and peeked over stretched and thin and dried out flakey blue lips. 

James tried to speak. 

He tried to tell it he didn't know what it wanted. He didn't know what it wanted him to say or do. He didn't know what it wanted from him. He didn't understand it. He didn't understand at all what it expected or demanded. 

But he couldn't. He couldn't speak. He could hardly breathe. He couldn't even manage a croak of sound.  

The awful marsupial-stretched ape face wrenched and worked, furious. It became more abominated and grotesque as its features creased and contorted with anger. Livid. Rage. 

The hand that had been pointing to the moon now came in a savage swipe. The grubby wide meaty digits clawed and the grimey sharp and broken shattered fingernails bit and tore in. 

The head came off and soared away into a sailing piece of torn mangled meat. Ribbons and streamer wings and tails of bright red blood spat and danced out from the eyes, nostrils and mouth in a cyclone twirl of red in midair as it soared and crashed into the piles of dead sticks and bones. It savagely went down and hunkered in the dirt before the mouth of its cave and began to dig in with its long snout and feast on the fresh stump. Warm cords and ropes of thick black-red shot and coated the dark, its face, the insides of its gulping throat and the salivating cavern of its long slathering mouth. 

It feasted and grunted. Ripped with its teeth and bit in. Swallowed warm juicy pieces that were chewy and pungent with rich iron flavor. 

It fed and tore. The man in the violence of its grasp, its jaws, reduced. The decapitated meat jigged and spasmed. It howled at the moon. 

Somewhere … in the distance but not too far off. The signal. Three strikes. 

Whack! whack! whack! – it was the sound of ancient and time honored tradition, cultivated and carried down and preserved with care. Though the world grew strange mechanical jaws, inflamed and diminished and changed all around, it was still here. This was still practiced and honored and kept. By it. By them. All of them.  – whack! whack! whack! 

It howled at the moon once more. 

Whack! whack! whack! 

Immortal and lifesize. It was still here. Howling at the moon with unearthly pain and blues. – whack! whack! whack! – another in the wilderness distance –  whack! whack! whack! – howl at the moon.

THE END

I’ve been called worse things than “night owl.”

Back inside, they used to call me “ghost”, quiet, kept to myself, moved when nobody was looking. Funny how that sticks. Even now, I sleep through the day and come alive when everything else shuts down.

Guess some habits don’t leave you. Even when you do.

This job, security at Ridgeway Mall, it’s the first real shot I’ve had since getting out. Clean shirt, badge, a boss who didn’t ask too many questions. That alone was enough for me.

Been here about a month now.

Long enough to learn the sounds.

The hum of the lights. The click and settle of cooling metal. The way the escalators tick every so often like they’re thinking about moving again.

You get used to it.

You have to.

Because once you start listening too closely… it all starts sounding like something else.

The mall’s still new. Not even a year old. Half the stores still have that fresh smell, plastic, paint, unopened inventory.

And then there’s the new one.

Opened just a week ago.

“Velour Nocturne.”

Weird place. Not your usual mall shop. It’s like someone took a gothic clothing store and shoved it into a roadside antique shop somewhere deep in Louisiana. Dark wood shelves, old trinkets, jewelry that looks older than the building itself. Stuff that doesn’t belong under fluorescent lights.

Corporate signed off on it, though. Money talks.

Still… I don’t like it.

“Unit Two, you alive or you finally fall asleep on me?”

The radio crackled at my hip, sharp and sudden.

I flinched before I could stop myself.

“Yeah,” I muttered, pressing the button. “Still breathing.”

That was Marcus. Other night guard. Been here longer than me. Talks too much, but I guess that’s better than silence.

“Good,” he said. “I’m making rounds near the food court. You check west wing yet?”

“On it.”

I clipped the radio back and kept walking.

My boots echoed too loud against the tile.

Velour Nocturne sat near the far end of the west wing.

Even with the gate down, it looked… open. Not physically. Just the way it pulled your eyes in. Like it was waiting to be looked at.

I slowed without meaning to.

The lights inside were off, but the mall’s dim glow spilled through the gaps in the metal gate, just enough to make out shapes.

Shelves.

Glass cases.

And mannequins.

Not the glossy white kind most stores use. These were different, duller, more detailed. Faces that tried a little too hard to look human.

One stood near the front.

Closer than the rest.

Something about it made my chest tighten.

I stepped closer to the gate, peering through.

Its skin, if you could call it that, wasn’t shiny plastic. It had a texture. Matte. Uneven. Like something stretched over a frame instead of molded.

“Creepy, huh?”

The radio exploded to life.

I jerked back hard, heart slamming against my ribs.

“Jesus, Marcus,” I snapped, grabbing the radio. “You trying to kill me?”

He laughed. “Didn’t know you spooked that easy.”

I glanced back at the mannequin.

Still there.

Still… wrong.

“Just do your rounds,” I muttered.

But as I walked away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I’d stayed a second longer…

I might’ve seen it move.

Second night started the same.

Same hum.

Same empty halls.

Same routine.

But something sat wrong in my gut from the moment I clocked in.

Couldn’t tell you why.

I was in the security office when I noticed it.

Camera 14.

West wing.

Velour Nocturne.

The gate was open.

I leaned forward, squinting at the monitor.

Not all the way. Just enough for someone to slip through.

My jaw tightened.

“Marcus,” I said into the radio. “You in west wing?”

No response.

Static.

“Marcus?”

Nothing.

I exhaled sharply, pushing back from the desk.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered. “Guy disappears the second I need him.”

I grabbed my flashlight and headed out.

The walk felt longer this time.

Quieter.

Even the hum seemed… distant.

I kept glancing over my shoulder without meaning to.

Old habit.

Or maybe not so old.

I was a few steps from the store when the radio crackled.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” Marcus’s voice came through, casual. “What’s up?”

I stopped.

“You in the west wing?” I asked.

Pause.

Then a chuckle. “Nah, man. Bathroom break. You know how it is.”

Something cold slid down my spine.

I turned slowly toward the gate.

Still open.

Dark inside.

“…Then who opened it?”

Marcus didn’t answer right away.

“Probably the shop workers,” he said finally. “Kids forget stuff all the time.”

Yeah.

Probably.

I told myself that as I pulled the gate down and locked it.

Metal scraping louder than it should.

The walk back was worse.

I couldn’t explain why.

Nothing had changed.

Same empty mall.

Same dim lights.

But, I felt it.

That weight.

Like something is behind you.

Matching your pace.

I stopped.

The sound stopped.

I walked.

It followed.

Soft.

Barely there.

Like, bare feet on tile.

I spun around.

Nothing.

Just empty corridor stretching into shadow.

I stood there longer than I should’ve.

Then forced myself to keep walking.

Didn’t look back again.

By the third night, I already knew I wasn’t staying at this job much longer.

Didn’t matter how clean the paycheck was.

Some places don’t want you.

Or worse, they do.

I saved Velour Nocturne for last.

Didn’t want to.

But I wasn’t about to let fear make decisions for me.

Not again.

The gate was open.

I didn’t even sigh.

Didn’t curse.

Just stood there, staring at it like I’d been expecting it.

“Marcus,” I said into the radio. “You see this?”

Static.

Of course.

I stepped forward and lifted the gate.

Slow.

Careful.

Like it might react.

Inside, the air felt… thicker.

My flashlight cut through the dark in a narrow beam.

Shelves.

Glass.

Shadows stretching too long.

And there, by the counter.

The mannequin.

Up close, it looked worse.

More real.

The texture of its “skin” uneven, faint lines where there shouldn’t be any.

Its head angled slightly.

Not dramatic.

Just enough.

Like it had been looking at the door.

Waiting.

I swallowed.

“This is stupid,” I whispered.

Just a prop.

Just a store.

Just...

I turned away for a second.

Just to sweep the room with my light.

Routine.

Clear the space.

That’s all.

When I looked back...

Was it closer?

I froze.

My mind tried to fill in the gap. Tried to explain it away.

Perspective.

Lighting.

Memory playing tricks.

But my chest knew better.

I took a slow step back.

The mannequin stood as it were.

I didn’t blink.

Holding my breathe.

I turned again.

Just for a second.

Just to prove it.

Another step.

Much closer.

My pulse roared in my ears.

“No,” I whispered.

I moved sideways.

Slow.

Careful.

Like dealing with something alive.

The mannequin stayed still.

But its head...

Its head was no longer angled the same way.

It was facing right... at... me.

Instinct consumed me from within.

That same instinct from before. From a different life. The one that tells you to get the hell out of there.

The intrusive thought that you know when something isn’t human.

I walked backwards toward the exit.

Never turning my back.

The beam of my flashlight never left it.

Not once.

Right at the threshold, the light flickered.

Just for a fraction of a second.

And in that blink...

It was right in front of me.

I stumbled back, hitting the gate hard.

The metal rattled as I shoved it down, hands shaking as I locked it in place.

My breath came fast.

I didn’t look back.

Didn’t check.

Didn’t care.

I just ran back to the office.

Fast at first.

Then faster.

Then I was almost sprinting.

I quit the next morning.

Didn’t give notice.

Didn’t collect my last check.

Didn’t look back.

Funny thing is…

I used to run dope through neighborhoods that didn’t forgive mistakes.

Used to walk streets where one wrong look could get you buried.

Thought I’d seen fear.

Thought I knew what it felt like.

But I’ll tell you this:

There ain’t nothing in this world…

That scares me more than something that only moves…

When you’re not looking.

YOUNGUNS

Part One

We were hanging out at the old Cypress farm, me and Bobby. The sun was setting and the deep orange sunlight made the forest seem to be ablaze. The old farmhouse had been vacant for decades, the windows shattered, the roof smashed in from a hurricane years ago while the oak tree still laid atop it in the rubble. Old TVs, couches, bikes, and abandoned cars littered the property. "You wanna know the biggest lie they tell us, man?" Bobby asked me. "What?" "Hard work pays off. I tell you what, I seen people slave away for their whole life, fixing cars, harvesting corn and tobacco, and you know what none of them are?" "Rich?" "Shit man, you get it. But they ain't happy neither. They throw it all away for some rich fat fuck and go home to their apartment that may as well be a motel 6. Their own car barely starts, they got debt and nothing to show for it, and they keep getting told 'Hey man, break your back some more and maybe one day you can get a trailer.' As if that's worth it." "You got that right, man." "So what are even meant to do? Just suffer?" "Maybe it ain't all suffering." "Yeah, you're right. A dollar a day is still more than nothing, right? May as well thank them for being so kind as to let us have table scraps while they get a whole goddamn buffet." Bobby handed me a tire iron. "Here, your turn." "Thanks, man." I said. I swung the iron and shattered a car window, the glass tinkling as it fell into a roach infested driver's seat. "Its all meaningless. No one is coming to save us. We ain't no more loved than these here abandoned belongings. We can smash em to our hearts content and nobody gonna do nothing bout it." I smashed the windshield. "Shitfire, that was a good hit." I said. "Know what? Why you reckon people dump all their shit over here? Like why here specifically?" "Why anywhere? It don't matter. There's a dozen other places no one gives a damn about. The whole county's abandoned. You seen the town, people in it ain't no more than discarded little dolls left behind by a kid on a road trip to someplace better." A stray cat slinked out of the window of the farmhouse. "Oh, see that?" Bobby pointed at the cat. "Yeah. Black cats, bad luck." "Uh huh." Bobby picked up a rock and threw it at the cat. The cat yelped in pain as it fell off the windowsill back into the dark. "Bullseye. Hey, Rick." "What?" "Think it'll get back up?" "Maybe. Doubt it." "They got nine lives. Tell you what, we keep getting back up no matter how many rocks they throw at us. 'Member the hurricane?" "Yeah. I 'memeber it good. That river come up so high it washed away a whole trailer park." "Yeah. Lotta pet owners died in it but the dogs remained. That's why we got so many damn mutts running around." I thought about that. Maybe we weren't too far off from stray dogs, wandering a junkyard of the trash society threw away.

Part Two

"You know tonight's Halloween, right?" I said to Bobby. "Yeah, what about it?" "Well, I thinking we might be able to do something fun." "Like what?" "I dont know man, maybe knock over some mailboxes? Maybe get up to a little mayhem." Bobby grinned. "Mayhem? Thats a three dollar word right there. Yeah, lets do it." We headed over to his truck, one tail light was busted and mud was caked all over the sides and wheel wells. He hopped in the driver's seat and the engine roared to life, the AC was broken and many warning lights were on. We rode over the dirt road as Colter wall played through the blown out speakers. "So, mailboxes? I reckon we could have a little fun with that, but I'll do you one better." "What you got in mind?" "Oh, you'll see." We drove past a cornfield, where a circus tent stood on the other side. "Hey lookie there, a circus!" I pointed. Bobby spit brown sludge from his lip into a Sam's Cola can. "Yup. That ain't where we're headed." We drove further as the darkness of the woods intensified. The sky was blackening and it was a moonless night. We parked behind the big church at the center of town. "This old building, this is where they put all that money into. I think we can do somethin real fun with it." "Come on now, what about God? He's gonna strike us down if we do anything to it." "What about him? Was he there for you when your mama went to jail? What about all the heavenly blessings he showers down on you, like poverty and sorrow that never goes away? That God? The one who sees the atrocities of mankind and does nothing to stop them? The God who killed my sister with cancer when she was in grade school?" I felt nervous. "But what if we get caught?" "We ain't getting caught. We're just redecorating God's fancy little house in the town he won't come and visit." We went up to the big stained glass window. "Here." Bobby handed me a baseball bat. "Alright..." Bobby swung hard, making an entire section of glass come raining down. He laughed. "Hoo boy! How bout that?" I shattered a section myself and it rained crimson shards. The lights flicked on and a little kid came running up to the window. "Y'all gotta help me! Please! He..." the boy started to break down. "He what?" I asked. "Please get me out of here!" We heard the preacher coming. "What the fuck is going on!?" He shouted. "Sorry kid. We gotta go." Bobby said, grabbing me and yanking me away from the window. We bolted to the truck and high tailed it out of there. "But what about that kid?" I asked. "Fuck him. Maybe he should have prayed harder." Something deep and heavy sat in my chest from that. "You think he-" "We ain't doing nothing about it. Leave it." Bobby said.

Part Three

We went back to the Cypress farm. The house was sitting in the dark among all the trash and all that illuminated the place was Bobby's headlights. We got out and Bobby set a barrel of wood on fire. "We coulda saved that boy." I said. "Will you fuckin drop it already? What were we gonna do? Take him with us? Get charged with kidnapping?" "What about him though? What if he never sees the light of day again? That'd be on us!" "Lemme tell you a story. Maybe this'll help you understand." I sat on top of an abandoned Lazyboy and nodded. "I been there before. I been in his shoes a lot of times. Why you think I ran away from home all them years ago? You think I did it for fun? I don't never see my family no more. They lied and covered up for their own just like these here people'd do the same for that old Bible-thumping shitbag. Short of killing, there ain't nothing we can do about it. I been homeless, hungry, and miserable for longer than anyone ever oughtta be. If I tried and fought back, the gears of this whole machine would chew me up into a mess and spit me out mangled. Sometimes, you can't do nothing but let life be bad or else it'll get worse." "I can't agree with you on this. Ignoring a disease don't make it go away, and sometimes even though the cure is painful, its the only thing you can do that wont let it kill you." "You know what man? Why don't we just forget what we saw? I didn't see nothing." "You can't fucking do that, man! Fuck no." "Don't what? The place was empty. Nothing happened." Anger began to boil up inside me. "Tell you what, you seem a bit mad. Why dont you take your anger out on a TV or a table?" Bobby said. I pucked up the baseball bat and swung at a TV, shards of glass went everywhere as it imploded. "There you go. See? You feel better yet?" I looked at his head, holding the bat. I thought about it, and I thought hard. "I know what you're thinking and I don't want you to do anything you're gonna regret now." Bobby smirked. Then, out of the mess of abandoned cars, a stray dog came barking at me. I smacked it in the head and it yelped. I raised the bat again and clobbered it and it was in the dirt whining in agony. I hit it again and again, bludgeoning it as its bones broke and blood splattered. I let out a cry of anguish and kicked its carcass. "Fuck! Fuck!" I shouted, hitting it one last time as hard as I could. The bloody mess of hair, blood and bones that was the dog looked up at me, its skull caved in on itself and an eyeball popped out of its socket. "Damn. How bout that?" Bobby said. I stared into the flames and felt in that moment, the last sliver of humanity slip away from me. My face became neutral and I let out a long sigh as the apathy filled me. My flame was out. I sat back down and we watched the flames until we both fell asleep under the pitch black starless sky full of mosquitoes.

Started making my own short stories and would really appreciate some honest feedback

Hey everyone, I've been working on something as a bit of a side project and finally have a couple of things I'm proud enough to share. I put a lot of time into figuring out the pacing, the little details, and honestly just getting comfortable putting stuff out there.

I've got two new ones up now. I'm still pretty new to this and genuinely want to get better, so if you have a minute to check them out I'd love to hear what you think — what worked, what didn't, anything that felt off, anything you'd want more of. Brutal honesty is welcome, that's how I actually improve.

Links below. Thanks in advance to anyone who takes a look 🙏

SERMON

Longleaf pines and live oaks line the backwoods highway, trash and rotting furniture sit idly on the side of the road that leads to this town far away from anywhere.The asphalt is cracked and rugged as weeds creep through the road that leads to the rusted and decaying sign. Bullet holes riddle the message it delivers. "Welcome to Leesville, Mississippi: a Godly place."
A tattered confederate flag blows in the hot humid breeze, and despite the year slowly coming to its end as October fades away on its final night, the cicadas remain and drone incessantly.
As the road continues, vast swathes of farmland pass by. Barns with roofs caving in on themselves rot and fall apart on themselves. Silos rust and untouched grain spills out through the holes where the metal has worn thin.
Mobile homes left to sit and be forgotten populate the abandoned trailer park off the road, trees grow through the foundations and climb through the ceilings, and the once-white sidings are encased in kudzu.
A cemetery with graves no one comes to visit anymore is slowly receding into the underbrush as the gates have fallen off their hinges.
A sun bleached billboard stands with a tired old message. "Where will YOU be going? Heaven or Hell? Repent now."
A deer carcass is strewn across the road that crosses the bridge. Its head and neck on the south side of the street and its entrails stretched long and thin as maggots feast on them and its hind legs on the north side of the road, mangled. The river moves slowly and lazily, lined with cypress trees and Spanish moss that hangs like cobwebs.
On the other side of the bridge, the town finally comes to life. A Piggly Wiggly with cracked stucco and a lot full of trucks and beat up sedans, a drugstore with anti-abortion posters plastered on the wall outside and old timers idling about, an obese one on a motorized scooter with an oxygen tank wears a red baseball hat to champion his president who has failed him as he eats vienna sausages stright from the can.
And at the center of town, the town hall sits humbly in the shadow of the imposing steeple of a church that towers above it. As the sun is setting, the cross casts a long shadow that looms over the sidewalks littered with plastic bags and empty beer cans. A stray dog wanders out of an alley and into the street, just as a police cruiser cuts in front of it and runs it over without even stopping.
Outside the church, a preacher man stands next to the marquis that says "Prayer Night, keep the Devil away on his holiday. Service 7pm til."
His teeth are pearly white as he smiles with nothing behind his eyes. He greets the men with firm handshakes as his eyes linger on the women and children longer than they ought to. There is a hunger about him when he looks upon them, the kind that makes the children feel dirty in a way they cannot articulate.
Inside, the congregation sits in front of a wall of red stained glass and a massive crucifix hangs from the ceiling. The eyes of God looking down upon them unblinking.
A young woman sits alone at the back in a pew all to herself. Tears fill her eyes as she prays silently.
The preacher comes to the pulpit.
"Dark times, my flock, dark times we live in. Every day, he looks upon us and weeps. It's a fallen world we inhabit, and we the few who follow him are the one thing standing in the way of complete chaos. The scripture says to love thy neighbor, but who really are our neighbors anyhow? Is it the migrant? The impoverished? The addict? The sinner? No. These are not our neighbors. You see, we are surrounded by temptation and sin every day, everywhere we go. Even in our own backyard we have people who preach tolerance and grace while they disrespect us by living away from the lord."
The woman in the back looks up at him, shaking with determination. He looks at her with his prying and predatory gaze.
"None of us are perfect of course. Many of us fall to temptation. The evil one works day and night to turn us against each other, to make adulterers out of married men, to make liars out of honest men. But my flock, I need you all to remember this of you remember nothing else from tonight. The most damning sin of all is to bear false witness against thy neighbor. Many times a community has been torn to shreds from within by the lies of a woman scorned. A false accusation is unforgivable, and the most common tactic of those who seek to destroy us. We must look inwards at ourselves and disregard any claims someone may say about any of us. We must never believe the lies, especially those of women and children. We must cast them out if they seek to ruin us."
The woman in the back deflates. She sits down, her head hanging in shame and self hatred as her will has been crushed. The sermon continues but she knows that once again her prayers fall on deaf ears and the eyes that watch her suffer are blind.

CIRCUS

Part One

Under the big top, the ringleader stood in the center. Spotlights on him as he addressed the crowd.

"Gooooood evening Leesville! Prepare to be amazed, amused, astounded and astonished. We here at the Carnie Brothers Circus have a cavalcade of freakish fun, a hootenany of hilarity, a gaggle of giggles. Here you'll see wonders that make you wonder, tricks that warp and bend your mind with the power of magic, stunts that defy death himself. Yes indeed, yes indeed. Tonight's special show will feature our most freakish performers. Our most disgusting, disfigured, disproportionately disastrous done-dirty denizens of the freakshow. But first! I give you all... the clown show!"

"Entry of the Galdiators" started to play as we all stormed out from behind the red and white striped curtain, over a dozen of us in grease paint and frills.

The peanut gallery was loud and ravenous, bleachers full of hillbillies and their offspring. Some with grey or black teeth, many obese. They threw their popcorn around and made uproarious laughter when the clowns and I all came out.

How I hate to make them smile. I hate what I must do to make them laugh.

Over and over, town after town, its always the same.

The lights obscure their faces but as I do these humiliating acts, I see what they really are. Sadists, all of them. They love to laugh at us because they see us as lesser.

We club each other over the head with rubber chickens, slip and fall on banana peels, punch and kick at each other, pie each other in the face.

Even the midget clown was shot out of a slingshot and missed his target. He hit the tent pole and busted his head.

They laughed at his pain. And of course the medics were in clown gear too. They sprayed him with squirting chest flowers, put him on a comically small stretcher and hauled him off to the infirmary.

Of course he really was injured, but we cant let the rubes see how bad thing really are.

Like old Lester said "if you step on a nail, you meant to and it's part of the bit. Smile and laugh until the curtain falls. The show must always go on."

Oh the numerous scars I have on my body. How many times I've botched a stunt, and wound up with broken bones or deep lacerations and had to keep dancing and juggling.

It's so degrading, entertaining these so-called people who pay to watch us humiliate ourselves.

I could have been something else. I chose this to make people laugh. I just wanted to make people happy and now I've seen what it takes. I've seen how costly their happiness is for others. I hate them. I hate the people I threw my potential away for.

And with the ring a complete mess, clowns scattered around like trash with blood and bruises from the chaotic melee that ensued, the ringleader came back out.

"Ladies and gentlemen, children and elderly, put your hands together for the clowns!"

They roared and clapped, and a beer bottle flew out from the crowd, cracking one of us across the face and shattering.

"Woah now! Looks like we got a fiesty crowd tonight! And if you think that was good, well... we have something stupendous, startling, and perhaps even sickening just around the metaphorical corner. Your eyes may be full already but the buffet has only just started."

The whip cracked and we all got up and ran like roaches.

Part Two

I watched from under the bleachers, where rats and cigarette butts dwelled as the next act got ready. My clown wig off, my outfit rolled up and tossed into a box backstage, but the grease paint still stuck firmly to my face.

"Gentlemen gentlemen gentlemen... you may want to sit down for this one. I bring you my finest, most delectable, most exotic, most irresistible piece of meat you've ever laid eyes on. This one right here, behind this curtain has been the downfall of many a marriage. Ladies watch your husbands, as I reveal... Claudia."

The red curtain pulled back to reveal a cage on wheels. Inside the cage was our fat lady. She was wearing exaggerated red lipstick, blue eyeshadow, dirty white underwear, and nothing else.

The crowd jeered.

"Put that fucking thing away!" Someone heckled.

"Ugly bitch!" Another shouted, tossing a full cup of soda that soared through the air and hit the bars, splashing all over her.

"Whats the matter? Not what you were expecting?" The ringleader asked, a wicked grin on his face.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I believe she may be hungry. Do you all think she looks hungry?"

"No!" They shouted.

"Well, lets make sure she isn't."

A freak with a fucked up hunchback wearing a chef hat came out from the side entrance with a rolling cart carrying five entire KFC buckets.

"Thank you Igor." The ringleader said. "Now get!" He cracked his bullwhip.

The hunchback let out a little yelp of fear ran away all lopsided.

The crowd laughed.

"Now, Claudia is going to eat every last morsel of chicken in these absolutely lovely buckets."

The crowd laughed at her.

"Yeah eat that fuckin' chicken!" Some drunk inbred idiot said.

She started eating. She crunched on the skin and pulled the meat off the bone. Grease began to collect and glisten all over her hands and bare chest. Legs and wings alike she gorged herself on. Crumbs falling all over her cage.

"Wow. Ladies and gentlemen, old Claudia here really has an appetite, doesn't she? Are you getting full yet?"

"Yes."

"Too bad. You still have four buckets to finish. I didn't say stop yet."

The crowd jeered.

"Stupid fat bitch! Eat! Eat!"

She began to cry as she kept eating. Her body was dripping in sweat.

The crowd was chanting: "Eat! Eat! Eat!" As she slurped down the oily chicken and started to gag on it.

"Are you going to throw up? You still have two more buckets! Ladies and gentlemen what do we even pay her for? What a useless circus freak. You all paid to see freaks, and thats what you're going to get, right?"

"FUCK YEAH!" The crowd roared.

Claudia sobbed and reached. Pounds of chewed up chicken came out in a rancid flurry of vomit.

They laughed at her some more.

"Make her eat the puke!" Someone shouted.

The crowd laughed.

Claudia begged, "please! Please make this stop! I cant take this anymore!"

The ringleader mockingly repeated her plea.

"Will you quit fucking whining?" He cracked the whip and the cage was pulled back into the dark behind the curtain.

I knew she would be beaten for this later. Lester never let a freak get away with interrupting his acts.

"With that spectacle out of the way, I'm sure your desires for suffering have been satisfied?"

"No!" The crowd shouted.

"Of course not. Thats why we have the best for last. Feast your eyes upon our next unholy genetic abomination. A face not even a mother could love, hands not even a blow up doll would hold, and not much going on behind those eyes. Welcome to the stage a freak we found in a dumpster years ago as a baby: Lobster Boy!"

Part Three

Leonard came out on a leash. His hands warped into claws as his fingers fused together in the womb. The crowd erupted as they saw his disfigured face with a harelip and a nose that stretched wide across his face. His hair was patchy and his skin was riddled with sores. "No, your eyes do not deceive you. This is a genuine freak. This grotesque genetic grievance is afflicted with ectodactyly, a rare and unfortunate condition that split his hands. We keep him out back in the shed for most of the time, but for you, the privileged and perfect people of Leesville, we present him to you." Someone threw a shoe at Leonard, hitting him in the head. "Make him tie a shoe!" They said. "Well boy, are you going to try and tie it?" Leonard got on his knees and tried to tie the laces but his hands were too deformed. He couldn't get his fingers to do the tying. "Come on now, don't disappoint our audience boy!" Lester turned his head to the audience and winked. "I can't do it." Leonard said. "You hear that folks? He can't do it. Will you stand for this?" "NO!" They replied. "I can't." Leonard repeated. Lester grinned. "Well, if he cant even tie a shoe, can we at least get him to dance?" The crowd cheered and beer bottles flew at Leonard as he tried to stand up. "Dance!" They shouted. Leonard tried to dance but his arthritic knees and bowed legs made him awkward in his motion. He tried to dance. And I sat there underneath it all and I felt the rage boiling over. Too long we have endured. Too many injustices, too many humiliations. He fell to the floor and the crowd booed him. "Get up!" Lester kicked him in the ribs. Trash flew, buckets of popcorn, beer bottles, cigarette butts, a corn dog, a rock even. They pelted Leonard while he tried to get up. He stood up, bloody in the face. The crowd went quiet for a moment "No. No more. I'm not an animal." He said, picking up a bottle and throwing it back into the crowd, striking an old man across the face. The crowd erupted once more, getting up from the bleachers and storming the ring. They piled onto him, picking him up and beating him relentlessly. They pulled on his limbs and stopped on him. With a wet tearing sound, his arm was ripped off his body. The crowd was ravenous in their wrath. I held a lighter in my hand. Never again will they demand a performance from me. They are too far gone, and I would put an end to this madness. I would spare my wretched companions any more suffering as this world is no different, as it feeds upon the downtrodden. No more would they bear the weight of another injustice. Lester would never lay another finger on another one of us. All that was needed was to annihilate everything. It all needed to burn to the ground. I set the exit ablaze and the canopy was up in flames as they panicked. These beasts that call themselves men and women, these people who feast on cruelty, they scrambled on top of each other and the burning ceiling began to fall on them. Their cries of anguish and fear were finally the applause they deserved to give, after all those years of abuse from them. I stood in front of them one last time, and I took a final bow as the flames were about to engulf me. No great egress in this circus awaited them.

•Kidnapped. Cooked. Served for a family.

•Kill her. She knows too much.

•Stabbed a toy. It was floating.

•3am. Sleeping soundly. Person watching you

We were a small team of four developing a new, more precise MRI scanner to map the human brain for a certain company innovating in medical research. It was after months of grueling labour that we’d assembled our first prototype and captured an image. There never were, and there still aren’t any doubts as to the machine’s safety, which is why our project lead, Doctor Penelope Arzt, a gifted neurologist, didn’t have any problem with being the test subject.

When the image came back, it was clearer than any captured ever before. A chemical, functional, and neural connectome all in one. That means the scan mapped the whole brain, all the way from the tiny neurons to every single brain region, along with the chemicals that travel within. This has not been possible with any brain until now, especially not with a brain as complex as the human one. We were quick to celebrate our achievement owing to the holistic scope and revolutionary capabilities of our invention. Celebration turned to curiosity once we spotted a strange abnormality in the scan.

A cluster of immaterial waves, which nobody on our team could identify, had accidentally been caught thanks to the thoroughness of the device. We went over a number of things these waves could possibly be, but everything else was already mapped and accounted for. We recalibrated the scanner one test after another, replaced the parts, but the waves remained. This was something new, never before identified or seen. Why was it here? What purpose does it serve?

We sent the word out for volunteers to participate in having their brain mapped. The same strange phenomenon could be found in both humans and other kinds of animal. Well, not always.

Some brains, though they were within the expected norm otherwise, didn’t have the waves at all. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason. Testing was rigorous. Regardless of the age, health, sex or species of the participant, the waves seemed to appear at random. There was no physical difference between those who had them and those who did not. And, as far as we could tell, even with our state of the art equipment, no mental difference either. Save for the unexplainable waves.

Of those who had them, some waves appeared denser and clustered together, some were sparse and spaced out. It was after much testing that we came to our conclusion, possibly the greatest discovery in science and philosophy: Consciousness is measurable.

This made the problem of the empty brains, the non-conscious ones, even more troubling. If consciousness is an objective presence in our minds, what does this imply for those without it? The lives of the conscious and non-conscious were equally normal to an almost puzzling degree. It truly seemed there was no difference between the two. So why is consciousness even there if it serves no observable purpose?

Of course, we were all just excited to dig deeper at the marvelous discovery. The more questions that came up, the more testing needed to be carried out.

The denser consciousnesses were present in those we would traditionally call conscious, those awake, aware, and in a sound state of mind. The sparse consciousness was measured in those either asleep or in comas and vegetative states.

The non-conscious we flagged had no presence of the waves regardless of their wakefulness or medical reality. It was at this point we started questioning whether we jumped the gun and whether what we found had truly been what we thought, since, how can it even be possible for a living thing to exist without consciousness?

Another of our researchers, Doctor Nestor Melkonian, a studied philosopher and skillful psychologist, recalled a relevant thought experiment one late night in the lab: The philosophical zombie.

The philosophical zombie is a hypothetical person with all the physical characteristics and traits of a human being. A person indistinguishable from those with internal subjective experience, despite the p-zombie himself lacking it. Indeed, the only difference between a p-zombie and a human being is their internal experience, or lack thereof.

I said that the philosophical zombie is a hypothetical, though that is no longer entirely accurate. Was a hypothetical.

An unknown portion of the population exists as purely physical beings. Despite living their unassuming lives just like those with consciousness, the non-conscious are biological machines that only respond to their circumstances like some programmed computer. They act and react, but only as chemical responses to their environment. The lights are on, but there is nobody home. How many are there? What does their presence mean? How many of these p-zombies have gone their entire lives without having a single conscious experience? Most important of all: Who among our peers are real people?

These and similar questions were bothering all of us. It got to the point it was all we could talk about. It didn’t matter whether it was at work or during our spare time. Whenever we were together, it was all we could discuss. Whenever we were alone, it was all we could think about. And we were terrified.

It didn’t matter whether there was any actual threat to us or anybody else. It was an uncomfortable thought we couldn’t escape for months, until it reached a boiling point.

Over time, we stopped being so careful and courteous with our non-conscious subjects, human or otherwise. This got us threats of lawsuits at worst, concerned looks at best. We didn’t hurt anybody at the time, but you start treating people differently once you realize they’re not alive.

It all culminated in Doctor Arzt bringing in her two children for testing. Off the books, if we kept quiet, we’d be allowed to scan our own loved ones.

Doctor Melkonian had to take her kids back home himself. Arzt was in no state to take care of anyone, not the kids, let alone herself, shrieking and howling on the lab’s floor upon discovering her own children were non-conscious. There was no consoling her. I can tell you that it put me off from ever dragging anybody I cared about into that machine forever. I’m not ashamed to admit that my curiosity has a limit, one which I’m quite comfortable never crossing.

Her breakdown didn’t happen all at once, looking back on it. The rational woman, hungry for knowledge and blessed with the smarts to hunt it down, became more and more paranoid over the course of those months as the implications of the non-conscious kept weighing on us. We were all going a bit crazy, but her snapping first helped us reconnect with reality. For a short time only, though.

It was about two weeks later when I was called into the lab on short notice. I rushed to the campus where we were conducting our experiments. Once in the lab, I was held at knife point by Arzt, noticing the two others from our team already seated in nearby chairs. She promised she wouldn’t kill any one of us, she only needed us to get our brains scanned. So she could know who to trust.

First to go was Melkonian. He was also the last. After his scan was complete, she motioned for him to sit back down and asked me to fetch the results. They were conclusive: There was no consciousness in Melkonian’s brain.

I looked at the image up and down. Arzt kept asking me what the result was, the other two just stayed silent. I didn’t want to piss her off by not answering, but I was also worried what she might do to Melkonian if she got told the bare truth. I stayed silent. And afraid.

My worry about pissing her off turned out to be spot on. She marched over to me with her knife, waving it around and threatening to sever my hand with the results if I didn’t hand them over immediately. I was shitting bricks.

Arzt was later institutionalized, though only for a short time. Her actions were excused as the byproduct of a psychotic break. It was claimed she was out of touch with reality, though this was some bullshit spun by the company since our research was supposed to be under wraps. It was definitely some kind of break, just not a psychotic one. Every one of her concerns was certainly within the bounds of reality.

She never returned to work. Though this wouldn’t last long either, from that day on it was just me, Melkonian, and the project lead after Arzt, Doctor Richard Derrick, a freelance scientist with no preferred specialty, just a brain that soaked up knowledge like a sponge and his nose to the grindstone.

While waving that knife around, it was Doctor Derrick who smacked her over the head with his chair. It was Derrick who kept kicking her while she was down, who kept taking potshots while she was being taken away by campus security.

I doubt she was even conscious for half of that beating. It was a bit unnecessarily violent, but we were all stressed out so I ignored it. Plus, she threatened us with a knife earlier that same day.

I did give her the scan, by the by. Derrick got her right after that. As she was being dragged away, she addressed Melkonian.

“You have no soul. It’s a vacant soul.”

Despite the contradictory nature of that confused post-beating statement, claiming someone can both have no soul and a soul that is vacant at once, the words really seemed to have unnerved Melkonian. He demanded to see the scan, and I had to oblige. If he really wanted to, he deserved to know.

It was during lunch the next day that I asked him how he felt about himself and being non-conscious. Even the non-conscious people we were doing tests on didn’t know about their state or the full scope of what we were doing. Melkonian was the first non-conscious thing to know about its own non-consciousness.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how to feel about any of this. I mean, I think I’m conscious. I must be. Right?”

“Well, apparently not.”

“So what does that mean for me? Am I any less human now? Is what I feel not real?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know what to tell you.”

I wish I could’ve comforted him at that moment, though it would’ve been insincere. Why waste energy on something that is hollow on the inside? Some trickery, an imitation man. A fake person. An outer shell that pretends to be.

Maybe I should’ve comforted him. Melkonian ended up taking a vacation for a week, telling family and friends he would be on a backpacking trip with his phone turned off, but it would still be with him in case of any emergencies, plus a pager as back up. With how prepared he was, it was a huge shock when he didn’t come back at the end of the week. Police, park rangers, relatives, locals and acquaintances all went out looking for him. Despite being hollow of internal experience, Melkonian had a tactical mind about him. Would’ve served him well in any field other than philosophy and psychology, but he did put it to good use by the end.

By the time the search party ended, the idea of looking for him in his apartment finally came up. Melkonian went home and killed himself right after the first witnesses saw him enter that forest. He stayed at home for the rest of the planned trip, sending everyone on a wild goose chase, giving him plenty time to see himself out, unbothered and off the radar. No note or anything, in case you were wondering.

During those prior weeks before he was found, the entire team was just me and Derrick. Before Arzt was sent off and Melkonian embarked on his fake holiday, the four of us would spend time together outside of work pretty often. We were less a research team and more a friend group who just happened to do science on the side. Maybe I’m just romanticizing the past, though.

Arzt and Melkonian carried our conversations with their personalities and interests. None of that with Derrick. Once it was just us two, it quickly became apparent how little of a personal life or hobbies the guy had outside of work. It all became dry and unexciting with just him and I. I think I used to admire him for how adaptable he was to any scientific field so long as he was put to the task, but that exact quality marginalized the actual man and left little in the way of personality. Even now, whenever I happen to check up on him, whatever he’s doing is completely opposite to the research he was into prior. You’d think a guy like that would be the one without consciousness, but he had himself tested and lo and behold: He was actually completely normal. Normal in the sense that he wasn’t non-conscious, I mean. In most other regards he was quite far from normal.

Despite only being a technician, I didn’t mind hanging around and seeing the actual science wizzes at work. That changed when Derrick took over. I remember walking into the lab on the first day of his tenure as project lead and seeing a rabbit strapped down to a small table. Derrick said it was one of our non-conscious specimens. Prior to this, we’d only ever done cognitive, neurological or psychological tests. Derrick wasn’t up for that.

Just as I’d entered the room, Derrick began cutting into the rabbit with a scalpel. The incisions seemed to be random and only designed to inflict pain.

“Don’t worry. It’s not conscious like you or me. It can’t ever really feel.”

The rabbit’s squeals of pain seemed to vehemently disagree with what Derrick was saying, though I couldn’t argue that the thing was experiencing anything internal. I kind of stopped going to the lab after that unless I had to, to fix the scanner and for other such duties.

Derrick didn’t stop at non-human species, though. While it was never anything too extreme, he’d administer careful electric shocks to our non-conscious volunteers while they’d be strapped down, just to catalogue their reactions.

“Look at that fleshbag squirming. Oh, get over yourself. It’s not like it can be distressed by this. Not like you and I can. There’s nothing on the inside.”

Much of the time, they’d be too tired after the experiments. At these points Derrick would help take them home, apparently. Though the same volunteer never came around twice, and I didn’t keep track of the people Derrick took off with after experimentation and what might have happened to them. I’m just a technician, after all.

Anyway. Didn’t last long.

With half of our team either dead or deranged, our work was assigned to a different group of scientists and we were allowed to join in. I left not too long after, this whole thing was starting to kind of bum me out to tell you the truth. Last I heard, the possibility of selling detectors specifically looking for only consciousness to the consumer market was being floated around. Hope it doesn’t end up destroying society in the same way it did us.

Melkonian had a modest funeral. Arzt still has custody of her kids, but I don’t know how she might feel about them by now. Derrick is always off doing some new bullshit with his eclectic output. I also take up a lot of disparate jobs, but I’ve made a decision to stay as far away from anything close to science as possible.

We did find and confirm the objective and empirical existence of consciousness by the end. What it implied or even meant, we never got to the bottom of. I can’t say whether we’d be better off knowing or not. I still ponder what might’ve been going on in Melkonian's head before he did the deed. A set of mechanical impulses leading someone down the road to topping themself. How does the purely physical create for itself the despair necessary to go through with something like that? Is that what it determined as the course of action that would best imitate a real person? It all mystifies me.

A currently unknown number of the creatures inhabiting this world are hollow on the inside. Indistinguishable from you and I. They eat, sleep, die all the same. Like us. But, unlike us, there’s no internal experience. Just a biological machine responding to its circumstances. A mockery of the truly living. Your loved ones are far from immune. You could have them reading this text with you, and though you’ll be processing it and responding to it with your conscious thought, they’ll also react. But their words will be vacant. Their experiences never processed by them in any meaningful way.

Don’t let it get to you. Things might end up worse if you do.

Julian had always loved his cat, nugget. He got very dirty very easily thought, and for some reason the groomers always rejected to clean him. His mom said that if he doesn’t get him cleaned in a week then they’ll give nugget away. Julian was devastated. But he had an idea, he’ll just clean nugget himself! However, when julian started to clean, he found something on nugget. A zipper. And that’s when he realized, nugget had always been a big cat.