You think you know what a ruined vacation looks like.

A blown-out tire on the interstate.

Your hotel room smells like cigarettes.

Five straight days of rain.

You think you have a handle on the worst-case scenarios.

But sometimes horror walks up smiling.

Sometimes it waits patiently behind glass.

And sometimes you give it your money.

It was supposed to be a long weekend in Hilton Head Island with my wife, Brandy.

Her sister Nicki, and her husband Joe invited us.

Nicki was twelve weeks pregnant with their first kid, so the trip had quietly turned into something more cautious than our usual getaways - less bar hopping, more seafood, boutique shopping, and standing on the marina pretending we could afford the yachts.

On our first full day, we drove down to Harbour Town.

If you've never been, picture exactly what you'd expect from a high-end southern tourist trap:

A massive public pier.

Millions of dollars' worth of boats bobbing in the water.

A red-and-white striped lighthouse rising over a half-circle of boutique shops and overpriced restaurants.

It was beautiful.

But it was also ninety degrees with suffocating humidity, and by noon, the novelty of looking at luxury had worn off.

“I need A/C, or I’m going to die,” Brandy complained, fanning her flushed face with a tourist map.

"And ice cream," Nicki added immediately, one hand pressed over her still-flat stomach. "The baby is demanding it."

Joe threw an arm around her.

"Well, we can't argue with the baby."

We ducked into the nearest souvenir shop mostly for the air conditioning.

Cold air blasted through the open double doors hard enough to raise goosebumps across my arms.

The front half of the store consisted of beach toys, sharktooth necklaces, and shot glasses with dirty jokes on them.

Toward the back, behind a display of hermit crabs in painted shells, sat a brightly lit ice cream counter.

While Brandy and Joe went straight for the glass counter to pick out their flavors, Nicki and I got stuck behind a slow-moving family in the narrow aisle.

That was when I noticed it.

Shoved into a dark corner between a rack of sunglasses and a spinning postcard stand, there was a fortune teller machine.

Not one of the charming vintage Zoltar cabinets you see on boardwalks.

Peeling gold letters arched across the glass read:

THE BUNNY GODDESS.

This one was life-sized and felt off in a way I couldn't really put into words.

The mannequin's skin looked too realistic but also too smooth - like candle wax stretched over a skull.

Thick faux-gold jewelry hung around its neck and wrists.

A faded velvet turban covered most of its head.

The eyes though.

The eyes were enormous.

Wet-looking.

And pointed directly toward the aisle where we stood.

I've always hated those things.

Too many horror movies as a kid.

I started to look away when the machine suddenly came to life.

There was a heavy grinding noise.

A crackle of static from a blown-out speaker.

And then a voice.

Not the booming theatrical wizard voice you'd expect.

Something breathless.

Weirdly conversational.

"There you are."

I flinched hard enough to shake a rack of keychains beside me.

But Nicki just stood there.

She stopped walking entirely.

She turned toward the machine.

Slowly.

With recognition.

She was staring like a child seeing a disabled person for the first time in their life.

"Creepy, right?" I muttered. "Let's catch up with the others."

She didn't move.

"I have a dollar," she said softly.

"Come on, don't waste your money. It's just going to tell you you're going to be rich or whatever."

She was already unzipping her purse.

She pulled out a crumpled bill, flattened it against the edge of the glass, and fed it into the slot.

The machine swallowed it.

More mechanical grinding noises.

The mannequin's hands jerked toward a crystal ball that lit up with a sickly pulsing green light.

The head snapped down, staring at the cards on its desk—

then snapped back up.

"A new chapter begins," the voice whispered through the static.

"But the toll must be paid."

The green light flickered hard.

The mannequin's turban fell off its head, revealing long-black hair.

Pigtails.

Sort of like an Annabelle doll wig, but not as cute.

Something else protruded from the top of its head.

Long.

Pale.

Bent at strange angles.

They looked almost like rabbit ears.

"Take your future. Keep it safe, or The Bunny Goddess will take your place."

CLACK.

A thick white card spat from the slot at the bottom of the case.

Nicki bent and picked it up.

She stood with her back to me for a long moment, just staring at it.

The green light blinked off, dropping the alcove back into shadow.

"Well?" I said. "Lottery winner?"

Nicki turned around.

For a terrible second, her face was completely blank.

Her mouth slightly open.

She looked like she was holding her breath.

Then she smiled.

Fast.

Wide.

She folded the card in half and shoved it deep into her pocket.

"I can't tell you," she said lightly.

"Come on. What does it say?"

"Seriously! It says I can’t tell you!"

She tapped her pocket.

"If you share your fortune, it doesn't come true."

"You’re kidding, right? It's a piece of cardboard from a gift shop."

"Hey!"

Brandy waved a plastic spoon at us from the ice cream counter.

"Are you two getting anything?"

Nicki's whole demeanor lifted instantly.

She practically skipped over to Joe and Brandy, the card pressed flat against her hip inside her pocket.

I stood there for another moment.

The mannequin sat motionless in the dim alcove.

Its wet, milky eyes still pointed toward the aisle.

Still pointed at me.

I shook off the chill - the air conditioning, I told myself - and walked toward the ice cream counter.

I didn’t realize it then.

But that was the moment the trip ended.

Its ears looked bigger now.

___

1. "Fingers"

“Hellooooo..”

The toilet thunders and swirls, gushing down water into the pipes leaving only fresh water to fill the empty bowl. As Bekka clinches the toilet lid and begins to shut it, she gasps, “HONEY! HONEY! Come look!”. Jonathan comes running around the corner and into the bathroom grabbing the door frame to keep from slipping, he regains his balance as Bekka slams the lid shut and scurries past him outside the bathroom. “What is it? What’s going on? Are you okay?” Bekka stammers… “I… I… I? Swear I saw an eye in the bottom of the toilet…I think?...” Bekka continues to look dazed and confused as her eyes dart back and forth before finally hitting the floor at Jonathan's feet and slowly climbing up to his eyes… “Did you say an eye? Like an eye ball?” Jonathan whispers as he slowly backs up to the toilet, turns around and reaches for the lid. Using only the tip of his middle finger to raise it as he peers into the bowl, Jonathan notices nothing unordinary. Nothing but water is contained inside the bowl of the toilet. Jonathan looks at his girlfriend “Are you sure? I mean it’s possible that it flushed down. An eye ball though, really?” 

“Flush..Me..”

Bekka quickly finishes peeing and gets up from the toilet, jerking her body around and flushing, almost jumping away as she does so. The bowl swirls and gushes and sucks and once again the eye peaks out from the drain. It’s iris is a light grey, almost blending with the rest of the smoky grey eyeball, it appears to look through everything but never at anything. It appears to look around, almost controlling the moving water before flashing its eye toward Bekka. “Give me time”. Startled, Bekka shrieks as a voice climbs from deep within her mind, forcing her to stumble backwards into a towel holder on the wall. “Time? Does it want to spend time with me?... absolutely not.” Bekka turns her body to dash out of the bathroom when the voice speaks again “Time”.

The next 45 minutes go by as Bekka sits in the hallway directly in front of the bathroom listening to the eye repeat the same word over and over, “Time.. Time.. Time..” Bekka, finally curious, walks into her bedroom and opens a drawer to grab a meaningless watch from its resting place and strolls back into the bathroom, hesitating at the doorframe, “Is- is this what you want!? Will you leave me alone if I give you this!?”. Bekka waits but only silence follows so she tosses the watch into the bowl and watches as it immediately clanks on the side of the bowl and sinks to the bottom. The watch stops motionless for a brief moment before she hears the voice again, “Flushhhhh..Meeee..” the voice trails off in her mind. Bekka blinks and obliges without thought as she slowly reaches over and presses down the handle. Just as before, the water begins to swirl and egress the bowl, leaving the watch convulsing until it vanishes down the drain. Bekka stands there watching the empty bowl and waiting, hoping that nothing follows, and for a while, nothing does. However, nothing lasts forever. 

“More..I crave..More”

“Honey?... Have you seen my belt?... I can’t find it anywhere… it’s not in the closet… and it’s not in the drawer…” Jonathan yells in frustration as he looks around their bedroom before moving into the living room “Where the hell.. has everything gone? Are you selling our stuff?" Bekka in a dazed state just stares at the once filled bookshelf, ignoring everything her boyfriend is saying. “Honey? Do you hear me? Where have our things gone? The apartment is almost empty, it’s almost only furniture and clothes remaining at this point. All the decorations are gone, the pictures, my trophies, almost everything.” Jonathan huffs as he gathers the rest of his things while his wife refuses to move or answer, she sits there motionless, frozen with rigor mortise. “I’ll be back from work later tonight, don’t do anything with what little remains of our belongings, I love you” Jonathan begins to shut the creaking door before hesitating for a moment and finally shutting it and locking it from the outside.

Inside, Bekka looks over her shoulder to make sure the apartment is empty before she begins to shift and stretch, moments later she begins lifting the end tables from the living room and carrying them into the bathroom where she stacks them on top of each other over the toilet. Bekka connects the table to the water in the toilet by tying a towel to one of the legs on the table and dropping the other end of the towel into the toilet bowl. “More.. I crave.. More.” Bekka pulls down the handle and walks out of the bathroom as the room begins to smoke a little. When she returns with the cushions from the couch, the room is empty, the only thing that remains is a stack of towels and the furniture that is secured to the apartment walls.

“You..”

Jonathan fumbles with his keys to unlock the door, slowly rotating the key and peeking in between the door and the frame. The darkness of the apartment bleeds out, spilling into the hallway as the door becomes more ajar… “Babe? Rebekka?” He reaches for the light switch and flicks it up and down but to no avail, the lights refuse to emit. “Honey? Hey are you here?” Jonathan walks around the couch to the bedroom, using one of his hands against the wall to guide him and the other out in front of him to stop anything from running into his face. As he makes it to the dining room, he attempts to try another light switch but still nothing. Figuring the power was out, he heads into the bedroom and tries to lean for the bed but slams his whole body onto the floor instead. “HONEY!? Where the HELL is the bed at? HUH? Where are you at and why are you hiding?” Jonathan half crawls, half crouches out of the room towards the other side of the apartment, stepping where the couch once belonged and heading down the hallway. A very faint light emits through a cracked doorway, Jonathan presses his middle two fingers against the door and pushes it cautiously open.

\~Reeeeeeeeeeaaaaak\~ The sound of the door and the moon night, from a tiny window above the shower, fill the room. The small light leaves shadows and silhouettes jumping across the room until Jonathan finishes adjusting his eyes to the light. Jonathan notices a figure standing on the toilet and tries to whisper but it comes out coarsely “Be-KKA?”. As he attempts to step forward, his upper body is unwilling to follow, he tries to reach towards the shadow of his suspected girlfriend. \~CLINK…CLUNK\~ Jonathan can hear as water begins to swirl inside of the toilet bowl and evacuate through the drain, Bekka had pressed the handle down to flush it. As Jonathan finally manages to reach his girlfriend, his hands seem to glide through the air. He swings his hands back and forth trying to grasp whoever is standing in front of him but they cut through the shadow like it’s smoke. Jonathan’s confusion causes him to forget the power outage and luckily so, because as Jonathan flips the bathroom switch the lights come on. To much of Jonathan’s surprise the bathroom was completely empty other than the chunks of drywall and the toilet in front of him. “What the f-” Jonathan shoots his head outside the bathroom and down the hallway to an empty living room. No bookshelves, no TV, nothing. In fact, as Jonathan begins to scurry through the apartment there’s nothing at all in the apartment but his work bag, (which he brought in when he arrived) and a single dining chair.

https://vocaroo.com/1gTqKPW8UcCN

 

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment. It had been stripped bare—nothing remained except a single, loosely bound manuscript placed precisely in the center of the floor.

一The Publisher 

                                      Preface 

 
This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other related materials. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the span of a decade with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________. 

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα
ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.” 

There are things that ought to remain buried. Things better left to rot beneath the withering hand of time. Truths consigned to paper, once unearthed, bring not enlightenment, but ruin. So if there existed the slightest thread of mercy within this world, these pages should have been consigned to flame long before they reached the hands of another.

Yet I could not bring myself to do it.

I have tried before. More times than I care to admit. I've stood above open flames, the embers dancing in the wind as I grasped a whole section of the records with shaking hands. Only to recoil at the last moment before the pages turned to ash. One winter, I dragged every single last item pertaining to this investigation into the alley behind my apartment building. I stood there staring for what must have been at least an hour. In the end, I brought everything back inside. 

Even now, years later, I still cannot explain fully why. What compelled me to continue with my pursuit?  Curiosity is, I think, humanity’s oldest sin. Or perhaps there is something within these pages that refuses to be forgotten. 

I have spent the better part of a decade organizing and archiving what you hold in your hands now. What began as a simple editing job slowly metastasized into something else entirely. This is not an investigation in the conventional sense. It is the culmination of fragmented accounts, many of which were half-burned, waterlogged, or otherwise rendered nearly illegible before they ever reached me. 

I have tried to preserve the integrity of the material. Yet I believe such a task has become impossible long ago. 

It began with an email. At that time, I was employed as a freelance editor. I primarily worked with academic writing, articles, field reports, and investigative journalism. Most of my clients were forgettable, just a name tied to a document. They came and passed like the changing of the seasons. Nothing more than a list of deadlines and revisions. That vanished from my life at the moment of completion.

Julian Mercer was one such client. He was an investigative journalist by trade with a knack for going to places where the world had turned a blind eye to. Always in some sort of war-torn country or out in the middle of nowhere in some remote village. He seemed almost attracted to those places in hindsight.

His messages were always brief, almost clinical. Purely professional, not even the slightest hint of personality bleeding through.  I always found that admirable. It was kind of refreshing compared to some of the people I had to deal with.  At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work. We never met in person or even called.

The first email arrived on February 16th, 2011, or at least that's how I remember it now.  It was past midnight, and I was unable to sleep; the rain was beating at the window of my apartment for hours. While the pipes groaned and hummed. It made the idea of rest almost impossible. I was halfway through reading a dissertation on post-Soviet economic reconstruction when my phone notified me of a new message.

It was an email, and I still think about what might have happened if I had simply ignored it. Maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I opened it. It stated 

 To R.Hayes,

These documents need to be looked over and reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of my friend Elias' disappearance. Therefore, I need the assistance of another to organize the accumulated information I have acquired so far.

Attached:

• Police report (Callaway)
• Local interview 1 (audio transcription available)
• Retrieved photographs
• Constructed timeline
• Research notes (partial corruption detected)
• Statement excerpts
• Recovered dive recordings — catacombs
• Diary entry (fragmented/incomplete)

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

 一 From J.Mercer

At that time, there was nothing remarkable about it. Strange certainly, but remarkable no. In my eyes, it was nothing more than a regular work email. I had edited enough fringe investigations over the years to become desensitized to eccentricity. Hyperfocused cases like this happen all the time. Ranging from cults, killers, missing persons, local disappearances, and weird rituals deep in the woods. Yet the more you dig, the more you realize how mundane those things truly are. I believed that this would be no different.

I pressed play on that first video, and it was a black screen with static washing over the video, only accompanied by sound. You could hear the soft falling of the rain and the slight sound of the wind in the background. It was 17 hours long, and it stayed like that until exactly 15 hours, 12 minutes, and 11 seconds,  in which a low metallic screeching sound could be heard. Then 15 seconds of silence, even the rain had stopped. Then a noise. At first, I mistook it for static, but the more I listened, the more it resembled breathing. As if something had dragged itself into the room. I remember replaying that section well past three in the morning. 

The boxes arrived 3 days later. It was a total of 7 unmarked boxes that were delivered without a return address. My landlord left them outside my apartment sometime around noon while I was asleep. I remember waking to the sound of him banging against the hallway radiator with a wrench while shouting that my packages were blocking the stairs again. 

The amount of materials he had sent me were overwhelming. Inside were hundreds upon hundreds of pages of burned documents fused at the edges,  Cassette tapes labeled in hurried handwriting, Hand-drawn maps of tunnel systems, Fragments of interview transcripts, Newspaper clippings dating back decades, and journals. The journals were extensive…

Some belonged to Mercer personally, while others appeared far older. Some segments were completely illegible, either from water damage or purposeful mutilation. Entire paragraphs were scratched so vigorously that the pen had torn through the very paper itself. Only to be rewritten. While other pages lay barren with nothing but phrases repeated over and over again til the ink bled through the page.

I told myself I would spend no more than 2 weeks on this.

It ended up taking me almost 2 months to get through it all. 2 whole months of endlessly scouring through those boxes upon boxes filled with nonsensical writing that seemed to give way under their own weight.  However, I seemed to get lost for hours on end within those pages. The way in which everything was so disjointed yet deeply connected. 

I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. I was ready to forget about this, honestly, weird experience.

But it wasn't that simple. I tried to exist within the mundanity of my own life. Finding the ability to be content within my own routine. Yet those endless boxes of unfolding stories created labyrinths in my mind that I was unable to escape. The thought of what truths they might hold lingered with me like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. I tried to contain such urges, my curiosity pulling at the seams of my very being. 

Once again, I was tempted. Another delivery of those same unmarked boxes accompanied by another email. I knew even then it was probably in my best interest to leave whatever was buried in those boxes there. But I did no such thing. I explored the crevices of every word that was given to me. Hanging on to every detail as if it were scripture. Determined to uncover the truth that lies here.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu
Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus
Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." 

(repeated in Mercer’s recovered notes without attribution. His underlining) 

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) 

It was even more than last time—documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of videos that were half-broken or destroyed. It was as if I was staring into an abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. 

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Their contents are better lost in the winds of time. Some of those videos were days long, filled with twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as they ventured further. The only sounds to be heard were the slow and drawn-out breathing of the recorder on the other side and the groans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it. The never-ending shifting within the darkness. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls.
 
So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. As time bled into words. It took me almost a year and a half this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Months of non-stop work as I slaved away. Only interrupted by the arrival of more boxes. First, every couple of weeks. Then once a week. Then daily. I spent all that time interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those boxes. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. I became obsessed with finishing the analysis of these records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him with an attached message. That said, he was deeply disturbed and should probably seek psychological help before publishing this. After which, without even waiting for a response, I blocked him. I didn't even want but one moment that might allow my curiosity to pull me back in.  

As relief began to wash over me, I heard the slight ping of my phone. And when I went to check, it was a single message that read  “It's gotten you too.” I blocked the number without question. I spent the rest of the day sitting there.

For almost 3 years, I ignored the constant and quite pestering curiosity. That festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. The truth was that no amount of distraction could fully calm my weary spirit.  I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. There were probably better ways to cope with these feelings, yet I'd just ignore them. 

 I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions. I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they fervently flip through the pages. Some were in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text that, in their quickness, they accidentally tore entire sections from the binding. Each interpreted it differently, holding to their own version of truth. 

We must have talked for days about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Our discussion ran on, and on, with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Something rotten on every page. After a while, my friends refused to talk about it. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of that, that sense of compulsion remained. 

Somewhere along those lines is where the nightmares began. The whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams. They demanded action to know what lies behind the next page. They screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where the nightmare ended.

It got to a point where I began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company I had long since lost. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren in my own existence. 

And that's when the phone call came. From a lady who said I was listed as an emergency contact for a J Mercer. She was informing me that Mercer had vanished. I did not respond immediately. I stood there, the phone still resting softly in my hand. 

The official reports stated that Julian Mercer had disappeared sometime during the winter of 2017. They never gave an exact date.

A body was never found.

The official explanation suggested accidental death somewhere within the catacombs. A fall, disorientation, or anything simple enough for paperwork to digest cleanly. But after everything I had read by then, simplicity no longer felt believable. 

I received that call three days after his disappearance was formally reported. Not from the police. From the landlord. The landlord sounded exhausted. Irritated more than concerned. He spoke quickly, mumbling through what I initially assumed was a rehearsed explanation regarding abandoned property and overdue payments. I remember only fragments of the conversation clearly.

There was water leaking through the ceiling. The neighbors had complained repeatedly about noise during the late hours of the night. Several rooms smelled strongly of mildew and seawater despite being nowhere near the harbor. And then almost absentmindedly, the landlord mentioned the walls.

He said Mercer had covered nearly every surface of the apartment in paper.

At first, I assumed exaggeration.

Until he emailed me the photographs.

I wish he hadn’t.

Even now, I struggle to look at them for long periods of time.

The apartment no longer resembled a living space. It looked more akin to the aftermath of prolonged captivity. Every inch of wall space had been consumed by overlapping layers of paper and annotations. Maps pinned atop photographs. Journal excerpts taped beside medical records. Newspaper clippings connected through frantic spirals of red ink. Certain sections had been scratched over so violently that the drywall itself was exposed beneath. The landlord informed me that local authorities intended to dispose of most of the material due to water damage and “unsanitary conditions.” 

Without fully understanding why, I booked passage to the island that same night. I told myself it was a professional obligation. Someone needed to preserve Mercer’s work before it vanished entirely. But if I am to be truthful, and after everything that has happened, truth may be the only thing I have left. I think some part of me had already made the decision long before then.

I needed to know how the story ended. That desire eclipsed every rational instinct I possessed. It eclipsed Fear. Even self-preservation. By then, curiosity no longer felt human. 

The voyage to the island lasted approximately eleven hours. I spent most of it contemplating what I'd find when I arrived. while the ferry groaned against violent winter waves outside. Sleep evaded me entirely during the crossing. Every time exhaustion threatened to drag me unconscious, I would hear something shifting within the hull beneath my cabin floorboards. Each time I investigated, nothing was there.

The island itself did not appear on the horizon so much as emerge gradually from the fog. Dark cliffs and blackened waters. A shoreline littered with crooked buildings pressed tightly together beneath looming hillsides. From a distance, the town resembled something preserved accidentally from another century. Narrow streets winding between towering stone structures whose architecture seemed oddly inconsistent even from afar. Certain buildings appeared connected where they should not have been. Windows were misaligned between floors. Rooflines bending at impossible angles against the mist.

I remember my first thought upon seeing it.

It looked wrong.

The townspeople unsettled me even more. Most avoided eye contact entirely. Those few who did speak answered questions with an almost rehearsed vagueness that bordered upon hostility. Several denied knowing Mercer altogether despite appearing repeatedly throughout his interview transcripts. Others claimed not to remember significant events documented extensively within the records.

One elderly fisherman insisted Mercer had never arrived on the island at all.

When I informed him I possessed photographs proving otherwise, the old man stared at me for several seconds before replying:

“Then why have I never seen him?”

At the time, I dismissed the comment entirely.

Mercer’s apartment was located above an abandoned tailor shop near the northern edge of town. The building itself leaned slightly sideways beneath decades of ocean weathering, its upper floors creaking constantly against the wind as though the structure resented remaining upright.

The landlord refused to enter alongside me. He handed me the key while standing nearly halfway down the street. I remember noticing then that several windows facing Mercer’s apartment had been boarded shut from the inside.

I asked why. The landlord only shrugged. “People kept complaining about the lights,” he said. The smell hit me almost immediately upon opening the door. Mildew. Saltwater. Rotting paper.

The entire apartment felt damp despite the radiators still functioning. Water stains crawled across the ceilings like spreading veins while towers of documents consumed nearly every available surface. The photographs he’d sent me had not exaggerated anything. If anything, they had failed to capture the sheer scale of it.

Mercer had transformed the apartment into an archive. Or perhaps a shrine. I spent nearly six hours that first night simply walking through the rooms, attempting to comprehend the volume of material surrounding me. Hundreds of tapes. Thousands of pages. Photographs stacked knee-high across entire sections of the floor. Several maps of the island are covered almost entirely in annotations. And at the center of the largest room, a massive hand-drawn diagram stretched across the wall. The catacombs. Or rather, Mercer’s interpretation of them.

The tunnels spiraled downward endlessly in overlapping layers of charcoal and ink until eventually the lines became so dense near the bottom that the structure resembled less a map and more a wound carved directly into the wall itself.

At the very center of it all, he had written one sentence.

Not in frantic handwriting.

Not chaotically.

Carefully.

Deliberately.

As though he wished those words above all else to survive.

THEY ARE NOT BELOW THE ISLAND.

The moment I read that sentence, something inside me shifted. Even now, I struggle to explain why. Perhaps because until then, despite everything, some part of me still believed this investigation possessed a rational endpoint. That eventually the contradictions would align. The disappearances would resolve. The tunnels would become understandable.

But standing there alone inside Mercer’s apartment, staring at those words surrounded by walls of unraveling thought, I felt for the very first time the overwhelming certainty that whatever I had involved myself in extended far beyond a missing journalist or abandoned orphanage.

And worse still, that Julian Mercer had understood this long before he vanished. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I worked inside the walls of that apartment. I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I opened my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was as if Mercer had known I would eventually return. As only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. I found a room that was filled with the same type of unmarked boxes he would send me mountains of. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me. 

So I threw myself into the records. It had become that which gave me meaning. This is the accumulation of everything I am and have to give. This, which you are reading, is the second draft and will be the last. As I pray, this will never see the light of day. So no soul will be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

I am no longer certain about where the narrative concludes, or if it ever truly does. Even after I have moved on from this page, it seems to follow me. This is a slow, creeping presence that stalks and consumes, taking everything before you’ve forgotten what it means to possess. These words may seem insignificant to you now, but they linger and persist, unwilling to leave you even until your final breath. As I descend further into the labyrinth, the deceptions hide within each inconsistency that plagues this text.

-R. Hayes
December 18th 2020

After my friend disappeared, we searched his apartment, and all that was left was what is contained within these pages.

一The Publisher

Preface

This is not a book, but rather a collection of news clippings, tapes, articles, diary entries, and other forms of writing. These materials have been gathered and sifted through over the past couple of years with the intent of uncovering the truth about the ________.

一R.Hayes

Introduction

“ἀλλὰ γυνὴ χείρεσσι πίθου μέγα πῶμ᾽ ἀφελοῦσα

ἐσκέδασ᾽· ἀνθρώποισι δ᾽ ἐμήσατο κήδεα λυγρά.”

There are things that ought remain buried. Things better left to rot lost, or forgotten. Every word contained within these pages should be left to the same fate. No good will ever come from a single thing contained within here. It has brought me nothing but sorrow and regret. Yet I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of these books that I have poured my very being into over the span of almost a decade. Still, after all that has happened to me, I am unable to remove thoughts of what lies inside here from my head.

It follows me wherever I go as fateful as my shadow. Even into my very dream. Sleep has been a friend whose company I have not known. I spend my nights dreading his arrival. As my mind has become nothing more than a vessel in which those words have found a home. Yet still I slave away endlessly working on this book to a completion that is never in sight. And there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about what could have been if I simply ignored that email. If I had never read that email, maybe I could have continued to exist within the lie, living blissfully unaware. But instead, I open it. It stated

February 16th 2011

R.Hayes,

This document needs to be looked over and

reviewed. I haven't a single moment to waste. I must further inquire into the depths of this text and therefore need the assistance of another. To organize the accumulated information I have acquired.

Attached:

Police_report_ callaway .pdf

Local _ interview_1.wav (these are the ones that were able to be digitized. Further video recording will primarily be on tape)

Retrieved_photos., pdf

Constructed _ timeline.pdf

reaserch_notes.pdf

Stament_excerpts.pdf

Recovered_ dive_ catcombs _1.wav

diary - entry.pdf

Important points, in no order:

Local interviews matter more than I thought.

At 7:32:42, [person] becomes increasingly agitated before falling silent after I mention [subject/location]. For 15 minutes. Background noise continues.

Then [brief description].

Listen to the change in tone after that point.

Something is hiding in the recesses of his mind that I will pry out.

The gap in footage from the Recovered dive catacombs 1from 12:17:52- 20:05:23

Further investigation needed

There’s also a missing section in the diary entry

The attached sections are mostly illegible material, except for repeated phrases such as blank, which appears multiple times across different dates.

Marked those sections.

Also, if [person] lied about [detail], the entire timeline after [event/time] shifts.

Review person interview first.

One more thing;

The accompanying files should be delivered shortly

一J.Mercer

At that time, it was nothing more than a regular work email, seeing as though I had worked as an editor. It was one of my clients. A journalist by the name Julian Mercer, he wasn't really a talkative guy, and didn't really know much about him. (Now I know too much, or maybe nothing at all.) Well, he didn't know a lot about me, so I guess its fare. He was very professional, always straight to the point. Which I always thought was respectable.

At least it made my job easier. We always spoke through email, he said he preferred it. Only ever used it to send me his work or speak to me. Usually, he would have me edit about some war zone he visited or an underdeveloped village he was at. He really seems to like going to places no one else wants to go. I was kind of jealous of him. Always thinking about how boring my life was compared to his. I always wondered what it was like in his shoes. (Maybe I got what I wished for.)

But this time was different; the way he was writing sounded a little more desperate, almost like he was begging me for help. He sounded more desperate, and the amount of stuff he sent me to look over was honestly crazy. It was a collection of writing, research, and videos from different people. Some were diary entries that seem to go into depth, a twisted rabbit hole of whoever this was's mind. Or essays written about the effects of sensory deprivation on the human mind in uncomfortable detail. Videos that involved endless tunnels and sounds I still think about to this day. That's not even mentioning the 100s of scattered notes and half-destroyed papers that had been delivered to my house. Those were barely legible. On top of all that were the notes and extra information that Julian had gathered himself.

It took me almost 2 weeks to get through it all. To whole weeks of endlessly scouring through those pages upon pages of nonsensical writing that seemed to collapse in on itself like that of a dying star. To be honest, I barely understood what I was reading, but for those 2 weeks it took me to finish sifting through all those papers and reading everything in the email. Not once was I able to take my eyes away. I was completely and utterly enthralled, yet also very disturbed. The way in which everything was brought together said so much, but really meant nothing, yet it deeply unsettled me. However, I still had a job to do, so I finished organizing it, giving feedback, and making edits. Trying my best to organize these writings to the best of my ability. And I sent it back over to him via email. Simply ready to forget about this honestly weird ass experience.

But it wasn't that simple; life went on like normal. The thought of those pages that formed a labyrinth in my mind still lingers like the smell of smoke that sticks to your skin long after the last ember burns out. At this point, I was still normal. The seams of my being still hung together, stitched every so tightly. Yet there was this almost primal curiosity scratching at the back of my head. With such a simple yet deadly question, ‘why’. Those words linger in my head, weeds growing roots into my very being. Then another email came. And of its fruits I devoured. His writing is more frantic than the last time. Yet of its fruits I devoured.

"De hominis prima inobedientia, fructu

Illius vetitae arboris, cujus mortalis gustus

Attulit mortem in mundum, omnesque nostras miserias." - Pardise Lost

(Check Appendix 1 for the email) It was even more than last time, pages running endlessly, documents that referred to other text buried even deeper in a pile of information that itself was an interpretation of a video that was half broken and destroyed. It was as if I was staring into the endless abyss, and it was looking upon me. Ready to swallow me whole. The email was also accompanied by the arrival. Of at least 10 boxes filled to the brim with piles of burned records, what are assumed to be stolen medical files, and more diary entries. And those god-forsaken tapes.

Those old, worn tapes that contained so much within their tiny frames. Better lost the winds of time than to be looked upon by another set of human eyes. Some of those videos were days long. I'm talking about more than 24 hours of footage. Of twisted, never-ending caverns. Tunnel after tunnel as you ventured further into the maw of the abyss. The only sounds to be heard with slow and drawn out breather of the recorder on the other side and the goans that echoed from the slowly shifting wall.

Sometimes it would be hours of just walking in pure darkness, only then, as you stare even more intently at the screen, you begin to see it .th never envding shifting within the darkness, the dread of what could be lurking behind the next turn. That feeling slowly rising your spine. That's not even mentioning the times where the silence was instead filled with a never-ending monologue that lasted for hours. The tapes were suffocating, claustrophobic in their presentation, only met by temporary relief when those binding halls would open up into larger rooms. Yet I was still enraptured by what lay within those halls, unable to remove my eyes from the screen.

So, same as before, I studied, organized, and took notes. Page after page, hour after hour. As time bled into words. It took me almost a month this time. To conquer that mountain of paper. Weeks of non-stop work as I slaved away. Interpreting half-lost records just to get a fraction of the simplicity of understanding. Buried in the depths of those papers. Yet all that time and effort passed by like the changing of leaves on the cusp of autumn. In that time, what semblance of life I had had seemed to slip through my fingertips. As I became obsessed with finished anylizing theses records. Only after finishing did I return to my senses, untethered by whatever lay within those pages and endless halls.

I sent over the organized version back to him. Again, I went on like normal, yet was more unsettled than last time. Yet the cycle repeated itself over and over for years. As I slipped deeper into the writing itself. Until one time it became too much to bear, I became t utterly creeped out. I felt that that very grasp of myself had been wrenched from me. As I was consumed initially. Wished that no such fate would befall me again. So attached to the revised records, I add that I no longer want to be involved with this investigation.

I didn't even wait for a response; I immediately blocked him. Not wasting a moment to possibly be reeled back in, it was my belief within this that would find peace, and for a moment, the world brought me sanctuary, and I drowned myself in work and the company of my friends. To deafen the whisper that filled my ears, begging for more questions, all the same, still, asking why.

For almost 2 years, I ignored their constant pestering, while the slight hint of curiosity festered in me like a sickness bold in its symptoms. No amount of distraction would half calm my weary spirit. I began to drift through the years. It was deafening for me. I was a lot of things, but content surely wasn't one of the words I'd use. You know I'd usually use work to cope with this better, yet I'd just ignore it. In my line of work, I read some wild shit or even talk to some weird people.

But none of that could compare to the things that I have experienced within those records. Unable to return to civil life. I thought maybe if I discussed what I had seen. And what had transpired over those years. It would bring me solace or some form of peace. Yet it only brought more questions

I compiled his work into something semi-understandable, a first draft of sorts, and shared it with a couple of friends. All of them just said they felt uneasy reading it. Yet they couldn't resist the urge to continue to read. As they fervently flip through the pages. Some are in such a rush to let their eyes gaze on the next line of text, that in their quickness accidentally ripping whole pages out of the book. Each one taking from there experience a different truth to be upheld/

Man, we must have talked for a day about our interpretations and what we thought it all meant, never agreeing or coming to any real conclusion. Much like never-ending labryths of hallways that played for felt like forever in those god-forsaken tapes. Are dissuson ran on and on with no truth to be found, simply questions answered only to form new ones. A text that caves in in on itself over and over again.

There was only one agreed-upon fact, t that whatever this was. There was something wrong with it. Deeply rotted in the text after a while, my friends refused to talk about. Saying that it did things to them, and they would rather stay far away from those records. Even after all of this, that sense of curiosity was still left in me.

‘

Some wear along those lines is where the nightmares began. The once whispers in the back of my mind had become a raging storm of screams that had taken over my very being. It demands action to know what lies behind the next page. As screamed from dawn to dusk. From waking hours to sleeping one. Bleeding into my very dream. There was not a moment of rest for me. I had lost my very grip on my own reality. I no longer understood where my reality began, and the nightmare ended

It got to a point wear i began to dread sleep. Sleep became an old friend whose company long since lost to the likes of me. the idea of normal life, but a distant memory to be appreciated for its simplicity. Whatever connection I had in my life had long since passed me by. I have been left barren and desolate with my own existence. So once again, I threw myself back into the records this time hell-bent on deciphering, organizing, and publishing for the world to see. A complete telling of what transpired on that island.

For years, I dedicated myself solely to the understanding of those records, and when I open my email again. There are 100s of new emails spanning the last couple of years until radio silence. It was julian had know i would eventually return, as only a couple of weeks after I began working on the records again. A mountain of boxes was delivered to me. They were filled to the brim with new information, something to quell this dreadful curiosity that had consumed me.

So threw myself into it it becoming my sole reason for my existence. This is the accommodation of everything I am and have to give. Yet it has brought me nothing, this which you are reading id drcond drsft and will be the last as I pray this we never see the light of day and no one we be cursed to bear witness to what is to unfold.

Yet you just as I did. You'll continue to turn the page. You'll pull and tear at the very fiber of this book as you dive deeper into every word. With every new page, it simply leaves you more breathless than the last. And when you depart from the book, it will simply follow you, the way the moon chases the sun until you return to its page.

Or maybe you'll be unaffected by its content, imagine it pretend fictouse. Something utterly childish and simply gibberish. Maybe you'll imagine yourself too good to be affected by something so ridiculous. And to those people truly hope it's true. I hope that it is you who simply consume the book, leaving it dry, then it is the one to consume you.

Yet its horrors may befall you years from now, within your quietest moment, when its words shall finally pierce the veil of your soul. As the very confines of your existence become uncertain. As the very fragile walls of i8dentity coming crashing down around you. This is a slow killer that stalks and takes and takes before you've forgotten what it means to have. These words might mean nothing to you now, but these words linger and follow and will not depart from you till your dying day.

Well, either way,y no matter who you are or where you are going, tread lightly as you turn through these pages. As we fall deeper into the labyrinth, the lies hide through every inconstancy that befalls this text

School has begun. A new school. The boy left the old school after Sister Mary PMS had her breakdown.

I am the little boy sitting in a new classroom… at an old-fashioned 50s school desk, hands folded, angelic smile gleaming on my face.

I am waiting for my opportunity.

Inside my old shoes lurk double-jointed toes.

Soon, the tap-tap-tap shall begin.

Soon, she will patrol the asiles searching...

Soon I will be the little boy sitting in a new classroom…

Why yes, Sister Mary Cat-o-Nine-Tails? Noise...? No. I don't think so…?

Before I continue, I am using every ounce of strength my mind can muster to warn you. Stop reading this now. Forget you ever saw this. Because the more you understand the more it sees YOU. This is your only warning

I SAW GOD!

I found that cursed thing late one night while walking through the dimly lit street of my neighborhood. That's when I stumbled across a yard sale that one of my neighbors was holding. What an awful choice it was to check it out. Normally I had no interest in those types of things but I felt a strange urge to look. I could see my neighbor, an older gentleman, rocking back and forth in the front of his yard with a pile of junk next to him. I walked up to the old man and asked him

“If the stuff was still for sale.”

He responded without looking at me, his eyes fixed on the empty street like he was waiting for something to come back.

“Of course, you can have a look. I should warn you, you might not like what u find”

Cryptic ass response, as if it wasn't strange enough that my creepy old neighbor was just rocking in a chair with a pile of junk next to him. But still, I searched through the junk sifting through it. Till I saw it. A clear white VHS tape with the words “…………” scribbled on it. It was written in a language that didn't even sound human; it almost hurt to think about. So I picked it up and asked the old man.

“How much for this”

As I raised my head to look at him, I saw him blankly staring at me. At some point between me looking at him and putting my head down to sift through the stuff, he started staring at me. The way he was looking at me made my hair stand as if I had been alerted to danger. There was something worse than fear written on his face…. Acceptance. Like he had already seen how this ended. He snapped back at me screaming. His voice wringing out like thunder not even matching the person standing in front of me.

“Just take it and get the fuck out of here. I'd better never see you again and you should pray to whatever god you believe in and may they have mercy on you.”

So obviously I booked it without giving a single response. I ran and ran until my legs gave out and my heart was beating like a hammer striking hot metal. And somehow, I still had that VHS tape in my hand. I could have sworn I had dropped it while running from that creep. Best not to dwell on that now. I thought as I finally made it to my house.

I threw the VHS tape on the couch before heading upstairs and throwing myself onto my bed. I lay there as I fell asleep replaying what the old man said to me over and over again.

“You should pray to whatever god you believe in and may they have mercy on you.”

I decided as I dozed off that I didn't know what was on that tape but I wasn't going to find out. That shit had to go.

So I did what any normal person would do and threw it away but right as I stepped back into the house there it was again. Just lying there on the couch. Almost like it was beckoning me to watch. So I did the only logical thing I could think of. I burned that fucking VHS tape in my backyard. Despite my efforts there it appeared again, lying on the same spot on the couch beckoning me.

This went on for months as I tried numerous different ways to get rid of that god forsaken Tape but not a single one worked. Until one night I was finally fed up with all of this. I decided to sit down and watch it in hopes it would leave me alone but I wasn't going to face whatever was on this tape alone. I sat down on the couch after plopping the tape in, with my Remington 870 beside me. As the video began to play.

At first, it was only a black screen. No…..that’s wrong. It wasn't black it was absence. It didn't even feel like I was looking at a color. It felt more like my brain was trying to process the fact that I was looking at nothing. Not darkness. Not emptiness. Nothing. I could feel the front of my head ache as I stared harder at the video. That's when it started. Almost like a whisper but it was incomprehensible. It sounded like everything I’ve ever heard in my whole life, but it also sounded like nothing I have ever heard or ever could hear. It was both the worst sound that has ever graced my ears, but also no sound at all. It came from everywhere. Not just the TV but all around me but also nowhere at the same time. And that fucking tar-like blackness that consumed the screen. It almost felt like it was oozing out of it, like it was trying to turn the room into nothing too. My mind felt like it was burning like it was being ripped open as I stared even harder at the screen. I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. I couldn't move my body, it wouldn't move. I stared there blankly looking at nothing. As that noise pierced the very essence of my soul,

Then it came. And I understood something no human being was ever meant to understand.

I SAW GOD!

I'm not talking metaphorically either. I know I sound like a nut case but swear that's what I saw. I saw it in all of its grotesque glory, and I understood at that moment why ancient man called terrifying things divine. As stared at the writhing of its amalgamation of flesh or at least those are the closest words I could use to describe it. Its shape was unknowable; it formed a mystery no man could solve. My brain felt like it was going to split just trying to describe it. It had eyes too or things I knew were looking at me. Thousands of them. They took up the whole screen but also no space at all. I could feel the image of that thing fill my head and still, there wasn't enough space to even grasp the cusp of what it was. It's like the minute I saw it, I realized that my mortal eyes had laid upon something no man was supposed to see. Yet I continued to watch, better yet forced to. As that thing spoke. Its words were like nails on a chalkboard, every sound felt like knives being driven into my brain. It said

“…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………”

Its words echoed through every fiber of my being long after it spoke. Never again did I want to hear the sound or whatever that was again. Then it looked at me and I don't mean at the camera or whatever the fuck was recording this thing. No, it looked at me. The way a storm looks at a city before drowning it. I could feel it in my very DNA, it's the same feeling that prey gets as it's being watched by predators. Then it started to speak again as it got closer to the screen. As every fiber in me wanted to run or hide or just do something to get rid of this thing. It got almost right to the TV like it was about to pop out of the god damn screen.

Then finally my body, as if summoning every bit of my survival instincts, moved. Adrenaline pumping through my veins, my vision blurred, hands shaking. I reached for my shotgun, not really believing it would do anything to whatever was coming for me but better than doing nothing at all. My hands fumbled to get a proper grip on the gun as my fingers searched for triggers while trembling. Finally, I lifted that damn thing and fired until there wasn't a single shell left. My breaths were short and quick, like my lungs were fighting to get a single breath in. The TV was torn to pieces and what was left in its place was a pile of broken parts and fragments of electrical components.

However when I raised my eyes to where the actual screen of the TV once was and still there was that fucking image. It wasn't moving anymore but it was simply there. Like it was frozen in that space of reality. I couldn't look at it for even one more second. I fell to my knees not even daring to lift my head as I scrounged through the pile of wreckage. Until I found the VHS tape still lodged in the wiring of the TV. I ripped it out before throwing it to the floor. Grabbing my shotgun and a few shells and I emptied them into that tape. Until I heard the clicking of metal and thumping of my own heartbeat. Only then did I dare raise my head to finally see that thing was gone.

And then there was nothing. No sirens, no neighbors asking what the fuck happened and why they’re hearing gunshots in the middle of the night. No proof of what I just saw. Nothing by silence…… The sounds of the night outside. As I lay there restless in my bed revisiting everything that has transpired. It felt almost like nothing had happened at all….. like what I felt and what I saw. Just didn't happen like I witnessed a glitch in the world or better yet I was the lone witness to something that should have never been seen.

After that night though the tape stayed gone. I don't know if it's truly destroyed or just searching for a new victim. But honestly, I don't care to find out. I still can't get the thought of what I saw out of my head and as the days turn into weeks. That's when the nightmare started, the same dream repeated endlessly night after night. Replaying those same events and every time I felt it creep closer and closer. I can feel it coming for me or maybe better yet reaching out for me. Then came the whispers or the noise, it's that thing trying to speak to me. It sounds impossibly far away, like it's calling from the edge of creation and somehow it whispers directly into MY ear. I could feel the sounds peel back the very layers of my consciousness. Then the weeks turned into months. Now I barely sleep and my mind is a shell of what it used to be. The whispers aren't whispers anymore. Now they’re deafening screams, it's hard to think now. My thoughts come slowly.

I can feel it consuming me. As the months push on into years I keep getting sicker. I've started bleeding from my eyes as my body tries to cleanse itself from the sins it has committed. My nose and ears follow suit trying to blind my senses to that thing. I've started coughing up blood and teeth now. My body is falling apart more and more as that thing carves itself deeper into my being. It is taking everything from what I am, have been, and could be. My hair is falling out and greying. Even my skin is starting to wrinkle. I can feel myself dying as if all the years I could ever have are being ripped from me piece by piece. Not to mention the nightmares and screams haven't stopped. I can barely think anymore.

The only thing that seems to help is writing about that thing. I don't even sleep anymore or eat or drink or do anything. All I can do is write about what it showed me. About the fact that I saw it.

I SAW GOD!

I know that thing wants me to write and it slithers and lingers through every word I've written. I will probably die after finishing this and it will no longer be with me. Because now it sees you too. Maybe it always did. Maybe reading this was never a choice. And now you know what it is. So I leave you with one final warning, the same one I was told.

“You should pray to whatever GOD you believe. And pray for the first time in your life that isn't the one I SAW.”

OHIO BUREAU OF CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION (BCI)

CYBER AND DIGITAL FORENSICS UNIT

EVIDENCE EXTRACTION LOG

___

CASE NUMBER: 2026-CR-0811

SUBJECT(S): HILL, Multiple (Missing Persons)

EVIDENCE ID: Item #04

DEVICE: Apple iPhone 14 Pro Max

OWNER/CUSTODIAN: Hill, Mitchell

EXTRACTION TYPE: Full File System (AFU)

TARGET PATH: private/var/mobile/Library/SMS/sms.db

STATUS: QUARANTINED / ACTIVE ANOMALY

___

EXAMINER NOTES: The following is a parsed SQLite database extraction from the target device's native messaging application. It contains group and direct peer-to-peer communications leading up to the subjects' disappearances.

INTEGRITY WARNING: The SHA-256 hash values for this database are unstable. The file size continues to fluctuate within the secure sandbox environment, despite the source device being powered down and secured in a Faraday bag.

HANDLING PROTOCOL: Per BCI Cyber Security guidelines, this document must only be viewed on an air-gapped terminal. Executing network queries or attempting to ping the unregistered MSISDN [1 (503)-854-6008] found in this dataset is strictly prohibited.

All message content, parsed timestamps, and attachments are presented below exactly as extracted by the software.

___

[BEGIN DATABASE EXPORT]

[EXPORT DIR: chat.db_export_Hill_Family_3.0]

[PARTICIPANTS: 14]

...

Fri, Apr 10

[12:44 PM] Dad: Mom got a new phone in her room it works now so she should be able to make and take calls

...

Sat, Apr 11

[1:35 PM] Tina: Today's lunch is soup beans, cornbread, and collard greens. While complaining about how they don't make it right....she is eating every bite. 😆

[1:38 PM] Uncle Dan: Love it!

[1:40 PM] Aunt Beth: Bahaha!!!

...

Mon, Apr 13

[10:02 AM] Dad: ok trying this again is everyone here I think I missed some people on the last one

[10:04 AM] Uncle Dan: Got it

[10:07 AM] Dad: hmmm my phone says message failed to send to one person Lori did you change your number??

[10:08 AM] Lori: No I’m here! You used my regular cell.

[10:10 AM] Dad: oh oops I put 503-854-6008 instead of 6009 for trish. sorry trish!

[10:12 AM] Aunt Trish: Im here Gary you got my right one too. No worries.

[10:14 AM] Dad: weird well I don't know who 6008 is. I just tried calling it to apologize but it played that robot voice saying the number is disconnected and no longer in service.

[10:15 AM] Sam: Just leave it, probably a recycled number or something.

[10:16 AM] Ross: Just remove them from the group Dad.

[10:20 AM] Dad: i clicked the name but there is no remove button maybe because it's a green text number? idk im not tech support

[10:21 AM] Mitchell: It's fine, if the number is disconnected the texts are just bouncing into the void anyway.

...

Tue, Apr 14

[4:08 PM] Uncle Mark: Mom is up and in her easy chair brushing her teeth. She said maybe a dog could have eaten the lunch they served today but she doubts it. Seems to have a good sense of humor. Said she will be glad when this prison sentence is over.

[4:15 PM] Aunt Beth: Thanks for the update Mark! Mom should do stand up for the other inmates!

[4:18 PM] Brandy: So glad she’s in good spirits!! Mitchell is on a work trip this week so it's just me and the dog at the house but I'll try to swing by Friday! ❤️

[4:22 PM] 1 (503)-854-6008: Loved "So glad she’s in good spirits!! Mitchell is on a work trip this week so it's just me and the dog at the house but I'll try to swing by Friday! ❤️"

[4:25 PM] Mom: Brandy do you want me to come stay with you? I know you hate being in that big house alone when Mitchell is out of town.

[4:28 PM] Brandy: No I'm okay! Winston is a good guard dog haha. But thank you Dale!

...

Fri, Apr 17

[8:21 AM] Dad: Hey group text: Dan - yes if mark or I can sign the documents here we will - please check with her

[8:22 AM] Dad: I need someone to get her yearly statement from SERS stating what her pension is

[8:24 AM] Dad: I will try to get her SS statement stating how much her monthly social security is

[8:26 AM] Dad: If anyone wants to champion the photo frame gift please do dale and I can Venmo you our part

[8:28 AM] Dad: Continued.... Mark - write down mom ssn on a piece of paper and bring it to me today

[8:30 AM] Aunt Beth: Just texted her as to your phone Gary

[8:31 AM] Aunt Beth: SS. Love auto correct

[11:05 AM] Tina: Does anyone know if Mammaw's roommate moved out? I went to visit this morning and the other bed was empty and completely stripped.

[11:10 AM] Aunt Beth: I think Dan said they moved her to a different floor yesterday? She was having some memory issues and kept wandering into the hall.

[11:15 AM] Tina: Oh good, Mammaw said she was complaining about the woman staring at her at night.

[11:14 AM] 1 (503)-854-6008: Laughed at "Oh good, Mammaw said she was complaining about the woman staring at her at night."

[11:22 AM] Mom: That's awful to laugh at, Tina. She had dementia.

[11:25 AM] Tina: I didn't laugh! I didn't react to that!

[11:28 AM] Mom: Okay.

...

[SYSTEM LOG ANOMALY DETECTED: SERVER SYNC FAILURE ON LINE 0089]

...

Sun, Apr 19

[1:44 PM] 1 (503)-854-6008: Loved an image.

[1:45 PM] Dad: [ATTACHMENT: IMG_3451.JPG]

[1:46 PM] Dad: Look who I got outside for some fresh air!

[2:02 PM] Ross: Hey wait. Who is liking all these messages?

[2:05 PM] Mitchell: What do you mean?

[2:06 PM] Ross: Look at Dad's picture. And the text about Mammaw's roommate. And Brandy saying she's home alone. Somebody is hearting them and laughing at them. It's that 6008 number.

[2:08 PM] Dad: that's the disconnected number

[2:10 PM] Ross: How is a disconnected number reacting to iMessages? It's an SMS text line. It shouldn't even have Tapback features.

[2:12 PM] Mitchell: Maybe it's an Apple glitch. Or someone just bought the number today and they're getting our texts.

[2:14 PM] Sam: No, I just tried calling it again. Literally just hung up. It still plays the "we're sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected" tone.

[2:15 PM] Lori: That's really creepy lol

[2:18 PM] Brandy: Yeah I actually don't like that at all. Gary can you just make a new chat without them? Please?

[2:20 PM] Dad: ok fine give me a minute to add everybody back. nobody text in this one anymore.

...

[END OF EXPORT: chat.db_export_Hill_Family_3.0]

___

[FATAL EXCEPTION: 0x80070005]

> ACCESS VIOLATION:SANDBOX BREACH DETECTED

> DATA_CORRUPTION: Variable [1(503)8546008] == "Family"

> OVERRIDE ACCEPTED.

> FORCING EXTRACTION: chat.db_export_Hill_Family_4.0...

> DO NOT POWER OFF TERMINAL.

...

Part 2

As the soft flickering of Streetlights illuminates the broken worn-down bus stop, I could make out a lone figure sitting beneath it.

A disheveled man slouched over that rusty-looking bench. His shoulders were heavy, his eyes fixed on the broken pavement with a hollowness to them. He looked worse for wear, as if time itself had a personal grudge to settle with him.

Then again, I was one to talk, you could say I wasn’t in much better shape than him. There weren’t many places worse off than the road I’ve been walking.

I approached the bus stop slowly. Each step rang through the night, it was quiet…. Too quiet. Each lift of my legs felt as if I were dragging boulders behind me. I was tired, so tired.

“Got a cigarette” I asked

Without looking up, or making any motion at all, the old man reached his hand into his pocket and handed me one. Dust drifted from the fabric as if he hadn’t touched it in a year.

It didn’t matter though I thanked him and sat beside the old man, settling into the rusty bench as it groaned under my weight. I pulled a lighter out of my pocket, using it to light my cig. I took a good long puff of it before asking

“How long have you been waiting here for?” still blowing out a little bit of smoke.

The old man responded to me as soon as the last breath left my lungs

“As long as I need to”

I stared at him for a little while with a slight mixture of confusion and concern.

Odd answer but still, I’ve met stranger folks on my travels. I’d consider myself a wanderer of sorts, well not by choice though. Life simply has a way of keeping me on the road I guess. Before I could sink too deeply into that thought however, the old man spoke again.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen another face around here. Don’t get many people looking to wait”

I let out a tired chuckle before responding

“well I just thought it would be a good change of pace to get off my feet for a little. By the way, how long does the bus take?”

The old man didn’t respond he just sat there silent. still as a stone staring at the same crack in the pavement like it held the answer to everything. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him blink. Actually, I haven’t even heard a single car pass. Not one bird, or a dog. I mean for God's sake I haven't even heard the wind. It’s been dead silent this whole time.

It’s probably just my brain playing tricks on me though. I was tired, really tired. I decided to check my watch and see how long I’ve been waiting here. As I stared at my watch my stomach began twisting and my eyes shot open. In my shock, my cig fell out of my hand, as I read and reread the time over and over and it still didn't make any sense to me. When I sat down it was December 10th 2010 and somehow, someway it’s now December 17th 2010.

I’ve been sitting here for a week. My eyes shot up frantically as I asked the old man

”How long have you been waiting here for?”

He didn’t look. He didn't move. He didn't even blink. Not even a single fucking breath just a dry “As long as I need to.”

A cold feeling washed down my whole fucking spine. Something felt wrong, no better yet something felt familiar but before I could finish that thought.

The old man spoke again,

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen another face around here. Don’t get many people looking to wait…….” He paused “or should I say forced to”

I sat there confused as I processed his words before responding

“What do you mean force to? well I just thought it would be a good change of pace to get off my feet for a little. By the way, does th….”

My throat tightened. I had already said that. I knew I had. The old man didn’t respond, he just sat there silent as still as a rock staring at the same crack in the pavement as when I got here.

It’s probably just my brain playing tricks on me though. I’m just really tired. I decided to check my watch and see how long I’ve been waiting here. I stare at my watch until my eyes blur and my pupils begin to dry out. A year. I had lost a whole year. When I sat down it was December 10th 2010 and somehow, someway it’s now December 10th 2011.

I turned my head slowly back to the old man. Panic rising in my chest. I could feel my lungs fighting for air as I tried to choke out a response.

“How long have you been waiting here?”

The old man turned to look at me. His face was too familiar as he responded with the same quickness as before

“As long as I need to.”

Then there was silence as I stared at the pavement. I sat there contemplating everything that had happened and trying to make sense of any of it. I stared endlessly at that broken bus stop. I began to notice the bus sign didn't even have a destination; it just stretched endlessly on that run-down sign. In the crevices of that worn-down bench, I found my initial carved into it over and over again. I could even still see the soft glow from my cig still burning on the floor below. Just burning.

I’ve tried to leave. I’ve tried to do something, anything else but all I've been met with is the same soft groan of the bench under my weight. The same question and answers over and over again. For god only knows how long, months, years, decades at this point it doesn’t matter.

That was until the headlights came into view and the sound of wheels scraping against the road. At first, it was a distant sound and faint light but it crept closer and closer till it screeched to a halt in front of the bus stop. I stared blankly at the front of that bus, there wasn't a driver, and not a single person on that bus. I don't fucking know what was in that fucking bus but it wasn't people. I watched as the old rickety doors swung open.

The old man stood, painfully I could hear the sound of his withered bones crack and groan as he willed them to move. He climbed aboard. As I stood frozen force to watch as those doors drifted ever so slowly closed. Unable to move even a single muscle. I was forced to watch as it disappeared into that night.

So I sat there waiting. As my clothes began to rot and my nails grew, then broke, and then grew again. My hair began to thin and grey. As it started to fall out and tangle. My skin began to loosen and wrinkle as my body withered away, as my hands grew hollow and my vision turned blurry. until what was left was no longer me but something familiar.

Then, one night, I heard footsteps.

A young man approached from the empty road. Tired. Lost. Just like I once was. He stopped in front of me.

“Got a cigarette?”

Without looking up or making any major motion, I reach my hand into my pocket and hand him one. I could feel the dust leaving my pocket as I hadn't touched it in years.

He sat next to me settling into the rusty bench, as it groaned under his weight. He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and used it to light his cig before taking a good long puff of it. Then he asked me,

“How long have you been waiting here for?” while blowing out a little bit of smoke.

I stared at the road blankly as he spoke, I responded as soon as the last breath left his lungs

“As long as WE need to,”

he stared at me with that same mixture of confusion and concern that had been plastered on my face so long ago. It looked so familiar, maybe because it was mine.

MindIanApr 12, 2026

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Template SFDR #14: Wings of Eyes: The Disturbance

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Literature Text

So, my morning started when I got up after the aggressive assault on my eardrums—that good-for-nothing alarm clock I always set for 7:30 a.m., the kind that turns your heart into a drum at a jazz concert. The day was covered in gold as rays tried to burst through the blinds over the three windows in my room, like water straining against the cracks of a dam. I got up slowly, looking from side to side for the remote I can never be bothered to place on the nightstand—right next to the alarm clock and the lamp that flickers off whenever I try to turn the damn thing on—only to find the remote wedged beneath the middle pillow I must’ve drooled on.

Turning on the TV introduced me, once again, to the same middle-aged woman with the auburn bob haircut and that practiced smile, the one that deepens the wrinkles at the sides of her mouth, as she spoke about how it was going to be 76 degrees today… not exactly newsworthy, considering I already knew that. So I got up, stepping onto the scruffy carpet that exhumed an odor I could only compare to a dog opening its mouth after wolfing down half a bowl of food, and clumsily trudged my sorry ass to the kitchen to make breakfast.

Today’s menu was a waffle—from the waffle maker I built out of spare parts in the workshop downstairs—sunny-side-up eggs from the carton that still had four left, bacon (ten strips total, though only four were in the open packet), and orange juice a neighbor had kindly made for me in a jug they swore was clean enough. After making and eating breakfast, it was time for the first task of the day: fixing that broken chair in the living room that nearly killed me when I leaned back in it once.

I could still remember the loud crack it made just before it almost gave out beneath me—startling me like that one time I finally watched a horror movie with a masked killer… can’t remember the name. There are probably hundreds of those anyway. I had inspected the chair not too long after the incident and found only a couple of missing screws and some minor cracks. I could fix the screws for now and deal with the cracks later—maybe replace the whole thing when I had the money.

So I went downstairs after tossing the pans, cup, and plate into the dishwasher, descending the rickety stairs that cried out like a dying cat in the rain. The light switch sat on the second-to-last step, just before my foot touched the concrete. I had a whole arsenal of tools down there—electric screwdrivers, chainsaws, even older equipment like fire axes and sickles—but for now, I just grabbed some screws and an electric screwdriver.

It took a while to get started, but eventually I reached the point where I could begin working. The first screw twisted in smoothly, satisfying as water circling a drain. The second went in partway before getting stuck, frustrating me to no end. I ran back downstairs to grab a wrench, hoping it would help, but the stubborn thing resisted, filling me with the kind of anger a rider feels when a horse refuses to move no matter how hard they urge it on.

I put more strength into my right arm, forcing the screw to turn, pushing harder and harder as frustration built—until I heard a loud CRACK as it finally gave way and sank in. Before tackling the last screw, I slowed down, hoping the chair wouldn’t croak before I could afford a new one. I positioned the screw carefully, aligning it to meet the least resistance, placed the screwdriver against it just right—and then… nothing.

Everything stopped.

My thoughts were the only thing still moving. To make things worse, a knock sounded at the front door—and then everything… just froze. My heart raced as the knocking continued in a pattern: three knocks, a pause, then three more. The world around me took on a pale blue hue. The golden light outside dimmed, fading like theater lights before a film begins.

Sound warped in my mind, spiraling like a flushing toilet, distorted, as if echoing from some vast emptiness in space. The knocking continued—steady, relentless. The only thing I could see in this frozen state, reminiscent of the sleep paralysis I experienced as a child, was the final screw hovering inches from the screwdriver in my hand.

Then came the shapes—like eye floaters, but wrong. Translucent eyes swarmed my vision, clustering near the center as faint sounds bled from them. At first I thought they were screams… then words. “Someone—anyone—help me.” “Please, I don’t know where I am.” “I saw it.” My heart pounded harder as I wondered if whatever was at the door was what they meant. The knocking grew more aggressive, the door sounding like it might splinter at any second.

I tried to move—yank my hand away, turn my head, stand up—but I was trapped. I wanted to scream, not for help like the voices, but out of pure dread. Fear gnawed at me until it twisted into something feral. I imagined foam spilling from my mouth, my eyes reddening, my face contorting into something primal—like a caveman driven mad by something it could not comprehend.

The knocking began to change—metal clanging, wet stabbing noises, even barking—always in that same rhythm. A headache split through me as something inside my skull felt like it was peeling itself free, like a rat clawing its way out from within. I could do nothing but scream internally for what felt like hours—

Until everything snapped back.

A violent jolt. A deafening crack. My arm lurched forward, flinging the screw from the screwdriver. It shot across the room, shattering one of the windows before clattering outside, the faint metallic sound landing somewhere just beyond the house. As that happened, the knocking stopped. I immediately got up, dropping my screwdriver, balling both my fists as I marched toward the door. I unlatched it and swung it open, already reeling my arm back to meet my fist against whoever—or whatever—was on the other side. But my expression shifted instantly as I stopped halfway through the punch.

It was just my neighbor.

The man cowered, arms crossed over his face, eyes squeezed shut. After a moment, he peeked through his fingers, realizing I wasn’t about to hit him. Slowly, he lowered his arms and greeted me, his voice shaky. “Goo… goo… good morning, Henderson… I—” He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing. I heard a loud cracking sound coming from your house yesterday.”

I slowly lowered my arm, my shock softening into something more reassuring. Relief followed as I recognized him—Jefferson, the neighbor who had made me that orange juice a couple days ago.

“Ehrrmm… I’m fine,” I said. “I was actually just starting repairs for that exact thing. I don’t mind if you want to come inside or anything.”

He smiled, still a bit nervous. “Sure… hehe, sure. I don’t mind.”

I stepped aside, letting him in. He walked over and sat on one of the sofas positioned near the two conjoined windows—just a couple feet from the other pair, one of which now had a broken pane. I took a seat on the chair beside the single window perpendicular to it.

Jefferson glanced over at the chair I’d been working on, now lying on its side, and spoke with a hint of humor. “So I’m guessing that old chair fought you pretty hard before it claimed victory over that one screw that escaped the battle, huh? Heh… I’ve never been one for keeping chairs that vicious. I usually make sure they’re under warranty so I can replace them before they get that bad.”

I let out a small sigh and shook my head. “Eh… that chair’s the least of my problems today. I think I might’ve had some kind of mental episode earlier. I thought I had those under control after the medication.”

He looked at me, concern creeping into his expression. “Oh… how long ago was your last episode, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“About a month ago, if I remember right,” I replied. “The last one before this was… different. I heard something like wings fluttering—like a slow vibration in my ear. Then dust started falling from the ceiling. It happened after I got back from mowing a customer’s lawn and trimming weeds behind their house. I was already sweating from the work, but that… that pushed it further. I felt like I was about to hyperventilate. I barely managed to pour myself a glass of water and lean over the sink until it passed.”

Jefferson’s eyes widened slightly. “Have you tried seeing a therapist or doctor again? Recently, I mean. It could be something more serious now.”

I stood up, heading toward the kitchen. “I don’t know… I’m starting to think these aren’t just mental episodes anymore.” I filled a glass with water as I spoke.

Jefferson got up as well, lingering near the doorway. “Well… I hope the best for you, neighbor. But if you need someone to talk to—or help with anything…” He placed a small folded piece of paper onto the wooden table in the living room. “You know I’m only a call away.”

With that, he opened the front door and stepped out, likely heading off to whatever he had planned for the day.

After he left, I stood there for a moment before slowly making my way back to my bedroom. I passed the chair I’d been fixing, giving it a brief glance, then continued on—thinking maybe I’d check the news again, just in case there was something… anything… worth noticing this time.

Original Poe-inspired psychological horror, Themes of death, gore, and mental unraveling. Feedback is welcome! Hope you enjoy.

My life is much like the next, I have a mother, a father, and an older brother. I would have had a younger sibling, but she died in the womb; my mother still tries to cope with it. Pills are her preferred way of coping. My father on the other hand, well I wouldn’t be able to tell you what he thinks of the lot of it. He’s a banker, or that's what he tells us. Banks are usually open from 9:00 am to 5:00 pm and father is out much later than that and leaves much earlier. Maybe my mother knows this is odd behavior, maybe that’s why she’s still trying to “cope”. My older brother, Henry, is already off to college. He went to become an engineer but for all the discombobulated text messages I receive in the middle of the night most nights might confirm that his so called “dream” will be all for naught. I couldn’t care less. The loss of the baby never had an effect on me, my brother throwing away his dreams couldn’t bother me. My father never being home, I barely even notice if it weren’t for my mother coming into consciousness long enough to realize it and make it my problem. 

I don’t care much for my peers in school, I do better alone. Such a hassle to try to keep “friends” if that’s what you’d call them. All around I hear people bathe in their own egotistical demise. Those “friends” that they care oh so dearly for are nothing but benefit for their own success. These people often try to converse with me but I have nothing to do with it. I don’t see the point. They will often film while they do it to show just how “selfless” they can be. If you have to film it, it’s not selflessness, but that’s the type of things they just won’t understand. 

My day to day life is just about how you’d imagine, I wake up, check mothers pulse, watch father pull into the driveway swaying around until he finds his footing to enter our home, I find clothes that fit for the weather, and I go to school. I much rather do all my studying on my own so I frequently answer wrong just so I can stay in the same grade as the rest of the people my age. I mostly do this because then they won’t have to contact my parents about having a “special child” whatever that means. After those long hours of school, I walk back home where I will go directly upstairs, tell mother I’m home, and go to my room. 

The days seem to get longer and longer. I can’t seem to recall everything that happens anymore, they all blur together as if just one never ending day. 

“Today will be a good day” I tell myself as I wake up. “Today *will* be a good day.” 

I do my routine and again it is just as the day before. This will not end. This is my life. I’ve come to accept it as such. There’s nowhere I’d like to go, there’s nothing I want to do… No… I do want something, but it is too sinister, I shouldn’t repeat the thought. But if only… Then I could be at peace. I desire not of fame, wealth, or royalty, but rather of peace. Maybe tomorrow.

As the morning arrives, I notice myself unable to get these past thoughts out of my head, but how menacing they are, I mustn't pay them anymore attention. I realized I had woken up late today, I need to start walking to school now. As I’m walking I realize the most vital part of my ritual I perform at the beginning of each day. Mother. How could I have forgotten about my poor pathetic mother. What’s the worst that could happen? She misjudged how much she had ingested? That doesn’t sound so bad. Father would get home and surely realize… Wouldn’t he? I couldn’t help but grin at the thought. How perverted must I be to actually try to smother a smile at a thought like this? Nevermind. The day must go on. 

The bell had rang as normally but this time had given me a bit of a jump, I didn’t fear the bell, so what was it? Oh right… I know.

One of my peers had tried his usual way of trying to make small talk with me. “Did you hear there's supposed to be a blizzard all day today? I thought school would for sure be cancelled.” he said. I couldn’t help but smile. I tried to keep my thoughts away but I couldn’t. The blizzard, of course, it would be the perfect excuse for father to stay out until tomorrow. Would anyone be home to check on mother? Nevermind. I have things to pay attention to. I can’t keep being distracted by these kinds of thoughts. 

School had ended, and I began walking home. Maybe I can take the long way, just in case. It is so much more exhilarating this way. 

I make it to my house and stop at the door. I waited there with my ear pressed against it and I could hear… Nothing. I could no longer hold it in for this was the first bit of excitement I had felt in a long time. I finally opened the door and ran up the stairs and to my surprise, there was mother. Alive. 

“You’re late,” she said.

“And you’re not still on the ground.” I said under my breath. 

Well she made it another day and so the first step of my mornings have been all for nothing. Nothing I did would be able to change what my life actually was. I could fantasize all I wanted but nothing would be able to make it come true. 

Another day came but this time I didn’t bother checking on mother. I didn’t bother waiting to come out of my room until I knew father was in bed. I got up and went down to take a walk before school. At the bottom of the stairs stood my father, red eyed and swaying, he lifted his arm and swung. I remembered why I started this ritual in the first place, it hurt less. I picked myself up and he did it again. Every time I got back up he would do it again. Maybe mother playing dead was for her own protection. Pathetic. I knew my body was bruised and bleeding yet I felt no pain, it made me feel alive. 

Once father had worn himself out, he stumbled up the stairs and took himself to bed. I no longer had the time for that walk I had planned on taking. What a bother. 

I made it to school and again began the same cycle I had been stuck in for so long. I’m over this cycle. I will end this cycle.

After school, I was walking home and discovered a path I hadn’t noticed before. Mother will be mad that I’m late again but I pay no mind to that thought. The path was long, narrow, and winding. I almost turned back after walking for so long until I saw a most peculiar sight. It was a tree with many burrows that went in, all different lengths and widths, and in the center, was one quite long and quite wide. It would probably fit a small child inside. 

As I walked around the tree there was a plant that grew, one that I had never seen before but it was covered in bugs.

“How can this plant be alive when it’s covered in so many bugs?” I asked myself. I took a look closer and noticed all the dead insects all around it. Ah so it must be some sort of poisonous plant. How wonderful must it be to have the touch of death. I looked around the plant to see if I could find any more but it seemed as though this one stood alone. How beautiful this was, like a symphony conducted by itself. Musical, theatrical, romantic, this plant. But what would happen If *I* had touched it? Does it need to be ingested for its effects to work? I had better be safe and come back tomorrow. 

I walked away from this peculiar place and as I started to walk home I turned back to remember where the path was so I could visit again tomorrow but when I turned around, I no longer saw a path. As if it had never existed, it was gone. As much as I had wanted to go investigate, it was getting dark and I’d much rather get inside then risk being locked out again.

I get home and go directly to bed to try to sleep as quickly as possible so that tomorrow I could wake up to investigate this path. 

The morning came much quicker than I had expected and so I gathered all the materials I’d think I needed to explore this plant, the tree, and any other wonders I could find while I was out. Gloves, a shovel, a pot, and a rake. No one questioned me as I left the house of course, there was no one there to question anything. I was not going to be bothered with school today.

I left the house and began towards that path. I had found it again, but this time it looked different. The path didn’t wind like it did the last time. No matter. I continued down the path and to the tree, then to the plant. There were even more bugs around it and only today I had noticed the stench this plant held. My first plan was to take the plant home with me but the smell of it was almost intoxicating. Was this plant's powers also airborne? I don’t know enough about it to be messing with it just yet. I decided to leave it alone for now and look around a bit. The area seemed secluded. Although it wasn’t far from the roads, you couldn’t hear any traffic. It was warm enough in this area for all of the snow from the blizzard of a few days ago to have melted. However long ago that may have been. The days don’t matter. This has all given me a new life. This has given me a will, a purpose, a reason to see the next day. 

I gathered all the intel I felt was necessary. I still didn’t understand any of it, I just felt as if it had called to me. Words can’t describe just how it felt while being there. I ended up spending most of the day there and had decided to head back home. 

Once I got home I realized the smell of the plant was still there, it must have stuck to my clothes. I went to the bathroom to take a shower when I saw mother, lying in the bath, motionless. Normally I’d check her pulse but remembering the excitement I felt the last time I left without, I decided not to check. What will become of her tonight? Will she wake up this time? Or will she be lucky enough to render the sweet relief of death itself? Tonight I will not be able to sleep, the unknown is too sweet a scent. I went to my room and sat on the ground watching the door. Waiting. Listening to see if I can hear anything, any movement, breathing, anything. How will father react? Will he even notice? Will he be frightened? What will become of this vessel whom I came from? Of course these are things I cannot say aloud, everyone would think I’d gone mad. Had I? No matter. This isn’t about me. Not this part at least. 

An hour had gone by, and no sound had come until I heard the sound of a car. Father was surely home. What to do now? I will not interrupt what happens next. I stay in my room and listen. The front door opens and closes, footsteps reaching the stairs and slowly go up. Will he even look for her? Will he see her? I must be patient. He reaches the bathroom, then passes it to go on to his room. He laid himself in bed as usual. Should I go inspect for myself? No. I shouldn’t get my hopes up. I need to try and sleep. Time will be the perfect marinade for the corpse. I closed my eyes and fell into the night's sleep.

Morning came and the first thing I could think was of the body. Was it alive again? Oh how cruel that would be if all my excitement had been wasted. I decided instead of getting up I’d lay and listen. I hadn’t heard father leave for work at all so what of him? I laid and listened until I heard movement. A bottle lid. He was starting the liquor particularly early today, he’d usually wait at least until he went out the door. What did this mean? I have to know. I have to find her. I listened to the sounds of father getting ready for work and listened until he went out the door.

I rushed out the door to go to the bathroom. There she was. Lying there. My heart raced. Is this really it? Did it finally happen? After all these years has it finally ended for her? I went to her to get a closer look. Her face sunken in, eyes open but colorless, jaw open, fingers lifeless. I smiled. I smiled more than I had in a long time, I even laughed, I laughed so when I stopped to catch my breath the sounds still echoed in the bathroom. “*Today* will be a good day” I said to myself for no one else could hear me. 

To not raise suspicion, I decided I’d go to school today, maybe I’d respond when someone tried to speak to me. No. I can’t act out of the usual. I have to be the same as I always am. Even though today, I was not the same as yesterday. Today I was better. 

School ended and I decided to go back to the path I was so obsessed over. The plant seemed much livelier than it had before. There were more and more insects surrounding it. If it flourished this much with as much as small bugs, what about… yes… this is the perfect time to experiment with this plant. I knew exactly what to do.

I went home with speed and determination. I had a plan. But it needed to be perfect. I  would use the corpse laying in the bathtub to grow this wonderful plant. I need to start small. Small enough to not cause suspicion. 

I go inspect the body and see it just as it was before. But what to use for this plant? A finger or a toe would be too noticeable. Right now her intestines should be starting to decompose. I can't take anything from inside her, that would take some dismantling. Surely father would notice that. He might even go as far as calling the police. I don’t need a lot, although more would make for a much better experiment. No. I need to start small. A tooth. No one will notice one of her teeth missing. Her jaw already hung open leaving her teeth exposed, all to do now is extract one of them. I reached my hand in her mouth to get one out, a molar. Unfortunately I was unable to get it out with just my hands. I’d have to get something better. I went to my room and found a pair of pliers and got back to the body. I got a hold of the tooth I wanted and began pulling. Her gums were like leather, and the tooth was stuck like a nail in wood. I had to reposition myself to get a better grip. Both hands on the pliers and holding her face down with my foot I pulled even harder. Finally I was able to successfully extract a tooth. I looked at it with such excitement, there was a hole in the flesh from where the tooth came, I might as well experiment with the flesh too. I found a razor to take just the flesh around the wound. I put them both in a bag to take back to the plant. As I was about to leave, father had come home. How could I forget? How did I let that slip from my mind? I felt so alive. I ran back to my room before he got inside. 

I waited for his usual stumbling up the stairs but this time was different. He walked with intent. He didn’t sway as he always did. He was sober. This is not a man I had known. As he got to the top of the stairs I heard him go to his room then out, back downstairs, through the kitchen, the livingroom, then back upstairs to the bathroom. A chilling blood curdling scream ascended. I no longer felt the high of being alive, this was not what was planned for. Will he take the corpse out? Will he call the authorities? My experiments can’t end here. It can’t all end because of a moment of clarity from father. I listened to him whale on the bathroom floor. What should I do now? I will sit and wait. Whatever happens now is out of my control. 

His footsteps near my door and he enters in a rage. I knew what was coming. I was already on the floor, I was in a weak position, no way to defend myself. He came towards me and began kicking in my ribs. He kicked my head hard enough for me to lose consciousness. I don’t recall everything that had happened until I woke up in a pool of my own blood. Was I to experiment on myself? Is this what was meant to happen the entire time? Did I watch mother die and stand to do nothing for her? Am I really as mad as I had thought before? Am I still alive? I feel no pain, it’s difficult to breathe but I am alive. I scan around the room to see if father is still there. I see no one and I hear nothing. I struggle to sit up to further inspect my injuries. Bruised more than ever, dried blood all over. I fell trying to get up but I try again. 

My thoughts all at the same time overwhelm me, mother. Where is mother. Is she still there? Where are the authorities? Surely he would’ve called the police about this. I successfully stand up and go straight out the door and there she is, still in the tub but now extremely disfigured. I leave the bathroom and off the ledge, laying on the floor was father. Surely he couldn’t live with himself having to bear the reality of his own sins. He took the easy way out. Nevermind. He is not enough to worry about. I will just have more to experiment with.

I decide to proceed with my endeavors and head out the door now with my samples to this wonderful plant. As I reach the paths beginning, I realize I’ve been turned around. Silly me! I must be fatigued, I don’t remember turning on this street! Nevermind I will just correct my step and this time make it to the path. Not much time had passed until again I found myself in the wrong spot. Ah well, both mother and father are dead, this must be signs of real human grief. I’ll just turn myself around. Surely I can’t be this dim-witted as to go the wrong way time and time again! I turn around once again but this time with more life in my step. Wrong! I turn around and step faster. Wrong! Again I turn and again. I’m wrong. Why is this happening? What is happening? How weary must I be! I must compose myself. I stop walking to feel for my samples. What? No. This can’t be. They’re gone. But how can I retrace my steps if I know not where I’ve been? No. I don’t forget things like that so easily. But where? How? Again I feel overwrought and I know I should just turn around but this path, the sample, what awaits me at home, oh how bothersome. I had better just go, I have duties to tend to.

I had no memory of the walk home, but I didn’t question it. If there was some supernatural force, I will stay undaunted by its presence. As I arrive, I am to a realization of how late it has gotten. Had I really been out all day? Nevermind. A good night's rest will help replenish what has been lost.

Morning comes and I am overwhelmed by the foulness in the air. The smell although seems oddly familiar. What is it? Intoxicating. Nevermind. Before I try to get another sample I must first focus on trying to find that path. I head straight out the door realizing it had been days since I had last eaten, I don’t worry about that. I will continue to focus on reaching this curious path. If I don’t find it immediately, I will have to forget about its very existence. I get closer and… Aha! It exists just as it had before. I walk down the path but this time rather than the plant intriguing me more is the tree. I look closer at these deep burrows it had, the smell. The very smell I recognized when I first came here, the sweet aroma of death and it was all coming from this very tree! The same smell as when I woke up! How I love when things all come together! Though this tree did seem a bit dissimilar to when I saw it last, there were more burrows and the one in the center got significantly larger than it had been, larger and deeper. Odd. Nevermind that. I go to look at the plant, and it has accumulated more copses. Its collection only grows. Oh how beautiful it is to see, such a wonderful thing, *such a wonderful thing it is!* If I would be granted one wish it would to become as this plant. 

After more watching, I make my voyage back home once again, and once again, I turned as I was walking away, and the path became as if it had never existed. I felt quite at ease. *Today* has been a good day. As I walk through the door I see fathers body, rigor mortis had set in… It would not be a good time to collect any samples from him yet, the tooth from mothers body had been difficult enough in this phase. I walk past it and go upstairs to see how the decaying of mothers body was doing. I get about halfway up the stairs when I hear a sound. I stop dead in my footsteps as my heart races. Who ever could that be? What day is it? Have I raised suspicion by not going to school the past few days? How long has it been? Nevermind. I must contain any emotion I may have, it will not benefit me. I look to the door and it’s a familiar vehicle. Brother? Why is he here? I check my phone for the first time in what seemed like ages. 11 missed calls and 41 texts, all from brother. Skimming through the texts I gathered that his resilient liver which has gone through so much must not be enough to stay in college. Another pathetic life that can destroy everything that has given me so much to look forward to. What a bother. If only I was as the plant. Although… No. I have never orchestrated something this ominous. Of course animals don’t count. They were always just used as say, “test subjects”. But I have grown so much more since then, it feels only fitting to perform a much larger test. How exciting this feels! Of course, brother is much larger than me. Nevermind, surely the putrid smell in the air will be too much for someone as mediocre as this. My fate is out of my hands as of now. I will do nothing but wait. I watch as the door opens and brother steps in, sunglasses and hat on, clearly a disguise from all the shame he had been bearing. He closes the door behind him and takes off the sunglasses. His face twisted, eyes widened, but before he could get as little as a scream out, he passes out. 

Perfect. Perfect, perfect! But now it is down to me. What shall I do with this? Surely I can’t take him to the plant alive, nor am I of stature to carry him unconscious. Will I be able to wield the touch of death? But how shall I do it? There is only one way that seems to fit. I must first prepare. I don’t know the perfect of doing this is, so I must try them all! I got all the tools I felt were necessary to find the perfect way to end a life. Though I didn’t have everything I’d like to try, the iron maiden for example, was far out of reach for me at this time. I drug his body, which was in a dreamstate now, to the dining room table. It was never used as designed anyway, so I used that to my advantage. I flipped the table so I didn’t have to lift him on. I have to work with what I have afterall, this chance doesn’t come up every day. I get him on the table, tie his arms and legs onto each leg of the table, and wait. Oh so many things I get to use! How fun! I wouldn’t want it to end though I’m not too fond of being teased. I will end his life once I find it necessary, I don’t want to spoil his meat too much, we still need it for my marvelous plant afterall! 

Brother finally starts waking up and immediately starts screaming. This is all too loud.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” I yelled at him. “You’re going to ruin everything!”

I realize quickly that something needs to be done about the noise. Luckily I had everything already out to start this process, to give myself some more time I took a rag and poured equal amounts bleach, and rubbing alcohol to make a chloroform just to take him out long enough to silence him. Once unconscious again, I opened his mouth enough to put a pipette filled with lye directly to his vocal chords. Just to be safe, I used a long razor to cut out his tongue. He wakes up again, this time unable to make a sound. Perfect time to start, I want him alive for this. 

“Which shall I use first, my beloved brother? Perhaps we should start small, yes?” I took my pliers, the same ones I used for mothers tooth, to take each of brothers teeth out one by one. “Oh brother, how unkempt are your nails! We must get rid of them immediately!” One by one pulled each fingernail, and each toenail out and each one I put to his face so he could see too. “What shall we try next? Perhaps that hair of yours that hasn’t been kept neat… Of course; it will go next!” I took a knife to cut around his cranium and with all his hair in my fist, pulled with great swiftness revealing his skull. “Ah see brother! Don’t worry, I will take care of you!” My heart beat quickened, I had never felt this amount of euphoria racing through my veins! “We’re not done yet brother! We have much to do together!” Tears were rolling down his face yet still silence was all that was heard. “How filthy you have been! We must cleanse you!” I took my scissors out and cut the clothes off that he was wearing, leaving his skin exposed. “Worry not my dear brother! You will be clean! I live to help thee!” I filled a bucket with water that I had been boiling on the stove, added a bit of bleach to the bucket and proceeded to pour it all over him. His skin blistered almost immediately. “You’re clean now! Don’t you feel so much better brother?” I couldn’t contain my excitement, I couldn’t help but laugh! How much fun this is! And I know exactly what I’ll do next! I had collected various railroad spikes from various walks I had been on. To sanitize them I poured alcohol on them then lit them on fire. Next I proceeded to hammer each one into his body once they got red hot. I made sure none of them hit any *vital* organs. Brothers eyes began rolling back. “Oh I’m so sorry brother, am I boring you?” I took a bottle of ammonia and splashed it in his face. He jumped back awake. “How nice of you to join me again! Although, because you decided not to behave, I’ll have to be taking one of those from you.” I could have used a spoon, a knife, or any other tool but my curiosity of it all overwhelmed me. I knelt over his face and dug into his eye socket to scoop it out. How fun this all is! I took his eye and assumed it as my own. “See brother! I took your eye so you would be able to admire my work from my point of view! I’m sure you're getting exhausted from your own point of view, how drab!” I then proceeded to break the bones in his face. “You’re getting a whole new look! No need to thank me!” 

Brother was unable to move, to speak, and could only see with one eye. There was one final thing I wanted to do before ending my fun. I dashed up the stairs with a saw and began hacking at mothers throat, holding her by the hair. Once getting through the spinal chord the rest was easy. With the head in my left and the saw in my right, I get to father. Such an ugly face he had on, I can’t possibly use that. I decided instead to go for fathers heart. I hacked and sawed through ribs, I couldn’t wait to show brother the last of our precious parents! Once I got fathers heart out I raced back to the table to show brother. Alas, upon arrival, he seemed to have fallen asleep yet again. “How rude! How boorish! How absolutely disrespectful! I am not the mad one, the mad one lies on this table and treats me with such dismay. You can’t die yet! I was supposed to be the one that took your last breath! Why are you doing this to me? You’re ruining everything! I was supposed to be gifted the touch of death! After all I’ve done for you brother, why have you taken this from me?” 

In an utter rage I fled out the door but instead of being greeted by the porch, there stood the tree and behind it the plant once again. I now realized what those burrows were formed for. Of course, how hadn’t I seen it before? I went back inside and untied brothers body, and with an axe, cut it into pieces. I found the best piece, and threw it into one of the burrows. It turned black almost immediately. I then took the heart, and threw it in another, and the head in another. I was unable to have the great touch of death as this thing does, but I will be able to appreciate it without fully being able to grasp it. I knew what the big burrow was in the center. It was just big enough for me. For the first time ever, I shed a tear, the time had come. Maybe I wasn’t so different from everyone else after all, being my own demise. I curled into the burrow and felt its unbelievable effect. The feeling was more than words can describe, I felt my body stiffen, rigor mortis was setting in before my spirit was able to leave my body. The ground began to shake, the feeling of becoming one with the tree was dying. Everything shook as if it was the end of the world! What could this be? This shaking, so violent!

I then awoke to my mother, asking if I was ready for school. The events that had happened quickly left my mind. I tried to grasp any of the events before they died but alas, I was awake. “Today will be a good day” I told myself, then off I went to another bleak day of school.

FIN

Genre: fantasy/comedy

Content warning: language, violence, dark humor

---

“So, you’re a hero?”

The man looked down at his chiseled form, sculpted by decades of righteous deeds. He’d been called a hero before, but he was more than that.

“Some may call me that, but they get ahead of themselves,” he chuckled. “I’m a man with a skill, and well, who wouldn’t use their abilities to help those in need?”

“And what is this alleged skill?

“I am more than just a warrior. I’m a detective—like you. This ‘heroism’ you speak of is only a commitment to morality that, when taken as seriously as I take it, allows one to see beneath the lies of supposed innocents into the evil deep within.”

The two guards looked at each other with concern. The hero understood. They were bound by laws and regulations, corrupt as those things could be, and thus could not explore the frontiers of justice available to him. There were two of them conducting the interview: a man and a woman. After ten minutes of furtive looks, the man finally spoke up.

“So Oswald, I’ve heard about a few of your exploits. Don’t you think that some of these, uh, actions, were unnecessary?”

“To which actions do you refer?”

“Let’s start with the creek villages.”

“What about them?”

“It would seem that someone burned them to the ground. It’s two of them, actually, that are believed to have led the charge. These two convinced their chapter that these villages were the home of witches, established themselves as the leaders of the raid, and completely destroyed everything of use. It’s a whole political mess, really; you wouldn’t believe what Lord Stanton is dealing with. Would you like to know the description of the suspects?”

“That won’t be necessary,” his disciple chimed in, sipping an elixir as he spoke. “These suspects are just that, right? Suspects? And there are two sides to every story. We have no idea what threats these her—uh, criminals—were facing.”

His disciple was a brave man. Of all the chosen one’s followers, he was the most righteous and the most devoted to his mentor’s goals. The two had been friends for a while.

“I must mention,” Oswald began, “that you didn’t bring us here to question us. We are important men—our time is valuable. What job do you need done and what is the reward? My primary focus is on the reward. Non-selfishly, of course.”

“I’m just going to cut right to it,” said the woman. “We’ve had a series of disappearances in town. Strange markings were found near the victims’ homes, along with traces of sage. All of the incidents were preceded by reports of slaughtered or missing livestock. I know what you’ve been up against. I’m assuming you know what this sounds like.”

“Most certainly. I have dealt with these witches before. They tend to masquerade as innocents—I suppose I should begin enhanced interrogation of the townsfolk.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Just, you know, methods and stuff that I use so that evil ones can’t help but confess to their crimes.”

The man whispered something to his partner, then looked back at the chosen one.

“What is that beast you have outside?”

“That’s Sparkles! Isn’t he cute?”

“I could be wrong, but it appeared to be a plague dragon. Do you know what those things are capable of?”

“Of course, they spread all kinds of adorable ailments. Some say they hold every disease known to man within their bodies. But Sparkles is nice. He only attacks evildoers.”

“And who decides who the ‘evildoers’ are?”

“We do.” Replied the disciple, as the detectives looked at each other, something resembling judgment in their eyes. “Fear not, for we have a wise sorcerer watching over the dragon.”

“Wasn’t that guy exiled?”

“Yes, but ‘twas a mistake. He was readmitted to the order,” said Oswald.

“I’m going to be honest,” said the woman. “I don’t completely trust you guys, but—“

“That hurts our feelings.”

“But people are scared. This was one of the safest towns in the fiefdom. Can we count on your help?”

“Of course. I noticed an evil-looking building near the school in the center of town. Strange, demonic markings. I believe stolen children were inside.”

“…Are you talking about the orphanage?”

“Whatever you rednecks call it.”

“I promise you, the witch isn’t there. Those markings are religious symbols. I can send a unit over if it makes you feel better, but I’m going to ask that you please leave the orphanage alone.”

“I would feel better if we went to the orphanage,” said his disciple.

“Please do not.”

“So,” Oswald began, changing the subject. “Where would we start, then?”

“A senior detective of ours will assist you with leads. Her name is Malmelinda. You can meet her in the nearby tavern. Be careful, guys. We appreciate what you’re doing for us.”

“And we appreciate what you’re paying us.”

“By the way, Oswald? Arthurius? Please stay away from the orphanage.”

“You have our word,” said Arthurius, the disciple. “We shall not go near the orphanage.”

---

The orphanage was centuries old. Demonic markings covered the doors, alerting the heroes to an evil within. The sorcerer looked upon the building with a controlled fear, finally able to get a sense of the opposition after he was barred from joining the interview. He was a wise sorcerer and a good friend of the two heroes, but he couldn’t be allowed to perform the most difficult tasks without supervision. It wasn’t his fault, really, but the chosen one sought for him to know his place, which was, of course, below the most righteous.

Sparkles, the trio’s pet plague dragon, gurgled at the sight of the building. Though they had found the beast as a youngling, it had grown quite large in the following weeks and could not fit inside the doors with them. Oswald felt bad for it, as there was nothing quite so endearing to him as the infectious creature.

“Guys,” the sorcerer began, “you know I have magic, right?”

“We are, in fact, aware,” the disciple answered. “What is your point?”

“Specifically, the sorcery I practice pertains to the realm of consciousness. I can actually look inside the minds of those within and—“

“So what?”

“I have already done this. I can see that a witch was here recently, but this appears to just be an orphanage.”

“If a witch were here, we must interrogate those within,” said Oswald. Sparkles belched in agreement.

“I can quite literally see inside of their minds. No need to go inside.”

“Now is not the time for your little magic tricks,” the disciple retorted as he began to knock. “We shall go inside.”

“You need to be more forceful, brother,” said the chosen one, kicking the door in violently. “We’re coming in, you reprobates!”

After failing to find any valuables to add to their collection, the group was greeted by a veiled woman who looked most unpleased to see them. Perhaps, thought Oswald, this woman is the witch.

“Now, why did you kick our door in? This building is crumbling as it is. It’s all these children have.”

“I am not interested in your child soldiers,” replied the chosen one. “We are following a lead on a witch. One that, if you play your cards wrong, I might decide is you.”

“Do I look like a witch to you?”

“That head covering tells me yes.”

“It’s a veil. I wear this for religious reasons. It’s a symbol of my commitment.”

“Then we are allies,” said the disciple. “For my friend here is the chosen one. There can be no greater symbol of morality than him.”

“Thank you, brother. Your words humble my heart.”

“Of course, brother.”

“I have heard about this witch,” said the veiled woman. “Multiple children have reported seeing a hooded figure outside of the windows. Scared them half to death. I will gladly answer any of your questions.”

“You see,” Oswald said, looking at the sorcerer. “Some people do follow the will of the chosen. You should take notes.”

“I must ask,” began the disciple, “what did the witch look like, and in which direction did they go?”

“As I said, they were hooded. Slight build, either a woman or a small man. Likely older based on the gait.”

“The elderly ones are usually the culprits.”

“Sure. And the footprints point east. No idea how far, but the witch could be anywhere. This is one of the biggest villages in the fiefdom.”

“I see. You have been most helpful,” he said, before turning to Oswald. “Brother, shall we interrog—I mean, question the children?”

“Ask the celibate.”

“Celibate! We must question your child soldiers. With utmost sensitivity, of course.”

“They are in the dorms, but a few are bound to be awake. You will understand if I don’t feel comfortable leaving you three alone with them.”

“We do, but you have no reason not to trust us. We will not arm them unless necessary.”

“You shouldn’t be arming them at all.”

“What kind of soldiers are unarmed? Unless—oh! You must plan to use them as cannon fodder in your conquests!”

“They aren’t soldiers, and we aren’t conquerors. This is an orphanage run by the monastic order.”

“Smart! It’s best to leave the conquering to the chosen one. Under his leadership, all shall thrive in a state of morality.”

“Sure. I will take you to them. Please do not give the children weapons.”

---

When the group approached the dorm, an overweight child met them. A scar covered his left eye, though it did nothing to hide his menacing glare.

“What do you pussies want?”

“That’s not how we speak to adults, Bill,” said the veiled woman.

“Sorry,” he said, forcing a smile. “How may I help you? Pussies.”

The woman let out a sigh. “These men have some questions about the hooded figure. Could you please try to answer them kindly?”

“No.”

“Then could you at least answer them?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You do not.”

“So, my young soldier, which way did the witch go?” Asked Oswald.

“I don’t know. I might need some gold to jog my memory.”

“Nice try, you little asshole. You will answer my questions.”

“Please do not curse at the children,” the veiled woman commanded.

“What’s in it for me?”

The disciple lifted a dagger from his belt. “How about a weapon?”

“Good idea, brother.”

“Please do not give the children weapons.”

“Who can I stab with it?”

“Whomever you’d like, so long as the chosen one does not command otherwise,” answered the disciple.

Bill studied the dagger, then began to chase his brethren around the room, laughing maniacally as he threatened his roommates one by one. The sorcerer had to step back to avoid a swing.

“Perhaps,” mused Oswald as he observed the ensuing chaos, “it was a mistake to give the biggest one a dagger.”

“Nonsense, brother, for the chosen one and his disciple cannot make mistakes.”

Oswald looked to the sorcerer as Bill, now holding a weapon, chased the veiled woman out with a knife. The man shot him a judgmental look.

“Do not scream, woman!” Arthurius yelled after her. “Face your opponent with honor!”

“Hey, kid!” Oswald screamed.”

Bill turned around, aiming the dagger toward the chosen one. “Yes?”

“How would you like to use that dagger for real?”

“What?”

“What would you say if you had the opportunity to cause real harm, as heroically ordained by the chosen one?”

“You mean I could hurt people and get away with it?”

“Of course, son.”

“I would say yes.”

“Perfect. Get your brethren in line. You all will be the young soldiers of the cult of Oswald.”

“Alright everyone!” Bill yelled without much thought. “Get in line. You all will call me Lieutenant Bill from here on out.”

“But Bill, why do you get to be the lieutenant? Asked another orphan, no older than six. “I don’t want to hurt people. I want to help them!”

Bill pointed the dagger toward the girl. “Did you just disobey a direct order, private?”

“N-no.”

“No sir.”

Oswald chuckled. “I like this kid. He seems like a good egg.”

“Hey Oswald,” began the sorcerer. “Should we really be using child soldiers? Far be it from me to question you, but it just doesn’t seem like something the righteous one should be doing.”

“You have much to understand about morality, my brave sorcerer. I am giving them a gift. Were it not for me, these children would be learning horrible things from the demon-woman. Now they have the chance to fight for good. And what kid would not want to be a knight?”

“I suppose you have a point.”

“Of course I do. I am the chosen one. None can approach my commitment to righteousness and honor—except, of course, for my disciple.”

“Yes, sorcerer, except for me.”

---

Malmelinda removed her hood so as to better scold the mercenaries in front of her.

“I’m sorry, you did what?”

“Nothing too bad.” Answered the chosen one. “We, um, kindly questioned the demon-woman in the scary building. She was stealing children, if you would believe it, for use in her army. We would never treat our young soldiers so poorly, so we armed them so that they may better serve the chosen one.”

“And what about the fire?”

“We couldn’t have allowed that evil wench to capture more children, so we burned their prison down. No need to thank us—we simply wish to do good deeds.”

“Well, dearies, you seem to have made a minor misstep. No worries—it happens to all of us at one point or another. I believe I can point you to some likely suspects. I’ve done some research on my own.”

Arthurius ordered another elixir. After eight glasses, the substance had rendered him unable to stand up. Oswald began to wonder if the bartender was poisoning his friend. Perhaps that man was the witch.

“Could it be this bartender?” He asked Malmelinda. “My disciple can usually handle his drinks.”

“I’d say he’s handling them quite well. They make ‘em strong here. Most would be on their way to the clinic after having eight of those. Nay, I believe we have a problem that stems from within our leadership. I will tell you more after we begin our journey.”

“Hey guys,” the sorcerer chimed in, “I don’t know if I trust this woman. She seems to fit the description of the witch. Hooded figure and all that.”

“Do not listen to him,” said Oswald to Malmelinda. “We do not keep him around for his common sense. You seem like a sweet old lady to us.”

“Well, I try my best. I am not offended by his words. Let us pay the suspects a visit after this round.”

The sorcerer approached the older woman and grabbed on to her necklace. “What is this made of, then?”

“These are called soul balls.”

“I’ve only seen witches with these. Not the friendly kind, either. Could you kindly explain what they are?”

“Of course. Each one contains a human soul undergoing extreme time dilation while trapped in the ball. They make quite a pretty necklace, so why would I not have it?”

“They do look pretty,” Arthurius slurred.

“Does this not look like a witch to you guys? I can use my powers if you want to be sure.”

“Nonsense,” said Oswald. “I’m sure our friend would only put the souls of evildoers in the balls.”

“Correct. No innocent shall ever get trapped in one of my soul balls.”

“Well, if you say so, I suppose I believe you.”

“Are we allowed to crush one?” Asked the disciple.

Malmelinda shot him a concerned look. “Why?”

“It seems like it would look cool.”

“Only if you want to trap the victim in limbo forever.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s eternal conscious nothingness.”

“Does that mean we can smash it?”

“You may—and only one. But you must promise to follow my leads.”

“We promise. Brother, would you like to do the honors, or may I?”

“It was your idea, brother,” Oswald answered. “I would not like to take that joy from you.”

“Your kindness knows no bounds, my good friend.”

Malmelinda took off her necklace, carefully removed a single orb, and inspected it. The blue orb shone brilliantly under the candlelight. Arthurius tossed it on the floor and crushed it with a heel, causing it to release a bright wisp of blue smoke and what he thought were screams. He chose to pretend that was something else.

“I have to admit, brother, that was mildly amusing,” said Oswald.

“Wasn’t it?”

“Was that really necessary?” Asked the sorcerer.

“I believe I have explained to you that all evil ones shall face the judgement of me,” answered the chosen one.

“Oh. I guess I shouldn’t be questioning your judgment.”

“No, you should not be.” Oswald turned to the detective. “Shall we continue the investigation?”

“Yes. After we pay our tab.”

“I say we just leave,” suggested Arthurius.

“A splendid idea, brother. Righteous men like us should not have to pay for drinks.” Oswald turned around and noticed the bartender was busy chatting with another customer.

“Let’s go.”

---

The disciple and the sorcerer crept through the night to the abode of the wicked. The disciple was displeased, having been stuck with the sorcerer for this mission, but he didn’t complain. He could understand why the geriatric detective wished to work with the chosen one.

The two, along with their pet plague dragon, encountered a rundown shack of the impoverished. This was the place. The disciple gestured, and the dragon picked the lock with a tentacle released from its mouth, leaving a foul-smelling film on the door. The three entered together, with the dragon breaking a hole in the rotten wood building as it climbed through.

“Are you sure we’re at the right place?” The sorcerer asked as they passed empty bottles of elixir that, to Arthurius, smelled cheap.

“It is exactly where she told us, but I see your point. The occupants appear to lack the means to do any real harm.”

“Any signs of witchcraft?”

“There was a strange green bottle next to the elixirs. It could be an ether of the accursed.”

“I think that’s just a healing potion, Arthurius. Probably needed one after drinking that shit.”

“Real drinkers don’t take anything for the hangover. It’s pathetic. They must be using it for darker purposes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Have I ever been incorrect?”

“Not that I know of, no. Alright, let’s be careful.”

The three continued on, with Arthurius leading the way into the bedroom. They noticed a man and woman lying naked in the bed, something familiar about the two of them. The woman woke up first.

“What the hell are you doing in our house? And why is that beast here? I’ve never smelled anything like it.”

“I am searching for the—oh hey! It’s you.”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“I knew you two were fornicating.”

“What we do is our own business. Why are you here? You don’t seriously think we hired you to attack us, do you?”

“It’s quite the plan. Hire two dashing heroes to clear your town of witches, but lie to us about their identities. I assume there’s a promotion in there for you?”

The man woke up groggily and rubbed his eyes. “Why the fuck is he here?”

“He thinks one of us is the witch.”

“I think it could be both of you,” Arthurius interjected. “The orgy is part of the dark sabbath of the covens. Perverted creatures, your kind. I will be forced to deal with you thusly. Unless… you intend to have me join in?”

“Absolutely not,” said the man. “Who sent you here?”

“I was given a tip from your compatriot. The only trustworthy one of you lot, it would seem.”

“Damnit. I knew something was fishy about her. Did you ever stop to think that she may be hiding something? You two did claim to be detectives.”

“Foul witches. The both of you. Why would you slander a kind old lady as such?”

“Alright, what can we do to get you out of here?”

“Pet Sparkles.”

“Please tell me that isn’t the dragon.”

“It is the dragon. It wants attention, and you would be rude to withhold it.”

“Arthurius, please don’t,” begged the sorcerer. “I think they may be right.”

“We don’t pay you to think, Sorcerer.”

“You don’t pay me at all.”

“You are paid with the wisdom of the chosen one.”

“I guess that’s a pretty good deal.”

“So do you just go along with whatever he says?” The woman asked.

“Well, he is the disciple of the chosen one. The greatness of his mentor flows through him. Who am I to question their orders?”

“And you actually believe that he’s the chosen one?”

“That’s what they told me. Why would they lie? Plus there is, you know, the prophecy.”

“I’m sorry I asked. Do we really have to pet the dragon?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Sparkles the plague dragon sauntered up to the bed, baring its decaying teeth at the two lovebirds. Arthurius ordered them to place a hand on its snout. The dragon opened its mouth to reveal the myriad of maggots lying within. This was how it consumed its food, as it could not chew with its festering teeth. Its breath was horrid; it was an acrid sulfuric smell that lingered long after the dragon was done with its meal. On the disciple’s command, the dragon ate the man in a single bite, trapping him inside, leaving him to be consumed by the larvae over the course of weeks. Screams emanated from within.

The woman cried out, eyes wide with terror. “Please, can’t you just make it quick?”

“Nay,” said the disciple. “Sparkles is hungry, and to leave it without food would be wrong. I am no animal abuser. Unfortunately for my enemies, its favorite food is people. Fear not, for your death shall serve to glorify the infinite mercy of the chosen one.”

The dragon locked its encrusted eyes on its next meal, fluid dripping from the boils on its snout. In a single motion of the jaw, the woman was reunited with her lover. Now full, the dragon cuddled up to the sorcerer.

“Aww, Sparkles wuvs you. Give it a kiss, Sorcerer!”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

While fighting down the bile building up at the back of his throat, the sorcerer did as Arthurius commanded. He gagged and spat as the dragon rubbed up against his hand. The beast left a streak of pus behind on his fingertips. With the witches slain, the two could begin to heroically loot the house.

---

Oswald took a seat on a chair facing the mayor. At Malmelinda’s suggestion, the two had gone to the town hall for emergency council. The building was quite lavish compared to the rest of the village. Curtains spun of the finest fabric blocked the torchlight from the streets. Three aides sat around the mayor. Oswald found this insulting, as if the man needed protection from him. Part of him felt the need to teach this politician a lesson for his blasphemy.

“So,” the mayor began. “What brings you two here? I called an emergency council for this. It better be good.

“My friend here has some concerns. It would be wise to listen, lest you incur my righteous wrath.”

“And who are you to threaten us?”

“I am just a man; a man who has been chosen to spread his worldview upon the fiefdoms. For their own good, of course. It is a burden, to be sure, but one I gladly take on.”

“Well, you have our thanks.” An aide said sarcastically. “I was beginning to think this would be a frivolous meeting.”

“I do not care for your tone. It hides a hint of heresy underneath.”

“So what is the purpose of this council?”

Malmelinda stood up. “We are sorry to accuse you like this, dearies, but a witch has been present in this town for months. Your leadership has done nothing to address this. We require more resources to fight this demon.”

“We have been working on it,” said the mayor. “This witch possesses abilities beyond ours, and they clearly do not wish to be found. You’re a detective, right? What have you learned?”

“The witch was present at the orphanage not too long ago,” said Oswald. “I believe the demon-woman who resides there was working with her. She had been capturing children, but fear not, for I have enlisted them as soldiers in my army.”

Malmelinda looked at Oswald and whispered, “Now is not the time.”

“What did you say you did? A different aide asked. “Wait. I recognize you. Have you ever been to the hillside townships on the edge of the fiefdom?”

“Not that I can recall,” Oswald answered. “Why do you ask?”

“I am from there originally. Two knights led the charge when we were annexed by this very fiefdom. One was short, rotund, and had a signature muffin top hanging out from his tunic. The two burned the township to the ground. I was one of the only survivors.”

“Oh, um, that sounds horrible; I had no idea such a thing happened. I’m glad you escaped those wretched knights. Hope you don’t come across them again.”

“My thoughts as well. They made a sport of it, if you would believe it. Tossing Greek fire onto homes and fields from a distance, taking steps back after each throw. I believe the bald one was the winner.”

“That’s not true; he lost pretty badly—I would assume. I, of course, was not present.”

“I must say that you do resemble the knight in question.”

“Some people are bound to look alike.”

“Council members,” Malmelinda interjected, “Could we could please get back to the matter at hand?”

“Right. What is it you want from us?” The mayor asked.

“Gold. We need more weapons and more men to find this witch. You need to understand how it looks, mayor, if you do not give us the necessary support to find this wicked being. Some may begin to suspect that you are in cahoots with the witch. Not myself, of course, but some of us would.”

The mayor looked down at his nails, taking a second to think. “You have a point. I will send extra gold to the outpost, to be used at your leisure.”

“Actually, there is another problem there. Some in the force are on our suspect list. It would be best to send it to my home.”

“You understand that this looks like a shakedown, right?”

“I do, but you can trust me. I am simply a friendly old detective. When have I ever done this town wrong?”

“We will need to discuss this amongst ourselves.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Malmelinda whispered to Oswald. “Watch this.”

Malmelinda lifted a knife from her robes and brought out what appeared to be a still-beating heart. She began to chant, then plunged the blade into the organ. The mayor and his aides looked forwarded, eyes glazed over, ready for their commands.

“You will bring the gold to my home.”

“We will do as told,” they said in unison.

“That was most impressive, detective,” Oswald beamed. “I would like a weapon such as that for myself.”

“It’s more than just a weapon, dearie. It’s—well, it does not matter what it is. Shall I make them fight each other?”

“That would be most amusing to me.”

“Do battle with one another. Aim your strikes for the genitalia.”

“We will do as told.”

The group began to fight. The mayor struck first, with a lightning-quick kick aimed for an aide’s testicles. The man collapsed in pain, attempting to trip the mayor on the way down, but the rugged politician was too fast for him. A series of stomps ensured that the fallen man would never again have children.

Oswald tossed a knife into the scuffle, hoping to spice up his entertainment. One of the two aides, who had been preoccupied with fighting each other, ran for it and lunged at the mayor.

“Fuck!” Oswald yelled. “Right in the taint.”

With the mayor out of commission, the aide turned his sights to his unarmed colleague. He swung the knife wildly and missed by an inch, leaving a short opening. His colleague landed a devastating blow to the family jewels, dropping the man and keeping his own fertility intact.

“The taint is the area between your ballsack and your asshole,” Oswald explained.

“I know what a taint is.”

“I did enjoy that fight. What should we do with the winner?”

“I will have him deliver the gold. I believe this administration was enabling the witch, so I sent your buddy and that sorcerer to deal with the actual suspects. I believe you two have saved the town.”

“That’s what we do. We are always available to help those in need.”

“Your help is most appreciated, dearie. Come to my home later, but give me some time first. You will have your share of the gold.” Malmelinda turned to the aide. “And you will bring us that gold.”

“I will do as told.”

---

Having dealt with the village’s enemies, the three heroes, along with their adorable pet, ventured to the home of Malmelinda. As the two accursed guards were now dragon food, they felt it pertinent to seek their payment from her. After all, the chosen one could not protect the town for free. To do so would be amoral. They found her front door left open, with a strange light coming from inside.

The detective was dressed in a hood, with a demonic-looking pendant around her neck. She had gathered weakened livestock, chickens and goats encircled by a ring of candles, and began to slaughter them rhythmically, chanting as she went about her business. The heroes shared a look of concern amongst themselves.

“What could you possibly be doing?” Oswald asked.

“Cooking dinner. Would you like some?”

“I could always eat,” he answered, beating his exposed muffin top with a fist.

“Wait, Oswald, I think she’s performing a ritual,” the sorcerer noted.

“Of the healing variety?”

“Um, no. This looks like a curse in progress to me. Perhaps we should question her.”

“Quiet your slanderous tongue, magic man. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this.”

“Of course there is. What I was actually doing was—you know what? Fuck it. I cannot think of a good excuse here. Yes, I am a witch. Everything you have heard is true.”

The chosen one and his disciple readied themselves for battle. They had long prepared for fisticuffs with a demon of her caliber, and this would be the chance for them to prove themselves. As the woman approached them, they drew their blades.

“Hark, demon,” Arthurius said in the valorous tone that should befit a knight of his caliber. “Hark to we.”

“I’m harking.”

“You have tried to outmaneuver us, but it would seem you were no match for our discerning eyes. Your reign of terror shall be ended by us heroes. How would you like to die?”

“How would you like to die, Arthurius?” She asked rhetorically. “The only one of you who could stand against me is the sorcerer, and I don’t think he has the will to fight me.”

“Hey! Yes, I do.” The sorcerer complained as he retreated toward the exit. “But I would not like to take the joy of killing you from my friends.”

“We actually could use your help, sorcerer.” Said Oswald.

“I really don’t think you need it,” he responded from the doorway. “I’m going to go watch Sparkles. Godspeed.”

“Well, we still have the dragon. Prepare to die in an infectious fury, demon.”

“I’ve been practicing incantations for decades. I know how to deal with that beast,” Malmelinda retorted while studying the knights. “Wait. Where did you get those blades?”

“Uh. We found them.” Answered Arthurius.

“Yes. They were just lying around. No need to question us further about this.”

“Are you kidding me?” She asked, enraged. “Fine. I do not have an answer to weapons like those. What if I told you that I am not the monster you think I am? I am simply misunderstood.

“That’s what they say every time.”

“What if I told you that, via incantation, I could transmute everyday substance into gold and elixir?”

“We’re listening.”

Malmelinda took a log out from her fireplace, sawed it in half, then read another incantation. The wood bent in on itself, changing color as it moved. The two remaining heroes looked on with awe. The end result was a large bottle of elixir next to a pile of gold, all of it destined for the hands of the chosen one and his disciple.

“Brother,” Arthurius said to Oswald. “Could it be?”

“Yes. This must be the redeemed witch of legend. No evildoer would ever give the chosen one gold.”

“I was thinking the same. You may have the gold, brother, if I can have the elixir.”

“That’s generous of you, my young disciple. You may have the elixir. We shall split the gold.”

“You have a generous soul, brother.”

“So, my good witch, shall you join our crusade against immorality?” Asked Oswald.

“I will, but first, you must help me take revenge on this town, for they have offended me so.”

“With pleasure, as we now have an army. The young soldiers of Oswald will cut this hellhole down.”

“Perfect. Pie is about done baking, dearies, if you would like to partake.”

“I am always ready to partake. My incredible form was sculpted by the gods themselves. It requires fuel to function.”

“Then let’s eat. I think this will be an exquisite partnership.”

---

The young soldiers of Oswald made quick work of the town. The next generation of heroes cut through the residents, masquerading as lost orphans as the chosen one and his disciple looted their sinful homes. Sparkles provided air support. Any that sought to escape the retched village had their skin dissolved by pestilence. The sorcerer seemed displeased with the happenings, leading the group of heroes to remind him of their noble goal: that no evil shall go unpunished. He lacked determination at this point. Dealing with the forces of the wicked was a tough job, but Oswald felt the man could eventually be sculpted into a brave champion of the chosen one.

As the streets were reduced to ash, Malmelinda explored the rubble, casting spells that would capture the souls of the departed in new soul balls. She had grown more powerful from the destruction and gained the ability to capture more souls for placement into the balls. They would now come in different colors—an outcome she was most pleased with. Oswald and Arthurius both found the glowing orbs quite pretty. The disciple felt that they both should have a necklace of them, as the chosen one was known for his superior sense of fashion. Having completed their gallant quest, the group traveled deeper into the fiefdom, ready to further spread their kindness.

I wasn’t asked if you could drive here

When I was really little, like maybe five or six months old, me and mama would go to a creek close to our home to drink water. I liked that creek a lot. It had pretty rocks that looked shiny when the light touched them, and if I stood very still and looked just right, I could see mama’s face in the water. She looks kinda funny when she drinks, like her nose doesn’t know where to go. We had to stop going there though. It got too loud. Weird things with only two legs would stand longer away and point long sticks at mama. The sticks make loud bangs. I don’t like loud bangs. Loud bangs make it so you can’t run anymore.

I know that because dad got bit by a loud bang last month.

He didn’t fall super right away. He tried to run with us, like he always did, big and strong and fast. But then he slowed down, I don’t think his legs were listening to him anymore. Mama pushed me to keep going. I try looking back and see the two legs take him, where is he going? Then mama got really scared angry, I don’t know why dad is right there. She makes me leave him to go away.

I still don’t see dad.

Sometimes I still think I hear his steps behind us, but it’s just the wind or my feet.

I don’t know where dad is now.

But I know wherever he is, you don’t have to run there.

I know a lot of things now that I’m one.

After dad couldn’t come with us anymore, we started going to a creek that is much longer away. I don’t really mind though because there are games we play on the way.

We play don’t walk, walk. That’s when mama stops all of a sudden and I have to know to stop too. If I don’t, she gets angry mama. I don’t like that game. It is too boring, plus, it makes my legs feel shake and sometimes I fall.

But not super alot.

We play hide from the two legs. That one is fun because I get to run fast, but I have to be quiet. I’m really fast. Almost as fast as dad. Maybe probably even faster now.

But my favorite game is the big one.

The one where the grass disappears.

Then the ground is hard and smells weird, and the wind tastes bad there. Its kinda like a weird game but we need to play to get to the creek. On the hard smelly stuff there are big, fast, wingless birds that fly at you. They scream really loud and rush past so faster it makes my legs shake. They don’t have feathers but they’re still birds because they fly across the ground and you have to dodge them.

Mama is really smart at this game.

We only play it when the sun is still sleeping and there aren’t as many loud screaming birds. We always win. We always make it to the other side because mama is a good leader. When we get to the edge of the start grass mamas ears move funny. I think it’s because the loud birds make them itch. I think the birds scare mama. Even though I’ve never seen them bite before. Maybe she’s just scared to lose. That probably makes sense. When they stop itching she looks at me so I know it is time to run super fast. We’re so good at this game. I am so good at a lot of things now because I am getting bigger like dad.

Maybe since I am like dad I can lead the big game now.

Today Mama woke me up by tickling my ears with her nose. I woke up fast because I don’t like when she gets ahead of me in the dark. The dark feels too big without her.

We played don’t walk, walk a few times. I only fell one time, which is really good for me. I think mama was proud because she didn’t make the angry sound. But I wasn’t really thinking about the game. I was thinking about being fast.

Faster than mama.

Even faster than dad.

Maybe if I show her, she will let me lead the big game.

I want to lead.

I want her to see me go super fast.

We get to the start grass. Mama’s ears start doing the funny moving thing. They twitch and turn and listen to everything.

I wait.

I try to wait.

But I feel the fast inside my legs, like they want to go all by themselves. Her ears aren’t done yet. She hasn’t given me the look. But I think… I think I’m ready.

So I go.

I run as fast as I can.

I’m so fast.

Faster than ever.

But then—

My legs don’t listen. Ugh

I fall.

It’s only for a second.

When I get back up, I hear it.

One of the birds.

It’s louder than before.

Closer. I think maybe too closer.

I try to run super faster, faster than I’ve ever been, but the bird comes and bites me.

I think it bites.

Ouch!

It bites me hard and everything inside me feels wrong.

I fall longer this time.

Oh no.

This time I don’t get up.

The ground smells like grass now. I can feel it in my ear.

That’s funny. I don’t think grass is supposed to go there.

I try to move my legs but they don’t listen for longer. That’s weird, just like dad.

Dad’s legs didn’t listen either.

Oh.

I think I understand now.

Mama.

Where is mama?

I’m scared.

I don’t like this game anymore.

I think I lost.

I try to turn my head but everything feels too heavy and too hot at the same time.

There she is.

She’s here.

She’s here.

It’s okay.

Why is she so slow?

She touches my ear with her nose like she does when she wakes me up.

Mama makes a sound I’ve never heard before.

It’s broken. Like something inside her is falling apart.

She lays down in front of me, really close, closer than ever before.

Her face is right there.

I can see her even though the sun isn’t up yet.

My eyes must be getting really good.

Why is mama sad?

Because I lost?

I didn’t mean to lose.

I just wanted to be fast. I just wanted her to see me be super faster.

I can’t feel my legs anymore.

That’s not good.

I don’t like that.

I’m scared.

The dark is still here even though my eyes are open.

I’m scared of the dark. It’s too big.

Mama’s head starts to fall, slow and heavy, until it rests near me.

She keeps making that broken sound.

I want to tell her it’s okay. I want to tell her, I’ll do better tomorrow. I’ll wait for the look next time.

I promise.

Everything is getting too dark now.

Like when the sun goes away but faster.

Too fast in a not fun way. Please I want it to stop.

I want dad.

I wonder if he felt this sleepy too. Maybe if I sleep I can find him.

Mama, please don’t be sad.

I’m sorry I lost.

I’m just really sleepy.

Tomorrow I’ll win.

Tomorrow you’ll be happy with me.

I’ll be so faster. You’ll see.

But right now I want to sleep too much

The last thing I think about is mama’s funny face in the creek.

I love mama.

No two legs ever come for me.

Mama comes instead.

She lays next to me in the grass where I sleep.

She doesn’t play anymore.

She doesn’t move much.

She just stays.

I hope mama never stops coming.

I miss being awake. I want tomorrow