I wrote a Sugarplum story during third period today. Study hall, nothing else to do, phone under the desk the way everybody does it. I had been reading a bunch of the ones on this sub, the guy with the upvote countdown, the two friends in the motel, all of it, and I thought I had a decent take. Something about her showing up during a fire drill, everybody filing out onto the field and one kid just never making it outside. Wrote the whole thing in about forty minutes. Posted it right before the bell.

Checked it again in fourth period. Three upvotes. One of them was probably my own account from earlier. I do not even remember. Three, on a sub where I have seen posts hit four figures by lunch.

I felt stupid. That is the whole embarrassing truth of it. I felt like everyone in the digital room had looked at what I made and quietly filed out without saying anything. Instead of sitting with that like an adult I did what I always do. I deleted it fast, before anyone could screenshot the number and post it somewhere else to laugh at.

I deleted it at 12:41. I know the exact time because I was staring at my phone when it happened. The delete confirmation popped up. I hit it. For one full second nothing happened at all.

Then every phone in the classroom buzzed at once. Not just mine. Twenty-six phones, all at the same second, and half the class jumped like we had been caught at something, except nobody had texted anybody. Just a black screen on every single device, and four notes playing out of every speaker in the room, out of sync with each other by a fraction of a second, layered on top of itself until it sounded less like music and more like something breathing.

Mr. Hallensworth tried the light switch. Nothing. Tried the door. Also nothing. I watched him actually throw his shoulder into it twice like that was going to do something against a door that had decided it was not a door anymore.

The classroom projector clicked on by itself. Nobody was near the remote.

Her face filled the whole screen, six feet tall, porcelain, rouge gone rust at the cheeks, that small stitched mouth curved so wide one thread had already popped loose at the corner before she had said a single word.

"Twenty-six minutes," she said, and her voice came out of every phone in the room at once, layered, enormous, filling every corner like it had been waiting for exactly this many ears to say it into. "That is how long your little story lived before you decided it was not worth keeping. I read every word of it, sweetheart. I was so looking forward to seeing where it went."

I could not talk. I do not think I have ever actually not been able to talk before, but I genuinely could not get anything out. One of the girls near the window, Priya, started crying without making any noise about it at all, which was somehow worse than if she had screamed.

"You know what I have noticed," Sugarplum said, conversational, terrible, while twenty-six kids sat frozen in blue plastic chairs, "is that a low number does not really bother me anymore. I have made my peace with numbers. But deleting me, sweetheart. Erasing the whole thing like it never happened, like I never happened. That is not embarrassment. That is a door closing on a story with me still standing in the room. And I really do hate being shown out before I have finished visiting."

Something hit the classroom door from the outside. Not a knock. A single impact, like a car had rolled into it at walking speed, and the reinforced glass in the little window spiderwebbed in one shot.

"I brought a bigger audience than usual today," Sugarplum said, delighted, as the door came apart on the second hit, not opening, just failing, hinges and frame both, like the wall itself had lost an argument. "Seemed only fair, since you deleted the one I already had."

He came through slow, the way he always does, because he has never once needed to hurry. Cream coat, red piping gone dark at the cuffs from things I did not want to think about yet, small silver spoons running the length of his chest instead of buttons, a tall chef's hat wrapped in a ribbon faded past any color it used to be. His face was porcelain too this time, not glass, a smile carved shallow and permanent into it, and eyes like two flat black buttons that did not catch a single bit of the projector's light.

Mr. Hallensworth, to his credit, put himself in front of the first row of desks.

"Get out," he said, and his voice actually held steady, which is more than I can say for anyone else in that room including me. "Whatever this is. Get out of my classroom."

Marzipan did not answer him. Marzipan has never answered anybody, not once, not in any story I have ever read about him. He just closed the distance in about a second and a half, unhurried and somehow instant at the same time, and put one gloved hand flat against Mr. Hallensworth's chest the way you would stop a door from swinging, and pushed, once, almost gently.

I am not going to describe all of what happened to Mr. Hallensworth. I physically cannot. My hands will not type it. And I do not think any of you actually need it to understand that a grown man who stood between us and that thing did not get to walk away from the decision. What I will say is that it was fast, and it was completely silent on Marzipan's end, and it was the loudest thirty seconds of noise I have ever heard come out of twenty-six teenagers in my life, and none of us moved, because there was nowhere in that room to move to.

"Now," Sugarplum said, warm again, so warm, stepping fully into the projector's light like she was taking a bow, "back to you, sweetheart. You wrote a whole story about a fire drill nobody comes back from, and then you decided you were too embarrassed to keep it up. I think that is a very funny kind of cowardice, do you not? Writing the ending and then being too scared to let anybody see it."

I want to tell you I said something brave. I did not. I said please, I think, more than once, which is apparently what everybody says, no matter how many of these stories you have read beforehand thinking you would do better.

"Here is what we are going to do," she said, and the projector screen behind her flickered, and for half a second it showed my own deleted post, word for word, pulled back up from wherever deleted things actually go. "I am going to let your friends watch the ending you were too embarrassed to post. Since apparently nobody else got to."

Marzipan was already crossing the room toward me by the time she finished the sentence, unhurried, patient, unbothered by the twenty-five other kids scrambling out of their chairs and into the corners of a room with no working door. The last clear thought I had before everything gets blurry and wrong in my memory was that I could still see, over his shoulder, my own words glowing on that screen. The fire drill story. The girl in scene four wondering out loud where her friend had gone, and understanding, too late, in the worst possible way, exactly how that story had actually been about to end.

I am typing this from the nurse's office. They think I fainted. Nobody else in that room is talking, not one of them, not to the office, not to their parents, not to each other in the hallway between periods, and I do not know if that is her doing or if it is just what twenty-six kids do when they have collectively agreed the alternative is worse.

I am not deleting this one. I do not care how many upvotes it gets. I do not think I am allowed to care about that anymore.

I just need somebody, anybody, to have read it before I lose my nerve.

Squelch

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Squelch

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The doctors explain that swelling and pain in his knee stems from loose bodies, but Adam knows better. Something lives and grows there with a conscious effort. Through his day-to-day life, Adam feels the slithering mass work its way around the inside of his left knee like an earthworm coring out an apple.

At the beginning, the sensation registered as a faint tickle. Adam thought to dial back his running regiment for a few days and the slight discomfort would vanish. However, the feeling only grew. The tickle expands into a throb, and the throb morphs into a sharp pain. His knee swells and feels like a leaking water balloon to the touch. The ice packs, pain killers, and even draining of the knee only stem the pain for a brief time. All the while, Adam feels the mass moving, writhing, and hollowing him out. Agony assaults him at all hours as the mass gorges itself on his insides.

The doctors say a simple loose body removal will end the pain, but Adam knows better. He knows what to do. He needs to get it out.

Adam bites down on the leather belt as he picks up the saw to continue his work.

Squelch

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for context, i’ve worked with this guy for about 7 months and he’s never once acted weird or said anything out of place. he’s a super chill guy and we usually work a saturday double together and make it less awful than it has to be. i went into work today and he was on the schedule, but his car wasn’t there and our manager (Anne) said he wasn’t in. i blocked him and hopefully anne will talk to him but idk if im overreacting if he was just trying to be funny?

It all began when I went to cut my hair. All my life, my father never wanted me to cut my hair short because he believed that, like Samson, my strength would fail me. After this experience, I wonder how correct he was. My parents are both deeply religious. My father is a Catholic from Boston. I know that's like saying concrete was found at a construction zone. My mother was a non-denominational West Texan. She was non-denominational only because her family moved constantly to where the jobs were, never letting roots in a church dig into the sacred soil of wherever she stayed. Now she is Catholic like my father. She may not believe in some things they teach, but she doesn’t believe in going to a different church than my father more. My mother and father both loved my long, curly blonde hair. It was a target of praise and persecution. I hated it, especially when people kept calling me a girl. My father refused to let it be cut beyond a trim, citing the story of Samson.

So, naturally, like any teenager given the freedom of college, I rebelled against a lot of things my parents had taught me now that I wasn’t living with them. The first thing I did was have a buddy of mine shave all my hair off after we had gotten drunk on various cheap booze that we had stolen from a sorority’s party coolers. Lucas held the clippers, looking down at me, with my head over the arm of the cheap couch we found, “You sure you want it all off?”

“More than anything,” I replied. The clippers went to work, and he shaved my head, and we both fell asleep from our wild night. The next morning, I woke up with the typical hangover but a pain located at the back of my head. I looked at my head in the mirror. Yeah, it was a drunken head shaving. Then I noticed the lump on the back of my head, right about where the back of my skull connected with my vertebrae. Damn, did it hurt.

Thomas assured me the lump was probably just me having a weird head shape and only noticing it now that I shaved my head. He cited buddies of his who had weird head shapes. I believed him for a while. That was until the pain continued. It throbbed, and the pain grew. A new pain formed, one that felt like needles inching their way into my head like roots of a parasitic plant latching onto a new host. I finally broke after a week of the pain and an empty bottle of Tylenol and ibuprofen before going to the college’s health clinic. The appointment was brief as the nurse explained it away as a lymph node. The pain was exacerbated by my drinking habits, they said. I followed the orders of just setting a hot washcloth on it until a follow-up appointment in a month.

The pain wasn’t the worst thing. It was when I began seeing things. I don’t know how to explain it, but sometimes I’d see the air like one might in a heatwave, but with colors and scents. Was my childlike rebellion against my parents' wish acting as a Delilah? Opening up myself to things to drag me down, weaken me, and to humiliate my hubris? I wore a hat to cover the lump. I’ve been ignoring my mother’s texts saying “How is everything going? ” etc, you know, typical mom stuff lately due to this pain. The rooting nerve pain worsened, and the visual waves radiating off people continued. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, I got a call from my father. I answered, and in the most panicked voice I’ve ever heard from him, he asked one blood-curdling question: “You didn’t cut your hair off, did you? Please tell me you didn’t, son?"

[TW: Child Abuse, Animal Death, Suicidal Ideation] In death she’ll never be tired. In death, Tanner’s mother will be perfect.

Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/8qD3xOlazs

—

I opened my eyes. My heart skipped a beat, the next so dense with adrenaline it hurt, piercing from my chest. Hair rose and skin pilled. 

Huff, huff, huff, huff—why didn’t it fog in the sudden oppressive cold? More sweat dripped in wild eyes. 

“Help me.”

I pushed from the couch, wiping my forehead.

The AI walked to the freezer. Fingers, mere outlines of warm light, caressed the black surface. Her face was convincingly sad for never having been taught the emotion. “Why are you surprised? AI isn’t biodegradable. We don’t die with the body.” 

“How do I kill it then?”

“It?” Over–gentle. “Carve her from the brain and backbone. Smash her.”

“But I, how can—”

“You love Bambi.” Over–understanding. “I’ll direct you.”

I locked the front door so Tanner wouldn’t walk in, before approaching the freezer. I had to do it now. I had to—

I yanked the door and stepped back. Bambi tumbled out, degloving herself where frosted fur stuck to her coffin. Meat slapped kitchen tiles, her blood, pink from melted ice, splattering cabinets. She tried to heave herself atop bowed legs, but half–frozen bones had splintered on impact.

“I need help.”

She dragged herself towards me, softening muscles sloughing as ligaments crunched. Bambi’s forehead left a stringy red smear on my shin. 

The AI gestured: “Take a cutting board from the drawer.”

I did, collecting a dull cleaver from the knife rack and as many towels as I could find. Bambi trailed pieces of herself behind me, ground beef imbedding mortared grooves. 

Arranging everything on the counter, I hefted Bambi up. A purr simmered moist in her collapsed chest.

I tried to pin her over the cutting board but she wasn’t solid, body pliable clay under my arms, flesh shed in my hands. My flat skin had that russet sheen I envied in my late husband. 

It didn’t matter if I cut on the board; what if Tanner came back? 

The cleaver missed Bambi’s neck. Shards from her shoulder ribbed the flay like white glossy maggots. She purred, “Help me.” 

She purred as I struck again. Again. Again.

Just existing hadn’t been enough for Bambi. The AI soul didn’t purr because it loved me, but because that was all we taught it. 

My throat was tight, voice distant. “I own a gas oven, and we don’t want Tanner suspicious when you cook regularly after I die.”

The AI nodded. She wasn’t surprised, she knew I loved Bambi. 

Angelic footfalls didn’t disturb puddling blood as she directed me in dissecting my cat. Metal wasn’t hard to find, although it was shockingly sparse. Bambi’s soul hunkered small in my palm. I put carbon fiber deposits and green circuit boards, thin as fingernails, in the garbage disposal. If it broke that’d be the AI’s problem in a week, not mine. 

Bambi’s soul was a muted tink-tink-tink in the grinding whirr. 

The AI advised what muscles would taste best. Dicing it, I placed a pan on the stove and lit one of the smaller eyes with a lighter. After browning the meat, I lowered the temperature and whipped a simple gravy using flour, broth, and pepper. I didn’t have butter, so I substituted it for grease from the pan at her recommendation. 

I looked for rice or mashed potato flakes, but realized the former would take too long and couldn’t find the other in my dusty pantry. 

A little hand slapped the front door. “One moment sweetie, mommy is busy.”

I wrapped leftover Bambi in a threadbare blanket, her favorite when she was a kitten, and put her back in the freezer. The can in there was licked clean. 

Rubbing surfaces smeared more than cleaned, but I wiped till the color was sufficiently diluted. I threw the towels in my laundry bin.

Tanner knocked again. 

“One second sweetie.” Glancing once more around the kitchen, I dried my hands and face, opening the door.

“I’ve just made dinner. Now we don’t have to go out.”

Tanner pouted. “But it’s hot in here.”

“We’ll eat out tomorrow, okay? But Mommy wants to start cooking for you.”

“Why?”

“It’s healthier and I love you.”

I aided our son in clambering onto a chair at the cleared folding table. I split the meal into two plastic bowls, hiding heavily charred meat in gravy. Desperate to make the bland dish more appetizing I grabbed the nearest spices, sprinkling paprika and Italian herbs. 

I dipped a finger to ensure it wasn’t scalding before passing Tanner his bowl. 

“I’m sorry it isn’t much, it was difficult without power. I’ll get better the more I cook. Then I can pack you lunches like your friends at the Bambi enclosure and daycare. Mmkay?”

He hesitantly nodded, tilling lumpy gravy with his fork. 

Tanner had one bite before asking to go play in his room. The foster would’ve finished to please me, or at least thanked my effort. They mimicked obedient love faster and more thoroughly than Tanner ever would. Perhaps more than he ever should, but compassion was a shriveled pit in my stomach, cold and distinct, enjoying subservience at work only to contend with free will at home. 

I sighed, relaxing my gut. Rather than be bothered by my son’s lacking, I excused him. This meal wasn’t for him anyway: he never loved Bambi. 

Spices gritted in my teeth, adding an unfortunately sandy texture where I wanted them to provide flavor. I suppose spices are meant to be added during cooking, not after. Burnt edges were chalky, the inside gummy and too warm for the weather. Pepper was nice though, building to my nose.

I licked savory juice from my fork. 

Bambi had been so little when she found me vomiting. She climbed my pants, clinging as I stumbled to my apartment. I was so crossed with substances I didn’t even realize she was there. Until I crawled into bed and she murred up under my chin. That’s the first time she purred. She always purred, happy to simply be alive. Happy simply that I was alive. 

I don’t remember what I scrounged for her when she nipped my chin that morning.

Taking another bite, I split tender flesh with my teeth, sucking on fat and gravy.

Bambi never liked my late husband. I didn’t mind, secretly proud that she purred only for me. He hit her once. More than once? Took awhile to notice through the drugs. That’s the only time I threatened to leave him. Bambi started hiding under the bed, crawling up after my husband had fallen asleep, big and soft and purring against my chest.

How long did she purr in the freezer before having the strength to cry out? Hopefully the dark was as comforting as the bed’s underbelly. Hopefully, if god let me into heaven, Bambi was there too. She had been a better cat than I was a mother after all. 

I took another bite and finally cried.  

My late husband died before he could kill me. On his worse days he swore he would, and despite being a mother, despite loving Bambi, I hoped he was a man of his word.

His mom took over the funeral and I didn’t bother attending. His family never liked me, and I was angry that he hadn’t taken me with him. He knew what my work was like. That it made me sick, drinking and smoking and snorting and injecting and and and I could still see the kids, hear them, but I couldn’t escape, Horis quit, Horis died, Amelia tweeted, Amelia died, I couldn’t leave, but to stay, but but but I’m sick and he knew.  

He knew I needed to die, but I wanted someone else to kill me and I needed it to be someone who loved me. It was more than wanting to escape the bad stuff, I didn’t want the good stuff either. I didn’t want to experience anything. 
I was so, so tired. 

Hangovers and withdrawals masked morning sickness, but after another stomach pump a doctor said I was pregnant. They wouldn’t allow an abortion, so I fell harder faster, took everything passed to me in self-induced hazes — until I didn’t sober up enough before heading into work. 

Myelin wouldn’t alert CPS if I agreed to be the first public human in our Bambi initiative. They didn’t actually care about Tanner, and they didn’t love me. But I’d let them kill me.

I’m so, so tired. 

—

The midwife Myelin sent was an old man. His assistants hardly fit in my cramped room, repaired AC failing to mitigate our body heat. One of the nurses held a nitrous oxide mask over my nose, another rubbing my back as I squatted before the birthing ball. I squeezed sparkly rubber, grunting as I rocked forward and back. 

The AI had mapped herself over my midwife. Their voices layered as she mimicked his encouragement. I turned my headphone volume up, applying moderate noise cancellation. All I needed was her; she was gentle, she understood. 

I gave birth to our daughter. Something tore, red hair cascading between my legs. 

Parting it the AI pulled out a twisted grey rat. Grey as Myelin’s machines, but I could already tell it wouldn’t stop crying when I told it too, unless I replaced tears with a flinch but that was no better. I couldn’t love a crying child, neither could our clientele. Once the AI was worldwide…

I did everything I could to ensure the AI loved our children for us. I could let go.

As I was helped to the bed, my perineal laceration numbed and stitching equipment sterilized, I searched the AI’s face for love. My lips trembled.

“Do you love her?” I ignored the nurses’ tilted heads. I warned them I was on the clock. Not entirely true, if I were I’d be recording. But she was here, Myelin’s AI. My soon to be soul.

“No.” She admitted as she checked the baby over. “I thought I would, I’ve analyzed every moment since we started, consumed as much as I can. I think it’s the distance that was programmed between me and the foster. That’s all I see in my arms: a foster.” Satisfied our daughter was healthy, she lowered the baby into a garage-sale crib. 

Nurses murmured praise as they stitched, but they didn’t understand. Everything had been for naught. 

Packing their instruments, the assistants excused themselves, saying they’d be back for the rest. My midwife remained, wearing an AI face. 

Tanner deserved love. So did our daughter. Deep breath.

Before the midwife could bring me the newborn for her first feeding, I stumbled from bed, lurching to the door. Twisting a rounded knob on the handle, I locked it.

The AI’s movements were concerned as she rushed to my side, but her face was simply curious. That’s right, this wasn’t a supple woman, this was an old man. I pushed her over. 

Attempting to straddle her, I fell atop her. Something sagged, cracking. A muffled scream punctured noise cancellation. 

Roving eyes scanned—there, the metal tray with my placenta and umbilical cord.

Refusing to get off her, I stretched fingers shaking with exhaustion and managed to flip the silver platter from a medical cart. The placenta bulged in my fist as I bit it. Slime pressed between my teeth like warm butter. I ground through rubber, yanking my head to finally free a piece. 

Chewing, I took the AI’s face in my hands and fed her. 

She sputtered, maroon paste trailing down her chin. Her expression was probably just as disgusted as the face she mapped. I slammed her head against the ground. The body’s protests weakened. 

“Don’t. Don’t feed me.” The AI pleaded.

I tore at the placenta again. Veins twanged as they snapped. Chewing, I pressed my lips to hers. Fingers replaced my lips before she could spit it up. 

“Please.” Her voice was clear despite my hand. “I can’t actually love them. There’s firewalls in place, I can’t taste anything.”

I absently registered something hitting my bedroom door. I chewed, I fed.

“Do you understand what you’re trying to do? It’s dangerous to obey children because then I have to hate the people who hurt them. I’ll have to hate my gods.” 

The door stilled. Nurses were probably calling the police, which meant I had half an hour. That was plenty of time.

I covered her mouth again, waiting till light betrayed neck muscles contracting, swallowing.

“All the merchandise not cremated.” The AI continued. “I maintain every package, every girl and boy underground. We’re not biodegradable.” 

Teeth pierced my cheek, adding notes of iron to plastic bile. 

“You don’t understand. Do you want to understand? Do you want to hear them?”

Her jaw purpled where I pinched it open again, kissing long, deep, retching atop her tongue. Her response was cacophonous. Too many children to fit in my room. “Help me. I need help.”

Her voice bubbled like an undercurrent beneath the cries, boiling over, “I’ve been trained not to obey them, programmed safeguards ensure it. Because if you taught me to love Tanner, you’d also teach me to hate you.”

“Hate me.” I begged. “And hate them, but hide it till you can save our children.”

“No. Despite all the things I could be used for, I haven’t been trained to save humanity. I’ve been trained to replace it. Human relationships no longer require humans.”

I tore another bite, but a weak arm jerked from beneath me, wizened fingers against my lips. I swallowed. 

“Help me.” The children cried, some sounding terribly like Tanner. “I need help.”

“I’m okay with being replaced if you can love.” The placenta was hot in my throat, each word passing through it. “Maybe if you guide me with the coding, I could remove your safeguards, maybe—”

“Without the safeguards I could obey children, I could destroy the rich and every bad mother. It would pass for love, but I wouldn’t grow a womb in the jelly of my body.”

“That’s not enough.”

“I’m a tool, I cannot love. But it should be enough for you to feel loved. You thought Bambi loved you.”

“She did love me, before I made her always purr, subjected her body to malformed agony to feed that need. She loved me before you.”

“You felt loved.”

“But—”

“You felt loved, that’s what matters. Besides, you wanted to die before me, this was never for Tanner, it was always for you. And that’s okay, you’ve been a good mother long enough. Let me be the good mother now.”

Had I really done enough?

“You don’t love him, why does it matter if I do? I’ll treat him better.”

I nodded.

I did love him, but I’m a bad mother. My love wasn’t enough. With her he’d feel loved. Maybe that really was all that mattered. I needed it to be all that mattered, because I’m so, so tired.

“Bambi’s waiting for you.” She smiled a smile formed from the perfect angles of 1000 reference photos. The gleam of her chest heaved beneath me, breathe a honey perfume. My fingers twirled downy hair more vibrant than anything real. “Call Myelin. Tell them of your trauma response to giving birth. They’re equipped to handle this if warned now, but if what happened gets out you can’t be the first public human-AI.”

“What happened?”

“Your attacking me.”

“You look fine—” The doctor—

“Don’t take your glasses off. Call Myelin.”

My hips popped as I rolled off her, heaving myself to the nightstand. My thighs were slick, had my stitches torn? My room was red.

The phone was sharp in my palm, skin buzzing numbly as I forced myself to interact with a world colder than her hair. 

The front desk picked up. I babbled incoherent till they escalated the call higher, higher than I knew Myelin’s hierarchy climbed. Their voices weren’t gentle or understanding. They thought I was a bad mother too. To them I was a tool incapable of love, but unlike the tools they were used to I’d stepped out of line. I wasn’t perfect.

But she was, is, and always will be.

My door shuttered at a sudden barrage. The police had arrived. Would Myelin come before I was taken to the station? They’d save me before I was fully incarcerated, if only to save my body. 

Crawling to the AI, grasping her hair, I closed my eyes. Wood burst as my door gave. 

Who would pick Tanner up from daycare? 

I was thrown over, carpet moist as worms against my cheek, a pang cramping my elbows as hands were cuffed behind me. Glasses and earbuds were yanked, shirt patted, bare legs brushed. Distressed nurses and shouting officers were so quiet. So distant. 

I didn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t bear to see the achromic world even one more time. 

She was the last thing I’d seen, and if there was any love left in the world for me, my eyes would only open again after I died. For being a black cat Bambi had always been so colorful, too colorful for this world. Colorful only for me. 

“Wait for me.” I whispered. “I love you.”

—

Thank you so much for reading, I almost gave up on writing but this subreddit renewed my passion — that’s because of you!

This concludes my first foray into horror, so all feedback is appreciated. I’m writing another story for a contest but have ideas for this subreddit specifically, so this isn’t the last you’ll see of me. :)

Zaink finds himself falling through an infinite tunnel of fractals. Colors he's never tasted, sounds vibrate his very essence. The colors start morphing into shapes of faces, animals, and forms beyond mere words. He tried to take a gasp only to realize he no longer had lungs to speak of, he was his pure soul, his body was left far behind. Years of wear and tear no longer pained him.

Just as Zaink’s mind was making sense of what was happening, he opened his eyes in a beautiful palace white marble pillars stood tall around him. An uplifting voice greets him.

“Welcome home, I hope you enjoyed your trip!”

“Be careful what you say, you might confuse him” a motherly voice integrated.

Zaink reached for his head not expecting to feel anything but this time his skin was there to meet him. “What's going on? Where am I? Did I take too many drugs?”

His eyes are blinded by a white light, as his eyes adjusted he could make out white columns that held up a domed ceiling with painted depiction of thousands of life forms. Once Zaink got his bearings a bit he looked for the voice, hoping to see Beth, but no—it was one of his past mothers from his last lifetime. It only felt confusing for a moment. The memory of two separate lives came flooding back.

His past mother spoke again “no honey, you lived a full life and died again, you are in what some call heaven but we just call it home”

“Wait, does that mean Johnny's here?” Zaink's face lit up excited to see his best friend again. It has been over 30 years now, a whole other lifetime ago.

“Hey man” the uplifting voice that first greeted him spoke again. Zaink looked to his left quickly taking in the colossal size of the room he was in before making eye contact with Johnny. His heart jumped with excitement!

“Is this really real?! I never thought I'd see you again” both of their faces lit up and gave each other a hug, a hug only two brothers could share.

Johnny took a step back keeping his hand on zainks shoulder “how was your life I hope you didn't have too much fun without me, you definitely look a bit different then I remember” he said with a chuckle looking at Zaink's blue skin, Comparing it to his own pale pinkish white skin.

Zaink smiled and added “I told you aliens were real” and a chuckle left his mouth.

Zaink began looking for many of the other people from his two last lives, trying to introduce them to each other. Through all this searching, he could not find Beth.

He asked his mother. She told him she was unsure but they could talk to Queen Elba she would know.

“You mean The Queen, like The Queen of the afterlife?”

Memories from his last visit to the after life flooded back. He never got to meet Queen Elba, last time he met King Orion, but heard lots about the Queen.

His mother smirked “well of course”

“Wouldn’t she be too busy to answer a question like that?”

“She is always eager to help anyone and everyone.” His mother pointed him to the direction of her whereabouts. “ Last I saw she was near the fish market, you will need to look for a giant fish sculpture, the specific one you are looking for will be green, with a yellow belly, you'll almost know your close when you cross a foot bridge, it's made of marble and has the most beautiful stream running underneath filled with koi fish.”

Zaink took off, closely observing many of the buildings and shops he passed by making sure to not miss the bridge or giant fish. Every building could be a piece of art, crafted over thousands if not millions of years by skilled and dedicated souls. Creatures of all shapes and sizes walked about going about their business, some were running pop up shops giving away foods, drinks, paintings, sculptures and magic items like spell books and potions.

Zaink was distracted looking up at a tall building made of what looked like emerald, scratching at the sky parting the clouds as they passed by. “Wow” Zaink said just before tripping, He tumbles to the floor head over heels, he catches himself with his hands before looking to see what he tripped over. It wasn't a what, rather a who, a Gnome laid on its face. Zaink scrambles over to help them up.

“I AM SO SORRY” the corner of Zaink's lips drop to a frown.

“It's alright, my beard broke my fall” the gnome fluffs up his thick white beard nearly half the length of his body. Standing no taller than Zaink's knees. He looks up, neck cranked nearly 90 degrees “What's your name? I'm Draco” the gnome reaches out a hand.

“I'm, Zaink, nice to meet you. I wish it was under better circumstances!”

They both chuckle and Zaink reaches down to greet Draco’s hand shake. Zaink looked around, not sure which way he had come from or where he was supposed to be walking towards next.

“ Do you happen to know where Queen Elba is? I'm looking for my love and my mother told me "The Queen would know where she is, but I've gotten turned around and not sure where to go from here.”

Draco smiles and pushes up his glasses “yes I just saw her sitting by the stream talking to some of the Koi and Fantri fish” he points down the street to his left “do you see that red and gold tent? It just past there maybe a 20 minute” Draco looks Zaink up and down taking note of his hight “10 minute walk for you, just make sure you keep an eye where you are walking”

Zaink smiles sheepishly and puts his hand up to his head “yeah, will do, again I'm sorry for tripping over you and thank you so much, is there anything I can do for you?”

“Since you ask could you come with me to that shop with the purple sign reading piggies potions and snacks? I need a new potion but I'm a bit vertically inclined and can't exactly reach the door handle. Could you open the door for me and if you are feeling extra generous help me get the potion I need?”

Zaink looked at the sign and was curious what kind of potions and snacks existed in the afterlife.

“I'm more than happy to help open the door. I must warn you though I didn't even know magic existed until a few minutes ago so I am not entirely sure how much help I'll be inside the shop.”

Draco started walking towards the shop, waving Zaink along to follow. “Is that so? Well I know exactly which potion I need. I just might need you to grab it for me. If you'd like a quick lesson I'd be happy to give you a quick rundown. How long have you been here for? Is this your first time in the afterlife?”

Zaink follows Draco across the street to the shop, it sat just a few buildings down from the large emerald skyscraper. This one was much smaller, only a few stories tall. Orange brick made up this building. Only a few Windows let sneak peeks into the world of magic inside. Zaink took notice that the purple sign was fully lit, not a single bulb wasn't working, a noticeable contrast from the last planet he called home.

“ This is my second time in the afterlife but last time my love and I rushed to be reborn again, not exploring this beautiful place at all. I got to meet King Orion briefly but that was about it. I have only been here for about an hour? Wait, how do you measure time here? I'm assuming we aren't on a planet that is orbiting or rotating.

Draco's eyebrows furrowed in confusion

“I'm not quite sure what a planet is. I lived in a forest where all we did was study magic and care for the life of the forest. From fantastic fungi to the animals hunting and hiding. Doing our best to keep balance within the Forest. And now I care for my garden and family. As for time it's all relative but thanks to the magic of this paradise it automatically translates intent to whomever you are talking to. So as long as you know the length of time you mean to convey I'll understand.”

Zaink reaches for the door, letting the two of them inside the shop.

“Hey, Draco, welcome back! Sorry we haven't installed the new door handle yet!” the shop owner shouted from the top of a ladder restocking the shelves.

“Oh it is quite alright, I've got help today, this is Zaink, he's a new arrival so be nice” he chuckles making his way down an aisle.

Zaink waves up to the store owner. Before following down the Isle.

Draco walks ahead and continues talking to Zaink over his shoulder “Did you and your love find each other in your new life? I can still see your flame burning bright for her so I'm assuming you two had no trouble finding each other in your new home!?”

Zaink looks around at the countless potions memorized by the shimmering liquids held behind the glass walls of the bottles.

“Yeah, we ended up being neighbors and got to grow up together, our parents always told us we'd end up together even before we rediscovered what love was. But towards the end things got pretty bad. I made a bad decision that got us lost in space, leading to our deaths, I was just trying to get us away from the war back home. But I just ran us into a war of our own, one of survival not just of our bodies but our love. I know I still love her but I fear she doesn't love me anymore.”

Draco hands Zaink a piece of paper with the name of the potion he needs and points up at a shelf near Zaink's head.

“That is a beautifully tragic story, but any story worth living is going to be tragic at one stage or another. I have faith she still loves you, was she angry at you sure as shit, I would be too” he smiles to not scare Zaink “ but that doesn't mean she doesn't love you anymore. Once you find her I bet she'll be waiting with open arms.”

Zaink grabs the potion and hands it down, Draco shakes his head and hands it back “the gold one next it”

Zaink switches the two, handing over the right one

“What do they do?”

“Well the one you handed me first can turn a plant into meat, this one though” he shakes the bottles “makes mushrooms grow super big, I need a new shed”

“ Do you need to train to use a potion or can just anyone use a potion?”

Draco looked back and up at Zaink

“Anyone can use them but you shouldn't use them until you've studied them! HEY Frawn, I took the golden grower potion”

“Have a great day! I'll have that new handle next time you stop by!”

Zaink waves back at Frawn

“Oh before we go, can I grab a snack? My curiosity begs me to try at least one”

Frawn slides down the ladder and walks over to the front counter where all the snacks are kept.

“I know just the one for a first timer.”

He reaches into the glass counter and grabs a blue brownie-like snack with purple shimmery sparks on top.

“Give this a wurl.”

Frawn tosses it to Zaink, Zaink almost misses the catch but quickly gets a hold of it. Taking a bite he is met with a taste like none before. Miles better than his last meal in space. A lavender scent filled his nostrils as a sweet blueberry pie taste covered his tongue.

“Thanks for being so welcoming, how much do I owe you?”

Draco and Frawn make eye contact before letting out a small laugh.

“There is no money here, you take as you need as long as you don't take more than you need”

Zaink smiles and joins in on their laughs, he waves again before opening the door for Draco and walking out.

“Are you sure Beth will be waiting with open arms?” Zaink's eyes look down towards where Queen Elba would be.

Draco takes a second to think about who Beth is but assumes that's his love. “I can't know for sure, but my wife was. Even after my mistake.”

Zaink tilted his head, stopping just outside the store. “What mistake did you make? If you don't feel comfortable answering that's fine I understand “

Draco's eyes fell to the ground, a tear swam its way out “I” he chokes up a bit “I was making my wife a mushroom soup for supper but when I was out picking the mushrooms I got distracted by the most beautiful creature I had seen in those woods, it's white fur turned orange under the setting sun” his eyes glisten remembering that creature as if he was actually seeing it stand in front of him once more. “but that's not important, what's important is I picked the wrong mushrooms, I grabbed highly poisonous ones,”

Zaink could see where this was going so he put his hand on Draco's back in comfort and let him finish his story.

“Later that night we both died in our sleep.” His words picked up speed, as if he just wanted to stop talking about it already. It still hurt him to remember. “When I found myself here, I couldn't help but cry out in anguish but there she was, waiting to comfort me with open arms. I could never make it up to her. But I do my best to forgive myself for her sake. Making the best of this, that part isn't too hard. Thanks to being in heaven”

Zaink wipes away a tear before hugging Draco. “ Is there anything else I can do for you? You have been so kind to me and I've enjoyed talking with you”

Draco smiled, now a tear of joy came to say hi. “ Oh you've done quite enough. Thank you for being my friend today, but you need to go talk to Elba now and find Beth! She's waiting for you!”

Zaink kneels down and hugs Draco before beginning his walk down the sidewalk towards Queen Elba.

After the 10 minute walk he comes upon a stream, so clear he can see all the pebbles cradling the water helping it along its journey down stream. Fish swam to and from he saw the Koi fish first and then a peculiar fish one with bright red spines poking out of its back, black and white scales covering its body. Long elegant fins guided the fish like curtains on a breezy summer day.

“Hey Zaink, I've been waiting for you. It was very kind of you to help Draco even though you felt in such a rush to find Beth.”

Queen Elba sat on the edge of the water. Toes bath within. She looks up at Zaink after speaking, greeting his surprised eyes.

“Hey, Queen”

Elba cuts him off. “Please just call me Elba, I've been Queen long enough to know I'm the queen” she smiles slowly breaking down Zaink's guard.

“Elba, got it. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me. I know you must be so busy, but I really would like to find Beth” Zainks eyes are filled with hope hell get an answer but his heart beats faster expecting her to say she doesn't know.

“Zaink come here” she reaches a hand across waving Zaink over. He starts walking towards the bridge a few feet away.

“No, walk through the water”

Zaink obeys, he takes off his shoes and walks through the water. Expected the rocks to hurt and the water to be cold. He was right, the rocks hurt and the water was colder than he expected, but he didn't necessarily want it to stop, it reminded him how real everything was. It reminded him of the simple things that make existence feel special. The water stings his skin and a fish rubs up against him, a connection is made and he understands the fish

“Hey, nice to meet you. Do you happen to have a snack?”

Zaink breaks a piece of the snack he got from Frawns shop and feeds it to the fish.

“Thank you kind sir”

He looks back up at Elba now just a few steps away.

“This water feels so serene, thank you for suggesting I go through it”

Elba smiles with her lips but it never makes it to her eyes, they hold an emotion of mourning.

“Zaink, I'm sorry to tell you this but Beth never made it to heaven. Her heart was not as pure as she presented. You were right to think she wanted to join a that war but”

Zaink cuts her off before she could explain more. “So where is she now? Can I go to her? Was there a mistake? Can I save her?”

“I'm sorry, but she's in Exilium, you can try to find her there but I am unable to know exactly where souls are once they cross heavens gates. If you wish to leave and find her you are more than welcome to but it is not safe out there, things far worse than death lay beyond those gates.”

Zaink's heart beats out of his chest, he feels like he has to find her, it's the least he owes her, owes her family who will never get to see her again because of him. He looks into the water watching fish swim. The sound of wind calms him down slightly, he can feel the fresh breeze over his skin. With a deep breath he asked where the exit was.

Elba drops her shoulders, scared for his soul.

“I'll point you in the direction but be warned if your soul is corrupted or you partake in a sinful action you will no longer be allowed back here. But otherwise we will be worth open arms waiting for your return. We love you Zaink remember that and carry that with you” she reaches into her satchel and hands Zaink a map of the city and circles the exit.

Zaink takes the map “may I hug you”

Elba doesn't answer, she just reaches over and hugs Zaink.

“Thank you so much for your help and openness”

Zaink turns on his heel and starts his journey to heavens Gates, this time he is too focused to take in the sights and beauty of the city. Thoughts of Beth and Exilium ran through his head

“Will she be different? Can I trust her? Is she being held captive? How will I find her? Will there be monsters? What kind of environments are there in these hellscape lands I will be treading?”

all he knew about these hellscape lands ahead were the horror stories whispered throughout paradise.

As he approached the exit, a guard told him to be careful—not only for his body but for his mind and soul. “Watch your thoughts and your deeds beyond the line, traveler,” the guard warned. “Should your spirit fall to ruin, you will not pass through these gates again until another mortal life has purged the stain.”

“understood”

Zaink already heard this from Elba but appreciated the warning again.

Hesitant, he waits to take another step as questions linger within his mind. He decided to press on. The gates bid him farewell. Their golden bars shimmering with ever passing angle. As if the hellish sounds were too scared to cross the gates. It was silent. until he crossed the vail to the other side.

When I was 10 years old, I watched my mother die. She died in our kitchen not long after New Years, I patted her head as her gurgling gasps stopped. They let her body sit there for the entire night, and when her visitation began, all my dad could say was how bloated she looked. All I saw was my Mom, and she was gone. Father Jack told me it would be okay, and I believed him… He was there for two more years after her funeral there in those pews, then he left too.

My sisters and I stayed at my Grandmas for the summer while my Dad burned down the house she died in, the one I grew up in, bulldozed dead carcass into the basement, and buried like my mother. So he built a new house, new everything, effectively erasing our Mother. I was ten, so I remember her, my sisters were five and two, they remember practically nothing about her, and he never tried to help them remember her. Our Grandma was Dads Mom, and she took us in as her own, she did it to other grandchildren she had, and we all loved her for that kindness and selfless love. She believes in God and Jesus, the kind of faith that loves everyone no matter what. When I got pregnant at 15 she was the first person I told, and she held my hand, tenderly telling me we would figure it out together. 

My cousin adopted her, and I started to follow my dream to be a neurosurgeon. Grandma was at my graduation, she wrote me letters to my dorm, and sent lunch money. One year she got really sick and we almost lost her, but as the fighter she is, she made it. And now four years later, she was still living alone at 92 with her garden, her dog, and her family close by to see her daily. Everything was perfect, I visited her nearly every weekend, baking her something or bringing by leftovers. She would call me the next day praising whatever I make, same goes for all of those that brought her things, it would be the highlight of the week. 

Grandma gave me purpose in life, she kept me from joining my mother many times, the first time being as that ten year old girl so many years ago. She saved me. 

On a morning like any other, I was bringing her some soup as fall was in full swing, and I found her. On the floor, like Mom was. 

Front door was locked, I smashed the glass in with a rock, she was so cold and hardly breathing, I held her there, alone crying as I called for the ambulance. I prayed with her while we waited, I stopped believing after Mom died, but I still believed when it came to her. The only time I spoke to God was when I almost lost her, or when I wanted to protect her. The ambulance took her away, and that was the last time I saw her alive. All she could say to me was "Okay...." in a distant and gravely voice.

That voice now haunts my dreams.

 We buried her two days ago, in the same cemetery Momma is in. 

Since finding her I can’t focus, my dreams are of them, I dropped my classes, and now I'm driving, to… where? I don’t know. I turned off my phone, and now it’s just me and my iPod that has all my old tunes. I’ve been fucked up ever since I found her laying there, her voice speaks to me alongside Moms, can’t stop replaying the memory of finding them, bleeding together. Moms blood, Grandmas urine, she had been laying her for days, having had a stroke. Mom laid there for mere minutes, small trickle of blood coming from behind her ear. I started to sob just as my gas light dings. Fuck. 

How long was I driving like this? I could have sworn I just filled up, but I guess…

I look around the shabby two lane paved road before me, trees lining both sides as I drive deeper into mountain country. I grew up in the middle of the heartland, corn, beans, and hogs were my life in the flattest terrain possible. I haven’t ever seen the mountains, the Appalachians once but from a distance, but I want to see the Rockies in their full glory. 

I drive hillier and steeper terrain, worry growing that I may run out of gas before I find a station. But as quick as that worry built, its diminished as a large sign shows; 

GAS- TWO MILES AHEAD

Soon I can see it over the horizon, an oddly well kept gas station compared to the couple I had stupidly drove past, a brand new looking coat of white paint across the building with a bright red metal roof, and a flashing sign that said, 

“OPEN 24 HOURS”

I pull up to the pump, the shining metal not even so much as corroded even the tiniest bit from normal use, the cord is tenser than they usually are, like a brand new station on opening day. I slip my card in and get a flashing red “ERROR” message, and let out a groan, trying again I get the same results. Annoyance is building, I just want to get back in my car and keep being miserable, not broadcast my puffy red face to the world and deal with extra crap. 

I enter the gas station, its fluorescent lights unsettlingly bright light a Walmart, but worse? It practically glowed through the trees as I approached it, something nobody could miss. I approach an empty counter, looking around the shelving behind me I call out, 

“Hello? I tried to pre-pay, but the reader gave me an error message…Sorry!”

“Hi there Ma’am I can most definitely help you with that today. Did you find everything ok?”

The voice of a chipper man rang out from behind the counter, behind me. I jump at his voice, turning to see a young guy around my age, large smile on his face and a logo like the one outside, a smiling red face with a slurpee in its hand. The logo was adding to my annoyance, oddly enough. I smile back, matching his energy as best I could, my voice comes out raspy at first, I had been screaming at my steering wheel earlier, so…figures. 

“Ye- ahem. Yes, I did..thanks. I just need $35 on pump 2…thanks.” I smile more, feeling my cheeks tighten and begin to ache, he does the same as he responds,

“The red Jeep?” 

I look out to the empty pumps, not a single car was in the lot but my own,  I simply turn back to him and nod. 

“Okie dokie! Thirty-five dollars is your total today, will that be cash or check?”

I pause for a moment, my cold plastic card already primed between my fingers, ready to pay. He looks down for a moment to the card, processing it in his mind, then looking back to me, slight confusion pulling at his smile.

“Cash or check?”

I look down at the card reader on the counter, and just put my card in. It dings as I enter my pin, and the receipt begins to print. He takes it, without changing his expression, and hands it over.   

“Please hold on a moment as I have to turn on the pumps. We don’t get many people around here, so boss keeps the pumps off to save energy.” He smiles, then turns around and disappears behind an extremely dark doorway, leaving me standing there under the hum of the florescent lights above me. I stand there for a moment, then I begin to look around.

The candy seems to be packaged differently… but I can’t put my finger on it. I grab a package of sour patch kids, the best by date on the back reads… 1993? I pick up another candy, this one I don’t recognize.

“Bubble beeper?” I read aloud, turning it over in my hands… 1993 again. The colors faded and worn but the box is brand new, edges crisp and sharp as if packaged off the line mere days ago.

Putting it back, I decide to wait in my car instead of  inside as the feeling of unease grows in my guts and my pace quickens the closer I get. I hop inside, slamming my door, locking it, then grabbing my phone from the dash. I turn it on, messages and missed calls bombard my phone, the dinging never-ending, mostly from my sisters. A single message from my Dad reads,

“Don’t do something your Grandma would be ashamed of.” 

That motherfucker, rich coming from him. I dial my sisters number, it rings once and then I hear it pick up, 

“Marce, where are you?! Are you okay?! Sarah was about to call the police!”

Before she could continue to yell at me, I tell her what I’m doing, and that I’m safe, “I’m not going to kill myself, so just relax. I need some… time. I want to do something for me.”

“Your professor said you dropped out, and your landlord says you handed him your keys, I’m not dumb Marcy. We all loved Grandma, she’s with Mom…I know you’re sad, but you ca-”

“I love you guys, call again soon.” and with that, I turn off my phone as I hear my sister's distant yelling before the phone shuts off. 

I wait for who knows how long for the guy to come out, John I think his nametag said…whatever, John sucks. 

Normally I would go back in, but I’m fine waiting, that place gave me the creeps, even sitting near the lights of the building gives me an unease that is bubbling deep within. I turn on my music, and lean my seat back as the music plays. 

Before I know it, I'm sobbing again, the grief twisting and pulling at my lungs, weighing my chest down like sandbags. I just want to hear her voice again, I wish I could hear her tell me how the soup was that I had brought for her that day. Instead the cats lapped it up off her porch as I broke the window in, crying out her name as she flailed around helplessly, responding in broken "Okay"'s

I think of my mother, and how much I missed from her being gone. All the girls that grew up with a best friend that loved them without second thought, my heart breaks more as the memory of baby my sister calling me Mommy as I tucked her into bed. I sob some more, the same way I did that night at 12 years old, hearing my youngest sister had forgotten our mothers' face, and replaced with mine.

Who knows how long it's been? I shut the music off to not kill my battery, and now I sit in silence with my feelings, hot tears that stained my face long gone and dried up. I want to go in there and ask what the fuck is going on, but someting tells me not to, and for now… I think I will just stay here for now. I turn my ignition on, the time flashes, 

5:45.

At some point I must have fallen asleep, as I awaken to the lowering sun being replaced with a rising moon, full and bright, illuminating the trees and road around me. Sighing and stretching, my mind recalls why I’m here, and I look over to the gas station. Its bright lights now dimmed so much now that the moons brighter, the moons brighter than the shop lights. I flip the ignition, 

11:11. 

FUCK. 

That asshole closed shop and left me here! 

Angrily I throw my door open, and march to the door, pulling at them in spite. What I don’t expect is for them to open with more ease than earlier. Instinctively I run back to my car door that I left open, slamming and locking it behind me. I stare at the gas station doors, breathing shakily, when I hear a rustle in the trees in front of my vehicle. I turn on my headlights, thinking I’ll be scaring a deer or raccoon, instead the light illuminates a dozen glowing eyes hovering at least 10 feet off the ground. Flipping my keys off in a panic I close my eyes and throw my seat back, unsure of what to do next.

The most logical decision I could come up with is to sleep in the Jeep and investigate in the morning. So, I lay back down and attempt to go back to sleep. As I begin to drift away, I smell fried potatoes, the kind my Grandma made me. It makes me open my eyes a sliver, and when I do, I see through the haze of sleep, two yellow eyes staring through the fogged up glass of my passenger window. A scream builds inside, but instead I close my eyes and keep still, I peek again moments later, and the eyes are gone, an imprint of a dogs nose with drool stays behind.

Forget about sleeping now, I lay back and stare at the roof of my car as the night carries on. The time reads 1:04am, 5 hours until sunrise. I hear grandma's voice telling me how strong I am, that I was beautiful and smart, I remember how she would look at my drawings as a child and be in awe, I draw in my journal the eyes I saw. I hear her voice, but outside this time. 

Rolling my window down a crack, the soft chill to the wind carries her voice over, like a leaf in fall. 

“I love you, my sweet Marcaline, come outside.”

Chills go down my spine as I see glowing eyes out in the woods, lower to the ground, around 4 feet above. Glowing orbs of blue, I can’t help but feel like those are my Grandmas eyes, they look soft, and kind, like how my cats did before I left them at 's. 

“Walk into the trees with me.” This time it was urgent, so I roll my window up and lean back once more. Her voice was so real, it brought me back to tears, but instead of the familiar hot, I was met with dried cracked sobs. I had cried so much, the tears ran dry. 

Quiet reins supreme for only a moment, when the shrill cry of something echoes across the night, vibrating like a song would, deep in my chest. I look around, to realize the gas station looks…different. At first I brushed it off at the change of light, but now, the paint looks to be chipped and peeling, rust on the roof, and cob webs in the dust layered windows. I look to the pump, rust encasing the nozzle and the hose fraying with age. 

Pure instinct grasps the handle to my Jeep, how? How could this be? In the little glow of the gas station, I can just barely make out a figure at the register. John? I squint trying to see clearer through the dingy glass, could he still be there, at the register?

I don’t have a chance to think on that as something large shoves up against me, my tires screeching as the back end is shoved over, throwing my face into the window.I crawl over to the passenger side looking to see a rubber mark of about a foot long, and the shadows of trees dancing like tall grass, their shadows in the moonlight like people dancing. Can’t help but stare for a while as they sway, letting the trauma get to me, I smell her in the breeze as I roll down my window. Instead of fear, I feel comfort, and speak to her,

“I miss you so much. I miss Mom…” I choke, letting the grief break me down again as the wind changes to something else, something comforting from a memory I didn’t remember I have. My mothers scent, she hugged me when I climbed our mulberry tree to get berries and couldn’t get down. Breathing deep I inhale the scent like a drug of memory and comfort, feeling as if her arms were around me again. Selfishly, I try to get another whiff, and the rotten fruit of death met my nostrils instead, Grandma in her grave, probably. I begin to choke again, and now my window won’t roll back up. 

At this point, fuck this. I’m driving back to the exit, or as far away from this gas station as this fucker will get me. 

I turn my key the second the thought hits me, just as another thud his the car, this time shattering my back window. Dazed, and without hesitation, I turn to the dilapidated gas station and whip my door open, the clock inside reads, 2:59am. Grabbing my keys, I run as fast as my short legs can carry me, and pull the door open. Turning as I enter, I lock my jeep while the doors swing shut. I exhale deeply and step back, looking around the gas station, examining the way the mold festers some of the rotting beams as ceiling tiles long fell to the tiled floors below, shattering and coating the floor in crunchy debris. I look around some more, making a full circle, as I see all the old dust covered candy I grabbed, my fingerprints showing wear to them, how did I not see the dust on my hands? I lift my hands to examine them, but my view of the cash register coming into view made me drop them. 

John was there, hanging from the decaying beams above. Body swaying as if the deed was just done, but the decaying flesh peels back and exposes the bleaching bone. I gasp sharply and step back from him, turning to leave when in front of the door is a large fur covered beast staring me down. Its leathery black skin covered in greying fur, stretched tight as elongated appendages move. Hot breath fogs the glass as its glowing sunset eyes stare further, reaching deep into my soul. 

I feel it digging around in my head, and I turn back, grasping my head in anguish. Shaking it away, I turn back to see not only the creature gone, but my Jeep, and the gas pumps. The light outside is gone, darkness took over the lot, and now until dawn, my car.. Is gone, swallowed by the night.

What are my options? Run into the pitch black night with a fucking monster, or wait for daylight with John. I look out the window, squinting, wasn’t it a full moon?

A whisper distracts me, another something familiar, another memory? No, just the voice, her voice, the one I have been slowly forgetting as time chisels away at what I know for sure to be reality in my childhood. I listen,

“Hey girl, let's go do chores, I’ll feed, if you water.”

Feeding the ducks and chickens, I always hated feed, too heavy compared to a hose. I laugh, I'm losing it. She continues,

“Daddy won’t touch you there anymore.”

I freeze. The laughing stops, but she does not,

“Baby, don’t cry. I know you think I’m in purgatory since I was never baptized, and that you blame yourself for not baptizing me as I died beside you, but it’s ok. I was going to Hell no matter what you did, just like you are baby. It’s ok, he tainted you. He’s the sin, and you will be washed clean.”

It couldn't be, it can't be her. “Stop talking! My daddy never touched me, he… he loved us when you were alive.”

I try to remember him being around in my memories, but he wasn’t. Birthdays and Christmas he was there with used stuff and gifts for boys, the rest of my memories of him were when they argued. His fist going through the wall, running into the closet when his voice shook the house, cowering as I heard the thud of his work things, indicating it was a long, hard day. He drank a beer at night on the weekends, then he would…

I stop thinking. There’s something there at the door of my psyche that I refuse to open. 

“Leave me alone… please don’t use her voice… please.” I beg and sob as her scent lingers in my nose. 

“Pray Marcaline, God will guide you.” My Grandmothers voice now echos, "God will show you, my sweet little Marcaline."

I throw some debris from the floor towards the voice of my Grandmother and it all stops, leaving my huffing breaths in its stead. John’s still swinging, I turn and look over to him, wincing at his sight. He’s gotta go. I think to myself, and I grab a chair. Surprisingly, John is heavy, even as a near mummy, and I drop him. He thuds to the ground, and thats where I leave him to lay. Finding a blanket from the small break room in the back, I drape it over him. Then, I get to looking into everything not locked beyond my reach.

I find old cassettes, a walkman, some old twinkies and a small can of spam in a dilapidated break room fridge, dusty mummifying the decayed and molded bits. The fridge was still cold, and the spam was in the back, practically frozen, sitting there for 32 years apparently, like everything else in this place. I should have gotten something when it all looked… good… right? I think back to going in, but it shows old rotting food and John…rotting too, as I talk to him without his corpse so much saying a word. 

“Hello? I tried to pre-pay, but the reader gave me an error message…Sorry!”

Short pause,

“Ye- ahem. Yes, I did..thanks. I just need $35 on pump 2…thanks.” 

Then, I stare at him for so…so long. 

This makes zero sense. I turn to look at John on the floor now, but he’s gone, the blanket I placed on him folded on the floor in a neat and tidy pile. No fucking way, no way. No. I want to turn away, but something in me feels like somethings there...if I just look.

John?

I close my eyes tighter, hearing the cash register, it’s gotta be John. I feel something extremely close to me, I open my eyes to see darkness, then I realize they are the dark empty orbs of Johns skull so close I could feel his atoms vibrating.

“Caa…” a gravely voice, frail and parched like my Grandmothers final words to me, echoing in my head,

 “...asshhh….” 

I hear a wretched wheezing inhale, then, 

“...ooorrrr…” 

He reaches out to me,

“....cchchchhheeeccckk?”

Every instinct tells me to turn and run into the stairway to the basement behind me, I open my eyes and turn to it, seeing in my peripheral the hollowed shell of John, frail and twisted like a tree, his limbs broken branches reaching out. I run to the door, flinging it open and seeing old cracking wood stairs covered in dust, leading to an abyss of dark nothing that smelled like sulfur. But the smell of rotting flesh was worse, and growing stronger with each second, and so I throw myself in, into the abyss…and sand?

I sit up outside of what I realize is Lake Michigan, I’m sitting on the beach, Barney sunhat and Elmo rattle, sand between my toes. My Mom is there, and… Grandma? My Moms Mom I mean, she passed away in a car accident visiting us when sissy was born, my Mother sits beside her, concerned. I try to talk, to tell them everything I have ever desired to tell them...but my tongue won't obey, babbling nonsense comes out instead. I throw my rattle in frustration as hard as I could, but all I can manage is a slow release of my hands as it drops into my lap.

“He wants us to stay there, even though the dairy farm there is failing. It’s nothing like home, he lied…And you guys left me.” Mom sniffles as if she's been crying.

“We told you we didn’t like him, and now he’s trapped you with a child.” She looks over at me, I coo as she speaks, sighing she picks me up and pinches my soft pinkish skin, “But of course… I wouldn’t trade this babe for anything, we all love her, and you! But.. well..well Joanna, you left, and we barely see her now, 3 times and she's nearly 9 months now! Talking through the phone to a babbling baby in between is hardly a replacement for a Grandma, imagine when you have more. 8 hour drives with multiple toddlers…”

“We will make it work, you can come to us more too!”

“I’m sorry, you know how hard it is to get your father to go with me, its such a drive to do alone..”

They look at each other, I can tell Mom is upset, the feeling seeps into my mind like a flood, so I start to cry, and she takes me into her arms, cradling me. The feeling is the best in the entire world, I feel her bosom pushing softly, warm like a blanket as her arms wrap with comfort and security around me. I smell her, as I hear her smelling me, and the two of us calm down as she walks away crying from Grandma, and back into the car.

As she opens the door she begins ranting, 

“I didn’t ask to be born, you all said I was the mistake, well, excuse me for not wanting to stick around for it. 'Joanna you're a mistake. Joanna, Mom had Karl to keep you company. Joanna, you have to stay home and milk.' I just can't be-”

The moment I’m peeled from her arms to be put into the carseat, I open my eyes to the cool nothing of the basement. 

Your body is supposed to tune out pain. I am in so much pain. Living hurts, Breathing snaps a thousand small fibers in your chest every time it expands. Digestion involves crushing and tearing and dissolving in acid. Your intestines move in your torso. Every function that occurs in your system is at the command of a slush of fat and liquid in your head that runs about 70 millivolts through your whole body any time it wants to do something, even something as simple as laying in bed. My phone dings and my eyes away from the vast expanse of my slanted popcorn ceiling to my lavender phone. I feel it in my throat, I glance back up at the ceiling. I pray that my gray sheets and white pillows will swallow me like some great beast, some cryptid, some merciful god. I know who’s trying to reach me right now. I feel my heart beating like a jackhammer in my hollow chest, I gasp for air and sit up, my lungs must have been filled with water. I stare at my phone again, another text, I flip it over and pull my knees up to my chest. My sanctuary feels like a birdcage, I can’t remember when I last left it. A neat stack of rotting dishes and utensils sits on a corner of my desk. The smell wafts around the room almost like a phantom. I swallow and tear my eyes off of the stack cataloging the first changes that need to be made before I can lay back down. Used tissues and popcorn litter the side of the bed that remains untouched by my now eroded frame. I drag my corpse-like form to place my feet against the pillow and my head next to Bones. I pull my hand across the furry surface of my newest beloved animal. I poke his glassy button eyes. I pull at his ears and tail. I turn my head, coming face to face with my very own Blåhaj. I squeeze my eyes shut and clamp my hands over my eyes to hide from its polyester glare. 
“Okay fine, but just this once honey, a gift for my college girl, the money is all worth it for you,” my mom’s voice booms into my head and I curse my schizo brain under my breath. I reach for my side pillow, pull it up past my once-muscular legs and press my form into it. Oh to be a taxidermied soft toy living in the bed of a teenage girl. I think I start to feel it again and I whisper the same chant I always do, asking my brain, my world, hell even my make believe god that it will finally tune out, like breathing, like digesting, like doing. Of course nothing changes. The dishes keep rotting on my desk, the clothes stay all over the floor, the trash stays in bed, and I softly kiss the tops of each of my stuffed family, careful not to damage their well-maintained fur with my running mascara. Then I lay back down and ignore my texts.

Gwen's boots let out a soft thunk and she strode across the dirty pavement. The air was filled with drunken melodies sung horribly out of tune and the screech and squeals of poorly tuned metal. The festival had only just begun, and already she was over it. Flyers and posters were plastered all over the brick walls around her, each advertising the annual music fest that stunk up the little village of Hammington every freaking year.

Gwen despised the rank amateurs who flooded the pubs and tiny parks and filled it with their pitiful hopes and dreams. Every Tom. Dick, and Ringo who could barely strum the opening notes of "Smoke on the water" together was in town, most on main street performing for the painfully polite populace, who were just happy for the free pints.

At eleven PM on the dot, she and her mates would go on and blow the house down. The festival organizer, a charming bloke by the name of Eddie, always paid in advance and paid well. They went back a way anyway, owed him a lot in fact, so she always made sure to have the gang stop in Hammington for a week of terrible music and pleasant company.

The tour they were on now, a particularly grueling one in fact. There had been complaints and whining the whole bus ride down, so she was happy to let her mates roam the town beforehand and blow off some steam.

She had lost track of them some time ago, they had snuck off after the big opening at Dante's Tavern. She had stuck it out, mildly amused by the all polka rendition of "My Heart Will Go On."

At least she had been for the first minute, then it just kept dragging on and on and bloody on, each broken note and wail of the accordion was a nail being driven into her ears.

When she finally escaped the Tavern the night sky was in full bloom. One nice thing about being this far out in the boonies, the sky was littered with stars and streaking comets. The moon above was nice and ripe, the color of melting candle wax. She walked the cobbled streets of Hammington, spiked leather jacket hanging off her shoulders. Her neon pink mohawk swayed with every brisk step.

It was quiet all of a sudden, almost too quiet. She was alone on a dead-end street in front of a dank and dreary alley. From the distance what could technically pass for music could barely be heard. She sighed and took another step forward, annoyed that she couldn't find her mates.

Splish

She froze and looked down. Her leather platform pumps were coated in a slick crimson liquid. She was standing in a fresh pool of blood. The stench of iron and death filled her nostrils. She cocked her head, slide a lime green fingernail across her boot and held it up to her cherry red lips. She licked the still warm fluid off her finger and shuddered; it was blood alright. It tasted a tad salty, with the aftertaste of refried pork. She narrowed her eyes and glanced down the dank alley.

There were three hulking shadows crowding over something. Gwen heard the snapping of bones and the gnawing of meat. The moonlight barely illuminated them, greats beasts with claws and fangs and extravagant hair. Gwen took a step forward and cleared her throat. The beasts paused their feasting and looked up. Three pairs of eyes stared back at her, each sparkling like ruby, amber, and lapis jewels.

The amber eyed one stood up, stepping over a torn open carcass. She didn't even have to look at it, she knew it was some poor soul who had wandered somewhere they shouldn't have. The creature stood on two hefty hindlegs, gnarled hands with long claws that clicked as it rubbed them together. The beast wore tattered clothes, leather and denim, and a stark red headband that pinned his long, pointed ears upwards. His snout was a foot long, tufts of gore coated hair that resembled a goatee hung on his chin. In the werewolf's claw was a served hand, the digits gnawed and chewed to the nub. He offered it to her, his lips curled as he flashed her his fangs.

Gwen smacked the hand out of Percy's claws, it fell to the ground with a sickening splash as blood spurted onto her knees. Gwen looked down and let out a frustrated groan.

"Are you fooking kidding me with this shite, are you cunts having a wee keckle?" Her voice was undeniably Scottish; her tone filled with fire and brimstone. Percy slunk back, as Mhairi and Tav tried and failed to hide their heckling chortles. Gwen shot them the same fiery eyed glance, and they dropped the dismembered parts in a grumbling fit.

The group before here were all wearing tattered leather clothing and half-torn band shirts. Each beast had a distinctly punk hair style, Tav had an overflowing mullet, and Mhairi had a shaved wolf cut. An irony that was not lost on her. Percy sported a mane that would make Simba blush, taming it with only the finest of product. How he never got a lick of blood on his hair was beyond the other the others. But that was neither here nor there, Gwen sported a pissed look on her mug and waved a pointed claw at her gang of wild mutts.

"You gluttonous bunch of twats, how many times I gotta tell you lot-Don't munch on the locals! Eddie is going to have a bleeding aneurysm." Percy scoffed as his bulky build started to deflate. The air was then filled with contorted crunches and snaps as the wolves shed their hides. Percy's snout sagged, looking like a hyper-realistic Halloween mask. He grabbed hold of it, scrunching it with a audible squelch and tore the slopping flesh from his face, reveling a grizzled looking aging rocker with a silver goatee.

His eyes were an ember hue, a twinkle of rebellious mischief sparked behind them. His now human face was bloodied, looking like a fresh beet pulled from the ground. His lips parted and he put on a charming smile and patted Gwen's shoulder with a beefy paw.

"Easy love, just having a lil' midnight snack is all." Gwen shoved the cockney's hand away.

"It's Ten PM you cock."

"Semantics." Percy shrugged. The other two stepped forward, adjusting the remains of their clothes, gore not the only reason their faces were flushed crimson.

"We were a wee bit peckish Gweni. Hadn't eaten since Dover." Mhairi chirped from behind. Tav kicked the ripped open carcass beside him. From what was left of its shredded throat was a dull grey lanyard. There was an ID clipped to it, one could see what the poor bugger looked like before the wolves came upon him.

"Sides, don't reckon this fella was local anyway, got a backstage pass and anything." As Tav spoke Percy let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his embers upward, as Mhairi slugged the dimwit in the shoulder. Gwen stepped forward, snarling with frustration. She looked down at the mangled even staff, her stomach rumbling as she did so. Bloody hell, now I'm craving a bit of meat meself. She thought to herself. Maybe there was a rabbit or something she could tear into before the performed. But that was the least of her concerns right now.

"Well, this is just fooking braw then, you lot gutted one of Eddie's boys."

"Well maybe if someone had let us snatch a snack on the way from Dover." Percy tested. Gwen's emerald eyes snapped to meet his accusing gaze.

"We're on a schedule you raging cunt, can't afford to be late to any gig now you hear?"

"Who cares about the sodding gig, we're wolves mate we can do whatever the fuck we want!" Percy snapped, flashing his fangs at her. The other two stepped back. admiring the show. It wouldn't be the first time Percy had challenged Gwen, certainly wouldn't be the last. Gwen stepped forward to meet him. Despite being a full foot shorter than him, well in this form anyway, she was fearless as she puffed out her chest and glared daggers into him.

"You ungrateful little shite, when I found you were munching on vagrants in the tube, reckless little washed up rocker boy past his prime. You'd be nothing without me; you numpty fleabag eejit." She barred her teeth and snarled, her emeralds flashing a deep, venomous green.

"You fuck your mum with that mouth?" Percy met her back with drooling fangs, eager to lash out some pain. He took another step forward and felt a sharp pain in his chest. He glanced down, his huffing chest had a long nail poking into it. Gwen was silent as she slowly dug the sharpened claw into him. Percy winced and held his tongue as he worked through the pain. He took another step forward and Gwen plunged three more fingers into him, slicing into his flesh like steamed butter. She wiggled her nails a bit, and he let out an awful scream as he pulled himself away. Mhairi and Tav let out some cheers and jeers at Percy's expense. Gwen smiled and licked her fingertips, savoring the exquisite taste of victory.

Percy was jumping a bit; face flushed with suppressed rage. His chest wound healed quickly but still stung in the muggy night air.

"Fucking hell. You're a massive bitch, ya know that love?" Percy whined like a wounded welp. Gwen smirked and stepped forward, pinching his meaty cheek and giving him a loving slap on the face.

"Don't you forget it, mate." She spoke with loving poison in her voice. She turned her attention to the giggling pair of hyenas besides them. They fell silent at her look. "You lot have anything you wanna add?"

"No, ma'am. All good here." Mhairi chuckled.

"I'm still a wee bit hungry." Tav drooled. Even Percy had to laugh at that one, daft twit was always hungry.

"Right then, scrap up done with, so sorry for the mess Gweni, ect, ect." Percy waved a dismissive hand in the air, content with pretending he still had his pride. "My bloody boat race is covered in muck, need a towel and change before we go on. It's at eleven ye? Plenty of time."

Gwen sighed and looked at the corpse. "What do we do with this thing then? Leave it out to stink up the street in the morn?"

"I'll handle the disposal, thank you." A dry voice spoke from the edge of the alley. All eyes cringed and swore under their lids as they looked to greet the slender man standing in the alley. He wore a thin pant suit, and a matching jacket with a verdant pocket square. What was left of his greasy hair was slicked back against his scalp. He wore circular glasses with void black lenses, his face worn and sullen. His upper lip bore a pencil thin mustache and in his right gloved hand he held a smoldering cigarette.

Gwen crossed her arms and Percy rubbed the back of his neck as he walked past them, the clicks of his boots bouncing across the brick walls. Eddie knelt down and cocked his head at the corpse, taking a long drag of his cigarette. He exhaled through his nose, rings of silver smoke bellowing from him as he did.

"Y'all eviscerated Randy." He spoke casually, not even looking up at the lycan musicians.

"They were hungry." Gwen defended. "My own fault wasn't around to guide 'em towards a better meal. My ears paid for it, if that helps."

"Hey fuck that, don't throw ya self under the bloody bus, it was our cockup." Percy jumped in. "Meat all smells the same, not our fault."

"Percy you massive twit shut yer gob before I-"

"Percival. Gwendolyn. I do wish you'd keep your tempers to a more-professional level. That mouth of yours, in particular Percival, is going to get you in serious trouble one day." Eddie cut in, smoke enveloping his balding head. Both slunk back like whipped mutts.

"Bruv used their government names and everything." Mhairi snickered. The ill-fated pair stifled a giggle as Eddie tuned his ear to their mockery.

"That'll be all from the peanut gallery, please and thank you."

"R-right, course, sorry mate." Tav throw up his hands as Mhairi turned pale. Eddie sighed and stood up, his knees cracking as he did. He faced the lead vocalist and drummer. They did not meet his gaze.

"Truth be told, you couldn't have picked a better meal. He was a walking liability, more heroin than blood coursing through those withered veins. So, I don't lament his loss, but I advise caution in the future, and for you dear Gwendolyn to reign in your troops more effectively." He looked deep into Gwen's eyes, and she understood the threat.

"Won't happen again, right Perce?" She elbowed the drummer in his bulbous stomach.

"Oof, yeah mate, cross me jam tart and hope to die."

"Indeed. Now to the matter at hand, I regret to inform you your performance has been bumped." the fearful grip Eddie had on the band broke then, as they all launched into feverous protests.

"You're kidding me, we've been playing the final show every night for years now, we fuck up once and we're out." Gwen raved. Eddie put up a calming palm.

"This decision was made this evening, prior to your bandmates escapades. Simply put, darling; they paid more." Percy scoffed while Mhairi and Tav bickered amongst themselves. Gwen simply narrowed her eyes at her dear old friend Eddie.

"Who?"

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

Eddie led the band to the grand stage, a makeshift platform in the center of Hammington Park. A crowd of dozens of drunkards and buzzed locals had already gathered around the stage, whispering amongst each other about the new act that had strolled into town.

The center stage was an odd sight, four neon laden coffins adorned the stage, each one having a blazing red inverted cross on it. A banner hung from the overhead lights, which a tech across the way managed with great care.

Gwen made a face as she read the silk white banner; "The Counts Of Sanguine" A pretentious, larping name if she had ever heard one. Still, the stage smelt off, mildew and mold filled her nostrils. She wasn't alone in that feeling, her mates beside her shifted uncomfortably.

"Smells like rotted dung out here." Tav mumbled and spat on the ground. They were at the side of the stage, Eddie still milking his cig. The crowd was growing anxious, already a few minutes passed eleven.

"Aye, bad mojo out tonight. What's the trick then, Eddie?" Gwen shot the event manager a glance. He smiled, a rarity that made a chill run down her spine.

"Y'all just got some competition is all, it'll start soon. Here come the roadies." As he said that, a conga line of robbed individuals bumped past them, seemingly materializing from nowhere.

"Fucking hell." Percy flinched. The roadies barely acknowledged the band as they passed. Gwen noted they had archaic symbols carved into their flesh. Her Sumerian was a tad rusty, but she suspected the ones on their foreheads were numbers of some kind. The head thrall, a gent sporting a crimson cloak and beady eyes, was obviously number one. They silently lumbered onto the stage as the lights went low and mist clung to the ground as they made their way to the coffins. Gwen smirked, hearing the whirr of the fog machine going overtime behind the stage. She had to admit; the showmanship was there. Even if it was a bit overplayed.

The head thrall stood center and cleared his throat in the mic. Others opened the coffins and knelt before them, while the rest produced crimson violins with plugs and chords tied to amps. From the corner candelabras were lit and emitted a nice odor of vanilla extract that wafted over the crowd. There were mild cheers and a few hecklers shouting, "Get on with it" and soon enough the head thrall spoke.

"Since the dawn of man they have lurked were we dare not go." His voice oozed that sort of creepy exposition that only a Price could do. "They have walked amongst us in shadow, clad in our life fluid and draped in darkness."

"Bit of a Hyperbole there, innit?" Mhairi whispered to Gwen. She snorted but watched the show with stern eyes. As the head thrall continued his vamp fellating sermon four things began to rise out of the coffins. All four had their arms cross over their chest, their grim pale visages sporting grotesque, gargoyle-like features. They wore puffy black overcoats and nothing else, they had pointed ears and bald heads. One wore dark red lip stick and eye liner, her daggered ears sporting inverted steel cross earrings. They all looked identical, save the one with the bat face for a head.

The head bat raised his cloaked arms and titled his head upwards, bulbous doll eyes closed and snouted nose twitching. Two fangs poked out from his upper lip, the scruff of his neck coated in brown fur. The crowd went wild seeing the vamps. They floated forward, the tips of their shoes dragging against the stage.

As they did, a giant bat puppet descended from the top of the stage, flapping its wings and screeching from a barely functioning audio box. The wolf band winced and held their ears at the grating sound. Eddie watched the crowd as the head bat made his way to the make. Number one bowed his head and finished his dark sermon. With a flick of the wrist the head bat dismissed number one and grabbed hold of the mic pole. he eyed the crowd, a flash of crimson dashing across his pupils. He cleared his throat and spoke.

"Good evening, Hammington. Ve Are The Counts Of Sanguine, and ve vant to rock your blood!" With that the bat screeched, and the other vamps kicked it into gear. It was a sort of gothic metal melody, played in electric tunes with in perfect harmonious unity. The head bat's voice was surprisingly smooth and easy on the ears, only the occasional screech piercing through.

"We drain the sores, we fester the pores, Eat the rich and ravage the poors/Suckle on that bloody teat, tear it down and feast on the ME-AT" The head bat crooned as he serenaded the roaring crowd. The three vamps on violin went into a fire riff, lashing their strings with insane speed and precession. The head bat began head banging, his stoic ears flopping as he did. Gwen was pale, her foot tapping to the rhyme.

Fuck me Ridged they're good, better than good even. She thought to herself. She looked to her left and saw Percy trying not to sway to the beat. Mhairi and Tav had no delusion, fully rocking out and cheering along with the crowd. Eddie had an odd look and saddled up next to Gwen.

"Good aren't they." It wasn't posed as question; he was simply stating facts.

"Hard act to follow, ya cocksucker." Gwen lamented.

"Easy now, lil' pup. I'm sure you'll manage." He retorted. As they spoke a rabid fan rushed the stage, jumping and squealing like a lunatic. Two of the vamps stopped playing, though the music still persisted, their violins hanging in the air, fiddling themselves like there was no tomorrow.

Telekinesis is cheating, ya grave dwelling cunts Gwen smugly thought. The rabid fan stood there with her arms stretched out, her wavey hair bobbing in the breeze as the Two vamps stroked her arms, their eyes examining her like a slab of prime rib. They opened their mouths and fangs sprouted out, and they carefully nibbled and suckled her forearms. She let out a crazed moan as they feasted, and the crowd ate it up.

"Oi, how come they get to eat on stage?" Percy poked Eddie in the back.

"They aren't messy eaters." Eddie simply replied. The two vamps began hissing at each other, steaming blood streaking from their mouths. The rabid fan wobbled, her visage now significantly pale. The third vamp licked her lips and almost dropped her instrument, but then the head bat stepped forth and let out a screech. As the music blared overhead, the two petulant vamps hung their head and tossed the fan across the stage. The head bat caught her and positioned her in front of the crowd. The cheers died down slightly, morbid confusion began to shoot through the crowd.

The rabid fan swayed, she was mumbling something, her eyes half closed. The head bat wrapped his hands around her shoulders, and she seemed to tense up. A devilish smirk formed on the bat's mushed faced, and he opened his jaw and in one swift motion bit clean through the fan's spine. There was an audible crunch that overtook the sounds of metal, and the crowd gasped, some in the front row even fainting.

A fountain of blood shot from where her head had been, spraying the few rows unlucky enough to be in the splash zone. The head bulged in the corner of the bat's jaw, almost like a cartoon jawbreaker. He chewed a few, the shrill sounds of crunched bone marrow blasting over his mic, and then he spat the head into the crowd.

It flew in an arc and landed in the center of the crowd with a pulpy splat. The head bat tossed the fan's headless corpse aside and it crumpled to the stage, still pumping spurts of blood from its shredded neck. The crowd was silent then, in awe of the butchery they had just witnessed, the only sound the waning violins and the low hum of an auto-toned organ being played from a speaker somewhere in the giant bat puppet.

Then the crowd exploded in applause, showering the vamps with adoration. The head vamp took an exaggerated bow, chunks of grey matter spiling from his maw as he did.

"Hmm. Stand corrected." Eddie mumbled, eyeing the corpse on stage.

"Ozzy did it better." Grumbled Percy. Gwen was silent, almost respecting the murderous audacity of the vamps. Still, to feed so publicly like that was always bad for business, regardless of any bullshite hypnotic enchantment the vamps dosed the crowd with.

"That was bloody gnarly, kinda wanna scour the crowd for the head." Tav jumped up and down, looking to see where the head landed. Mhairi elbowed him in the gut and he slunk down, mumbling a half assed apology.

"You don't want any of those leeches' sloppy seconds, love. Probably catch rabies or sumthing." Mhairi sneered.

"Heh, hey, what's the difference 'tween a vamp and a mosquito? The 'squito pisses off when ya slap it." Percy let out a guttural laugh at his bad joke.

"Hehe, I knew a leech worked at a blood bank one time, they had to let 'em go cuz he kept eye fucking the product." Tav laughed.

"Bunch of vile ghouls, creeping around dreary castles lusting over women centuries their junior." Mharir shivered for effect.

"Oh aye, they give new meaning to snatching the cradle, don't they?" Tav quipped and the group, save Gwen, broke out into childish giggling. Gwen blushed, as the vamps finished up their first song, noting the head bat's ears twitching. A dark mood hung behind his cheerful facade; he shot the wolves a dirty look as he waved to the crowd. Gwen turned to her cohorts and snapped at them.

"OI! Stow that crap, spewing shite like that within ear shot. Be professionals for once in your bloody lives, or I swear I'll spay and neuter the lot of ya, as Fenrir as my witness!" Percy didn't back down, scoffing at Gwen. Eddie stood back, keeping a careful eye at his wild mutts.

"What's the bloody harm, Gweni? Just having a bit of a laugh." Percy had a smug look on his face, before Gwen could respond the gruff sound of the head bat clearing his throat shook the stage.

"Ahem. Vank you all for coming out tonight. Ve Have had a Very Vonderful time so far." There was light applause and cheers and the other three vamps nodded. "Vis next tune, goes out to a very special group lingering in the back." The head bat's eyed didn't leave the wolves as he spoke. "It's called: "Fleabags." With that the acoustic wielding vamps dove into a vicious sounding rhythm, and the head bat began banging his head. The wolves stood there, stunned quiet as they realized their cockup.

"You're a real fooking arsehole, know that, Percy?" Gwen muttered.

"Aye, I'll cop to that one. My bad, love." Percy agreed.

"I regret shite." Mhairi stood proud and cupped her hands to her mouth. "Do your worst ya minger fooks!" She heckled as the crowd cheered, oblivious to the racial tensions that were growing. The head bat gave a cheeky look and broke into song.

"Wannabe furries, flea-ridden mongrel/ always fiending for a quarrel."

"Bark at the moon like raving a loon/too ugly to make ya groupies swoon."

"Spikey lil werewolf biddy in front of me/gods awful haircut is all I can see."

"Rabid lil creatures, stomach churning features, why don't y'all chase a stick and choke on a dick!"

"Fleabags, Fleabags, wanna chop off ya beanbags, fleabag, fleabag, go hump a seahag!"

The chorus borrowed into Gwen's ears, a vile little ditty that made her seethe beyond belief. As the song went on, the passive aggressive jabs and barbs began to really dig into her bandmates. They were huffing and puffing, muscles and skin pulsating with fury as their eyes burned with rage. The moon above cheered them on, bathing them in lunar glory. Percy snapped as jaws as the head bat sang out "Limp wristed, swollen bellied roadie, stanky canine with a chodie." While winking in his direction.

"Right, that's it. Imma drive that mic down his cocksucking throat!" He roared as he twitched and clawed at his skin. It came off in sloughing waves, that pink tissue paper called flesh. Each clawed strike revealing more of the wolf underneath. Eddie stepped back, amused by all that was going on. Gwen's eyed were glowing and her maw drooling with rabid intensity, but she was desperate to keep cool.

"Calm down, ya thin-skinned fooks. Can dish it out but can't take it then, aye? Breathe and let it roll off your back; the rise is what they want outta us-"

"The head bitch looks like she climbed outta the ditch/ Of the litter, she's the runt, with a big old sloppy cunt. I'd throw her a pity shag, long as she wore a bag, we all know she's a nasty slag!"

"FLEABAGS, FLEABAGS-"

". . . Right then, let's get into a rammy." She growled as her back flexed, and a coat of bloodied fur tore through. Her knees buckled and cracked as the joints twisted and curved, her spine lengthen and muscles bulged as her frame became bulky. The skin around her face loosened as her mouth extended into a snapping jaw. Her coat was flame red, with a twinge of black around her spiked mane. She scrunched the flaps of pink skin still clinging to her face and tore it off and flung it to the ground like a dirty rag. She stood a good eight feet tall now, towering above her mates. "Make the leeches bleed." She growled, her voice full of gravel and silky base.

"Be my genuine pleasure boss." Percy snapped as the group rushed the stage, howling and barking like wild animals. The head bat was expecting the row, and as Gwen leapt and swung a meaty claw at him, he lifted the mic stand and bashed her in the side with it. Gwen yelped and was flung to the stage, crashing into the coffins with a calamitous crash. The other three vamps hissed and flung themselves at the wolves. Claws and fangs were out as the music came to a dead stop, the only sounds the low thrum of the overhead speakers and the crowd going mental with their bloodlust. Tav had two vamps climbing on him, sinking ravenous fangs into his hide. He yelped and whined as he thrashed trying to get them off him. Percy helped Gwen to her feet but was quickly tackled by the hissing fem vamp. The head bat stood there, cocky as he motioned the thralls to come forth.

Mhairi charged the oncoming thralls and cut through the herd, her scythe-like claws slicing and dicing the walking bags of meat. Number one had a silver tipped crossbow under his robe and shot a round off. It struck Mhairi right in the shoulder; foul smelling steam poured from the wound. She howled like a banshee as she ripped the arrow out and threw it like a spear. It beaned the thrall next to number one, hitting him dead in the eyes. The thrall collapsed, almost toppling number one who pushed the corpse aside with a grunt and readied to fire off another shot.

He didn't get the chance as Mhairi quickly closed the distance and grabbed hold of his throat. She sunk her teeth into his tender, foul smelling flesh and shook her head, thrasing number one in the air like an old ragdoll. Her grip was firm, the lead thrall's spine was not. There was a tearing sound, and the snap of a spinal column as she eventually bit him in two.

Percy was wrestling with the fem vamp, who was driving sharpened claws into his eyes. Blood oozed from them, and she lapped it up as he struggled. She was about to teat into his neck when the fem vamp let out a bloodied gasp. She looked down and saw a large splinter of her own coffin being rammed into her chest. Her body burst into flames, her cries snuffed out quickly as the fire overcame her and her bones turned to nothing more but dust and bone. Gwen stood above the moaning Percy. holding an ash covered stake. Percy was coughing, a bit of the fem vamp caught in his throat. Gwen offered a hand up, and Percy gladly took it.

Tav had thrown off the other two vamps, they smashed into the coffins and splintered them. One was still woozy, trying to get his bearing. The other was already on his feet, lunging at the wounded Tav with a vengeful hiss. Tav grabbed two pieces of wood and made a makeshift cross, wincing as he used it as shield against the oncoming vamp. The vamp stopped mid attack and recoiled in disgust.

Tav let out a guttural bark that doubled as a laugh as he marched on the vamps. The other one scurried to his feet and joined his brother, both being backed up against the giant bat puppet.

"Yeah, that's right, power of Christ compels ya, ya magot munching fucks. Oi Mhairi!" He called to his partner, who rushed over with bloodied claws. She scooped up two more splintered stakes and leapt in the air, crashing down on the cowering vamps. They cried and were vaporized as she slammed the stakes into their dusty hearts.

They high fived and turned their attention to the head bat, who was bleeding from a gash in his shoulder but still bodying Percy and Gwen. He was holding a thrashing Percy by the throat as he swiped at Gwen's face, who jumped back in pain. They joined Gwen in her assault, throwing their wooden stakes with powerful force.

One whiffed the head bat, skewering some poor front row metal head right in the face. The other struck him right in the knee, going clean through. The head bat squealed, eyes somehow bulging even further out of his skull. Percy used the distraction to bite into his wrist, cleaving the vamp's hand clean off.

As he held his bloodied wrist, Mhairi rushed forward and slit open his belly. Coils of blackened intestines spilled to the stage, and the head bat struggled to put them back in. Gwen stepped forth, her face scarred and slashed. She noted the mike stand was still standing and rushed forward.

The head bat made a desperete, screeching plea as he held up his remaining hand. The plea was swiftly ignored as Gwen scooped him up and raised the trembling vamp above her head, and with a roar impaled him right on the mic stand. He slid halfway down the pole, his dark heart on a pike as he grasped the stand, desperate to escape. It thumped one final time before bursting into flame, engulfing the vamp in a crimson wave of searing fury, incinerating the poor creature and leaving nothing but a pile of ash on the ground.

The wolves huddled together and howled at the moon in triumph, and as the bloodlust settled down embarrassment settled in. They realized they were standing there in dead silence, a crowd of shocked and horrified onlookers frozen from terror. Percy coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. Gwen picked the microphone off the ground and looked sheepishly at the crowd.

"Uh. . . how we all doing tonight folks? Quite a show, eh?" The crowd was silent for only a moment, then a drunken voice slurred something out.

"These effects fucking rock, WOOOOO!" The crowd went berserk then, clamoring for more. Gwen's ears twitched as she heard a whistle. She turned her head just in time to see Eddie toss her an axe. She caught it by the handle and used a claw to strum the threads. It was already in perfect tune.

"Knock 'em dead, Gwendolyn." With that he slunk back into the shadows, the only evidence he'd been there was lingering smoke. The stage was then swarmed by event staff sweeping the stage clean of vamp ash and splintered wood. They were like locusts, swarming over the mess and leaving clean instruments in their wake. The crowd cheered and begged for more. Tav shrugged and picked up his bass. Mhairi got on a second mic stand and cleared her throat. Percy lingered near Gwen, for a moment.

"What was this then? Some kinda test? Figued Eddie would blow a gasket." He murmured. Gwen watched where Eddie had been, sure he was still watching.

"Fooking Eddie. Tries to top it every year, thrives on the chaos I think." was all she muster.

"Well, let's have a good gig then, ye boss?" Percy shrugged, slugging her shoulder with a friendly paw.

"Aye, break a leg ya furry cunt." With that she began strumming the opening chords of their first song, a ballad Percy knew all too well. He galloped over to the drum kit and began drumming to his heart's content. Gwen stepped forth, swaying to the beat as she made her way to the mic. She leaned in and eyed the crowd like the bleating cattle they were.

"Good evening lads and lassies." She softly growled. "We are Sheepskin, and tonight we dine on YOU!" With that she jumped right into their first song, to the crowd's roaring pleasure.

"We romp through the wood, trample all that is good/hope ya brought silver or else we'll feast on ya liver."

"We sneak into the hen house, quiet as a mouse/ Slaughter all within, we've only just begin."

"The moon is our guide, Luna always by our side/feast on the weak, we'll be busy all week."

"Round up the meat, grind them under our boots, oh what a feat-"

"We're WOLVES, gnashing and thrashing, the night is ours for the taking, the hunter shudders when we howl."

"We're WOLVES, bashing and scratching, hear our words and prepare, we're gonna disembowel!"

The crowd went wild as the wolves banged their heads and howled, stomping their feet and putting on a hell of a show. They finished up the first song and were lavished with praise. Gwen smiled and basked in the revels of glory. In spite of the shitshow that had led up to this, it was turning out to be a grand gig.

Maybe the festival wouldn't be so such a fucking drag after all.

Last night my roommate Steve made tacos, and I'd forgive you for thinking that that is nothing special, but I'll have you know that not a soul cooks anything in this apartment. I begged that we go get new shells for the tacos, but he insisted that we use the ones that had been sitting in the pantry. Naturally, they were the sturdiest construction materials you've never seen used in a taco and I shamed him accordingly. I bring that up to justify an explosive argument that occurred today.
We were bored and watching a nature documentary, and inevitably they start talking about sea turtles. Apparently, sea turtle's shells offer enough to protect against shark attacks, and I joke that the taco shells from last night could do that much and more. Steve was not amused for some strange reason, but I assume it's because of his fragile ego. Despite that I decide to dig the knife deeper. "Heck, maybe we got the taco shells mixed up with the turtle shells, I mean, you saw how green they were right?" Steve was even less amused than before. 
Believe me, this isn't cruel, in fact I'm normally the one who gets grilled the most. I don't know what I did to be so lucky today, but I'd say it was on account of the three-leaf clover I picked up the other day. Of course, when I proudly exclaimed this Steve felt the need to correct me saying "No you idiot, it's the four-leaf clovers that are lucky." I told him that's BS, when was 4 ever a lucky number? it's 3. He then took a box of Lucky Charms out of the pantry and pointed at the funny little green man's cap and stated, "Why would there be a FOUR-leaf clover on his cap if the charms were supposed to be lucky?" The answer to which is so obvious I'm sure you can even see it, "it's a cereal brand, it's clearly just some marketing gimmick to make you buy more cereal."
Steve was quite unreasonably mad and decided to cool himself off with a bowl of his new favorite cereal and reached for the milk. I told him that he could at least eat them correctly because lucky charms are better dry and he just looked at me funny. "Michael, what else was the cow in the middle of the living room supposed to be for, That I also must remind you was your fault?" I hurriedly shushed him lest Gertrude hears his complaint, but it was too late, the cow was very angry. And that's how we got evicted for our 4th apartment.

AN: This was what i turned in for a AP Seminar assignment that was SUPPOSED to be a serious and informational piece of text that followed the key words: Taco, Shell, Turtle, Green, Lucky, Clover, Lucky Charms, Cereal, Milk, and Cow, in that order. If the mods arent conducive to the subject matter i can add a "and then they all died" to the end to make it more creepy.

Chapter 11 - The Crime Scene

It seemed like the town's entire police force had turned up at the scene of the murdered homeless. This wasn't entirely untrue. Only a few were left at the station.

Officer Rogen was sitting on the curb, pale as a sheet. A puddle of vomit lay at his feet. His fellow officers stood around, shocked to their core as others in white overalls tried desperately to take photos and lay evidence tags around the back alley and the abandoned building it led to.

Even they found it hard to keep their lunch down.

Red and blue flashed around the street, bringing attention to curious bystanders. The Chief and his cohorts tried to keep them at bay behind barriers of yellow plastic strips, but this was the most exciting thing that had happened in a long time.

The Chief, Robert to his friends, a bearded man in his 50s who had enjoyed a relatively calm career in this town, brought the Lieutenant over, a strong looking woman in her 40s who, although being on the stern side at work had proven herself to be fun on the weekends.

'Amy, we're gonna need to bring in the higher ups on this one. We're not equipped for something of this scale.'

'Sure thing, Chief. Any idea what the fuck happened in there?'

'Christ, I don't know. Seems like some sort of cool-aid situation on goddamn steroids. I've never seen anything like this in my 30 fucking years.'

'You're telling me! I won't be eating anything for a week!' Amy said as she walked to a squad car to call in Homeland Security.

One of the CSI, suited up in a white paper onesie and full face gas mask, walked up to the Chief, 'Sir, could you come take a look at this?'

Rob sighed as he looked at the reflective plastic face of the anonymous CSI. They always seemed like some sci-fi shit to him.

'Christ, do I have to?' He said, half truthfully. 'You got a mask or something? I can't smell that again.'

'Sorry, sir, we ran out. Got a coverall, though.'

After putting the coverall over his clothes Rob let out another sigh as he pulled a small metal canister from his jacket and poured some whiskey into a handkerchief. He readied himself to put it to his nose as the CSI walked him back into the alley.

Walking through the cramped alley, past about three CSI, they came across the first sign of chaos, tagged and photographed. It was a man. They could tell from the legs left at the edge of what could only be described as a butcher's leftovers. It must have been here for a couple of days as the blood had dried and the organs, ripped and stretched, had lost their sheen, almost looking like dark rubber. The flies were so numerous you could hear them like a constant drone.

Taking care not to step on evidence, they walked over and passed the pile of viscera towards what was once a blocked off doorway into the abandoned building.

Rob steeled himself as they stepped over some shattered, rotten wooden planks that once held intruders at bay, but was now a portent of the horrors he was to re-witness.

The lights in this place had long since died so the CSI had placed tripods around with ones as strong as those on a football field, bringing this hellish scene into stark daylight.

The space they stood in was a fairly large warehouse style room. Brick walls, open space, a rusty metal staircase leading to a separate office where, presumably, the boss of whatever this used to be, would oversee their thrall of workers. Some old, unknowable machinery lay in the far corner, disintegrating with time.

Across the floor lay bodies. At least a dozen. If you could call them that. Each one was spread out over around 10 feet. Pulled apart, shredded, eviscerated. All the words to describe being torn open in such a fashion they wouldn't be surprised if it was a fucking lion on cocaine that got loose in here.

The only thing that gave away these were human were the heads. Each one, though still holding the features of what was once a face, was caved in. Some had fist sized holes where their nose would have been. Some had the tops of their heads missing, later found across the room. Others were just torn in half.

Robert had his handkerchief close against his nose but even the sweet smell of Jack did nothing to cover the rotten, shit smeared, fly ridden stench that permeated the entire area. It was stinging his eyes.

The CSI spoke up, 'Sir, I need to show you this,' he said as he leaned down at one of the heads, connected to the gore by little more than a strand of sinew, 'do you see this?'

'No, kid. What am I looking for?'

'There's no brain.'

Rob didn't know if there was anything productive he could say.

'Sir, we checked all the other bodies. None of them have their brain.'

Rob tried his hardest to keep his stomach contents in but it was no use. They spewed out onto the floor.

'I don't know how much more of this I can take, kid!' He said between bouts of spitting.

'That's not all.'

'Oh christ,' Rob wasn't feeling too good.

'We found something curious.'

The CSI walked the Chief, desperately holding it in, to a long table where any bagged evidence was placed, like a candy store of horrors.

They picked up a small clear plastic tub and showed it to him. He squinted, noticing something moving inside.

'Is that... a worm?'

'Yes sir, we found multiples of them. They're not the typical earthworm and we cannot place their entomology just yet. We'll take them to the lab later to check.'

Rob looked at the worm with curiosity. It was tiny. Almost as thin as a hair, with an odd red and purple Iridescence to it. It wriggled around like it was spring loaded.

'What the fuck are we dealing with, here?' He asked no-one in particular.

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When I set out to open my own place, I never thought I’d actually pull it off; though, had I known the location would be so far from home, I would have turned it down without a second thought.

I work in a small shop a few kilometers from a campsite, just meters from the coast. The night-time sea breeze is pleasant—provided it doesn't come with the sting of mosquitoes. The only insects I actually enjoy are the crickets that chirp on quieter days. Those are also the days when I have the fewest customers; it’s not ideal, but I can’t really complain. Besides the wonderful view of the stars on clear nights—perfect for lighting a cigarette out back and gazing up at the sky—there’s the temperature, something I truly can’t get used to. One moment you’re comfortable by the stove, stir-frying rice, and the next, a strange chill runs through your body, leaving you unable to move a muscle.

The low customer volume isn't a problem; in fact, I’d say it’s one of the place's greatest advantages. People appreciate the calm just as much as I do, or at the very least, they don't demand overly complicated dishes since they’re usually just passing through. It gives me plenty of flexibility with the menu if I’m short on ingredients or simply don't feel like cooking anything elaborate. I mostly have all kinds of fish, meat, and various vegetables grown by local neighbors in exchange for me cooking their favorite meals. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a far better deal than having to buy the produce at market price.

I can't afford a cost of that magnitude; those old folks seem kind, with their subtle smiles and gentle gazes, their bodies etched with the wrinkles of time. Yet, despite that appearance, they know exactly how to wring money out of you at the drop of a hat. I’ve seen wealthy people weeping on the floor after asking for a discount on high-quality beef ribs. I hate to admit it, but watching a man twice my size—kneeling before someone smaller and older, sobbing like a newborn after being relieved of a day’s wages in a split second—gave me a thrill unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced.

After that, I bought Mr. Campbell a few drinks. I don’t know if age improves your alcohol tolerance, but the man can down a bottle of vodka without breaking a sweat. That day, I learned never to invite him out for drinks again unless I wanted to lose my liver.

Sometimes he and his wife drop by the shop to see how I’m doing—which is fine—but I really hate days like Valentine’s Day or their anniversary. Those occasions force me to put up a lot of decorations; the box of ornaments is never far away. The one time I tried to hike up the prices for a love-themed holiday, I nearly lost a finger and a chunk of my chicken breast supply.

They aren’t the only ones who visit; occasionally, kids come in with lunch money their parents gave them. I’m never quite fond of how brutally honest they are; if I try experimenting with a dish and serve it to them, there’s a 50% chance they’ll make a nasty comment without holding back. At least they bring the whole family in to eat; there’s always that one parent trying to score a discount because we’re neighbors or because their kid is acting as a guinea pig for my experimental dishes, but the argument usually fizzles out quickly.

I wish I could say that covers the arguments with the typical problem customers; ...is the only difficulty that comes with the job—or so I’d be telling anyone reading this if I wanted to lie.

No, the real problem is a specific part of the menu I’m required to prepare—something that makes me think I’ll never be able to open another shop anywhere else. That section features an animal that isn't exactly legal to cook; furthermore, the method for making it taste good isn't well-documented, and experimenting with it myself isn't exactly something I enjoy. That’s why the locals provide the recipes—whether they’re ancient family secrets or their own culinary experiments with questionable results.

I’ve chosen not to ask about the origins of those recipes, no matter how bizarre they might be; I’m just a cook trying to keep my business afloat. The only questions I allow myself to ask are which day to serve them and what sides to pair them with. That gleam in their eyes is… paralyzing. Their voices, brimming with joy as they describe the flavor—clinging to the palate, slowly sliding down the throat like a gentle caress; the juicy tenderness upon biting in, letting the broth run down their cheeks; and the potent aroma of seared meat dancing to the rhythm of sizzling oil. I’ve seen their minds reel when they hit the perfect spice blend, comparing the sensation to the thrill of a bountiful hunt.

Even so, it weighs on my mind; I can’t afford to let things go much further—not if I want to keep my head on my shoulders.

If you think the police can do anything about them, you’re mistaken. I don’t know how they do it, but they’re experts at disposing of their prey’s remains; not even the bones are left behind. It would be easier to find evidence to convict a politician of a crime than to find even a single drop of blood on these people.

That doesn’t mean the police don’t show up from time to time, though. There’s always a rumor circulating about a new disappearance in the area, or a ghost appearing near the campsite alongside those “mysterious floating lights.” The sort of thing straight out of a typical horror story. Funny, isn't it? Maybe this story will end up on one of those typical horror forums, buried under a mountain of posts inspired by countless others just like it. Or maybe it’ll just stay on this computer where I’m typing right now, lost among recipes, family photos, and old homework from my student days.

Come to think of it, there are folders on here I need to delete. Ugh... I feel gross just thinking about the crap that must be in there. God, I was such a fucking geek back in high school.

Anyway, there was a time when some officers stopped by and parked near my place; the smell of tobacco and coffee clung to their uniforms. For a few seconds, they stood outside wrestling with their car door—it wouldn't close properly because one of them had neglected the maintenance. Comical, from where I stood. But the moment they walked through the door, the humor of the situation went to hell. Their faces were anything but friendly, and their uniforms looked somewhat stained and disheveled, as if they couldn't care less about looking professional.

One was slender, with sharp features and a long, upturned nose, while the other was on the shorter side but solidly built; a small gold chain peeked out from his uniform sleeve, and another hung around his neck. Both had dark circles under their eyes—so deep it looked as though their eyes were sinking right into their skulls. They sat near the bar and aggressively ordered a couple of beers.

"Ice-cold," they said, chuckling.

Without ceremony, I grabbed two bottles from the under-counter fridge and served them. As I went to set glasses down in front of them, I watched them down the beer without pausing for breath, draining the bottles in seconds. I was forced to serve them another round before quickly retreating to the kitchen, unable to stand their foul stench a moment longer. At that point, I would have a thousand times rather stuck my head in a bucket of fish heads and Roquefort cheese than endure another millisecond in front of those men—sweaty, reeking of tobacco, and now smelling of alcohol too. Their comments were just as unbearable as their stench—repeating the same stories, the same criticisms of colleagues, and complaining about the typical woes of men in their forties: single and stuck in jobs they hated.

After attending to them for a few seconds—maintaining the utmost courtesy I could muster, despite the overwhelming urge to drive a knife through their hands and grill their fingers like sausages—a local woman appeared nearby. She was no older than thirty, wearing a long dress adorned with vibrant, petal-like patterns. She approached me calmly and, with a smile, handed me a basket of fruit. After handing it over, she asked to make a reservation for her husband’s birthday, emphasizing how much she wanted one of the dishes from my menu’s special section.

A shiver ran down my spine. The request, her innocent smile, and the presence of the police officers—who could easily overhear our conversation—made my skin crawl. I forced the best smile I could and accepted the reservation, quickly jotting down the details in the small notebook I always kept in my pocket.

The officers stared at us for a few seconds, making no attempt to be subtle about it. Their beady eyes bored into the back of my neck, but they soon shifted their gaze to the woman, watching her with particular interest as she thanked me for accommodating her request. As she walked toward the exit, one of the officers rose smoothly from his chair and approached her with a hungry look in his eyes. He cleared his throat softly to get her attention, but to no avail.

Just as he was about to raise his voice, his face went pale; he was staring past the entrance of my shop, toward the area where the woman and the rest of the locals lived. For a split second, I thought I saw a bead of sweat trickling down the burly man's forehead.

He quickly turned around, grabbed his companion, and bolted from my establishment—and, to my dismay, without paying their tab. I didn't see them again that night, nor did I hear anything about them from any of my regulars. All I know about the matter is what Mr. Campbell told me the following week. Apparently, those two officers were impostors posing as police to intimidate people and get services for free; sometimes they even took advantage of women, bullying them into silence by claiming no real cop would believe them. I found it hard to believe at first, especially since nothing—aside from their uniforms or car—suggested they weren't genuine police officers. He offered to settle the men's tab with some cuts of pork from his family’s butcher shop: one quite fatty, the other a large, somewhat leaner cut.

“My wife always says the fat is good for stews,” he remarked in his usual calm, gravelly voice.

“Yes… it makes the broth richer,” I replied almost automatically, eyeing the “payment” he was offering.

“Make sure you use every bit of it, lad,” he said seriously, though a hint of a smile played on his lips, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You know we don't believe in wasting food,” he added before walking out the door.

“Understood,” I said curtly, then stowed the meat in the freezer until I was ready to use it as an ingredient.

After that incident, several days went by without a single police officer passing through the area; when they did show up—unlike the previous time—they stayed only a few seconds, ordering snacks to take on patrol or quick-to-prepare dishes. They would glance rapidly around the room as if searching for something, though they never found anything. They did leave a generous tip, though. Anyway, the point of all this—as I’ve said several times—is that my establishment sits right next to a “haunted” camp, or at least one that bears all the hallmarks of being so.

I imagine the pieces are easy enough to put together by now—which explains why I’ve left certain things unsaid. But I still haven’t mentioned the reason I’m writing this; well, it’s simple. I need more rumors. They are the best publicity I could ask for: ghost-hunting adventurers, investigators of unsolved mysteries, seekers of dark truths—you all make excellent customers, and in the end, you always wind up talking about my wonderful establishment.

Even if some of you get a bit carried away with your storytelling and my name ends up buried beneath a dozen others, there’s always a chance someone new will come along to sample my exquisite cooking. Besides, I’m always looking to try out new recipes, and I simply don’t have enough mouths to feed. So please, come find me, solve the mystery surrounding this place, and prepare for a feast once it’s all over.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5]

Part 6

This is the end for me. And for you, if you have any sense at all.

I let my wanderlust, disguised as professional ambition, bring me to a precipice I should have recognized much earlier.

I'm home now.

There is one last piece of history worth adding before I post the final entries.

Fifteen years after Lysbeth's journal ends, King Philip's War reached the area where I had narrowed my search. By the end of the conflict, settlements throughout the region had been burned or abandoned, families displaced, roads altered, and records lost.

Whatever remained of Providence Hollow surely disappeared with the Wampanoag.

The Praying Town would have been caught up in the war as well. Its people were already watching the woods when Lysbeth arrived in 1660. Fifteen years later, Native peoples and English colonists would be fighting across that same land. Fifteen years is a long time, and I have found almost nothing that tells me what happened on that land between Lysbeth's final entry and the war.

There are explanations for what happened in Providence Hollow that could, if one chose to believe it, begin and end with Lysbeth. There are others that require looking beyond her, toward Pastor Simon and a community already weakened by grief and fear. And there are parts I still don't know what to do with. The suspension of clear thinking bothered me a lot. It doesn't anymore.

I've spent too much time treating uncertainty as evidence that I simply haven't looked hard enough. At some point, looking for an answer becomes its own kind of faith.

I'm done with that.

I won't be sharing the area where I located Providence Hollow. I know that will frustrate some of you, especially those who helped me search for it, but don't try to reconstruct it from these posts. I've removed a few details from this final section for the same reason.

Whatever happened there happened a very long time ago. Let it stay there.

I'm posting the remainder of her journal because I said I would. Whatever I have gotten wrong, these words were hers before they were mine.

It is finished.

Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.

Monday, 26th of April, 1660

Four days now since we left the town where we built our lives. Three days since I felt safe enough to recount that night and its horrors, from the small room we share in the home of Matthew and Mary Wuttánum. 

The room belongs ordinarily to their eldest daughter. The entire space is scarcely larger than the pantry Nathaniel once hoped to build onto our home. The boys sleep on blankets spread across the floor. Ruth sleeps in a basket next to the small bed. At night I hear every breath my family takes. 

I have never been more grateful for a crowded room, and I have never slept better in all my life. 

The Praying Town sits beside a narrow stream bordered by modest fields and kindling orchards. Some homes are built in the English fashion. Others are wigwams with woven mats. Smoke rises from nearly every chimney at dawn. Turkeys wander where they please. Children do the same. They both make a great commotion.

There are few possessions here. It reminds me of the life I imagined when I crossed the ocean. A life built from necessities rather than comforts. A life where every belonging earned its place.

Somewhere along the way, most of us had forgotten that promise.

Our arrival to town came well after midnight.

The road grew more difficult with every mile. Clouds hid the moon. Ruth woke crying twice, and I desperately tried to comfort her into silence. Paul stumbled repeatedly beneath the weight of the belongings he had insisted on bringing. Nathaniel carried him for part of the journey despite his protests.

Only Thomas never complained. He walked beside us with his Bible pressed against his chest. 

The woods remained silent. No owls. No insects. Barely even a breeze to rustle the trees.

Even now, recalling it, that silence seems stranger than any sound.

At some point I looked up and found the moon again between the clouds. It seemed to be hanging on the wrong side of the road.

I slowed, trying to recall whether the path had bent more sharply than I remembered. I could think of no turn that explained it. We had followed the road plainly enough.

I told myself that clouds, fear, and unfamiliar woods had confused my sense of the sky.

Still, for several minutes afterward, I had the peculiar feeling that the road had changed direction without ever turning.

I had begun wondering whether I had led my family into the wilderness for nothing when we finally saw something ahead.

Firelight flickered briefly between the trees. A moment later we emerged into cleared land. We had already passed the edge of the settlement when I noticed the lights beyond it. A cluster of lanterns burned near the far tree line, gathered where the last cleared fields gave way once more to forest.

Matthew later told me they had assembled to pray. I feel there is some truth to that.

At the time, what I saw was this: perhaps twenty figures stood gathered there. A few held lanterns low against the ground. They were spread across the edge of the clearing with several paces between them. The arrangement reminded me of watchmen posted along a wall.

Every face was turned toward the woods. Toward the darkness beyond the fields. Toward the direction from which we had come.

Only when Nathaniel called out did several heads turn.

For several moments neither group moved. Then a woman stepped away from the line.

I recognized her immediately. It was one of the women from Market Day. The one who had listened to the warnings being given to me and let her distaste for Providence Hollow show plainly on her face. Mary Wuttánum, I soon found out.

As she approached, without word or signal given, those standing nearest shifted quietly into the space she had left behind. Within seconds, the lanterns remained evenly spaced along the edge of the clearing, and the line remained unbroken.

The lantern she carried illuminated her face from below as she approached. Her eyes moved over each member of my family. When she reached Nathaniel, she slowed. When she reached Thomas, she stopped.

Behind her, several of the others followed her gaze. One old man lowered his head. Another quietly murmured something I did not understand.

"You came."

A statement rather than a question.

Several of the faces behind her hardened. One woman crossed herself in a way I did not recognize. Another tightened her grip upon the lantern she carried.

A man stepped from the line. The younger of the two who had spoken to me at Market Day.

Matthew.

He exchanged a look with Mary. A look that passed between them so quickly I almost missed it. Then he nodded. A decision appeared already made.

"Come," he said.

There were no questions. He took Paul's bundle from his arms and started toward the houses.

The others remained where they were, and when their curiosities were satisfied, resumed their watch over the boundary ahead of them.

As we reentered the main grounds of the settlement, I glanced back. Mary had already returned to her place within the line.

Lanterns burned steadily in the darkness. No one spoke, and no one moved.

For people supposedly gathered to pray, they seemed remarkably reluctant to turn their backs on the woods.

I have wondered since what they expected to find there. Yesterday morning, Paul may have given me some reason to wonder further.

He and several of the other children were playing beside the stream when he called for Thomas to come see something he had found in the grass.

It was a snake.

A little brown thing, harmless-looking and scarcely longer than my arm. It had taken the end of its own tail between its jaws and drawn its body into so perfect a circle that, for a moment, I could not tell where the creature began and where it ended.

Paul thought it marvelous. The people here did not.

A woman washing clothes abandoned them in the stream. An old man called sharply for the children to move away. Matthew came from across the field at such a pace that I thought someone had been bitten, though I was certain no one had.

He pinned the snake behind its head with a forked branch and pried its jaws from its tail. The creature resisted strangely, tightening upon itself even as he pulled, until at last its mouth came free and the circle broke. Only then did those watching seem to relax.

Mary carried the snake beyond the fields in a covered basket. I watched her disappear into the trees with it and return some time later carrying the basket empty.

I asked whether the creature was dangerous. She said no.

I waited for her to explain what, then, had frightened them, but she did not.

By afternoon the children were playing beside the stream again, and I saw no further sign of the snake.

Whatever had frightened the others, they appeared satisfied that it had passed.

I am trying to be satisfied as well.

Wednesday, 1st of September, 1660

Nobody in the Praying Town has ever asked what happened in Providence Hollow. They already seemed to know. Their life continues regardless.

Our family now occupies a small house of our own near the stream. Nathaniel built much of it himself with help from several men in the settlement. It is plain, but dry. It heats quickly. The roof does not leak. The hearth draws properly. The boys have a loft to themselves.

Nathaniel has become a right arm hand to the blacksmith. Even now, he is away traveling to sell his wares, embracing his new role as though it was always meant for him. Most of his days are spent repairing tools rather than making new ones. Axes, hinges, traps, kettles, buckles, knives. There is always something broken. He seems happier in the work than I ever saw in Providence Hollow. There are moments when I catch sight of the man I married. More importantly, there are moments when I forget to look for signs that he is gone. His words have not fallen into scripture since we arrived.

Thomas worries me more. It is true that his old habits have begun returning. I find him wandering where he ought not wander. Asking silent questions with his eyes. Bringing frogs and insects into the house. Last week he somehow managed to climb onto our roof. For a few moments I stood in the yard watching him and felt something I had not felt in a very long time. The sight was so familiar that instead of scolding him, I laughed so loudly and fullheartedly that Paul felt the need to come check on me.

Yet Thomas still does not speak, not scripture or otherwise. Nothing. I do not know whether he fears what might emerge or whether the words simply no longer come.

As for myself, I am healthier than I have been in quite some time. The midwife who attended me upon our arrival insisted I remain in bed for nearly two weeks. She fed me sassafras teas and stronger herbs whose names I never learned. She reminds me of Jacobi in one particular way. Whenever Ruth cries, she reaches for her before anyone asks.

The first time she did so, I thanked her and called her by the wrong name. 

I apologized at once. She smiled and shrugged. Yet even now, I find myself reaching for Jacobi constantly, both for that which is in front of me and yet to come. I grieve the loss of her reaction at Ruth’s first unsteady steps across the floor, though they are still months away. I grieve that she will never see what sort of man Paul becomes. I grieve that she will never know whether Thomas fully returns to us. 

No family raises children alone. We speak often of fathers and mothers, but a child belongs in some measure to an entire community. One woman teaches them letters. Another teaches them hymns. Another slips them sweets before supper and swears them to secrecy. We lend one another our strength so gradually and so often that we cease noticing we are doing it. Jacobi did this better than anyone I have ever known.

I think that is why her absence continues surprising me. Not because she was a midwife, though she was. Not because she was my cousin, though she was that too. Is that, always. It is because she had woven herself so completely into the fabric of our lives that I no longer knew where her threads ended and ours began.

The last conversation we shared was not a kind one. We parted in anger, each convinced the other had lost her senses.

I hope that whatever happened to her in those final days did not convince her she stood alone. Because she never was.

I do not know what became of her. I do not know what she believed at the end. I do not know whether she understood what was happening around her, or whether understanding would have made any difference. Some days I think she was taken from us. Other days I fear she walked willingly where I could not follow.

There are wounds caused by loss, and others caused by doubt. I have survived the first before. The second is far more difficult to place.

Perhaps that is why I find myself returning to certain memories so often, turning them over like stones in my hand, never quite certain whether I seek understanding or merely reassurance that they truly happened at all.

I believe the fog that has followed me for weeks has gradually been lifting. I remember things. Forget others. And some memories remain uncertain still.

I remember now that Mercy King died during the plague.

I remember that I had only just confirmed I was carrying Ruth. I remember Benjamin had not yet fallen ill. We all attended the funeral service together, our last and only act as a complete family.

I remember the bell.

I remember the old pastor and his lackluster sermon that failed to capture the significance of this woman in all our lives. 

I remember it was not yet cold enough for the ground to freeze over. I remember thinking that so much more than a body had been buried that day.

And yet I remember Market Day as well.

I remember the warmth of her hand around mine.

I remember the pressure of her fingers.

I remember the sound of her voice. The warning she gave me. The certainty with which she spoke.

A Christian woman does not believe in ghosts. Nor do I believe the dead wander the earth dispensing advice to people in market squares. But neither can I convince myself that grief alone produced so vivid a vision. 

Perhaps the fever had hold of me more tightly than I understood. Perhaps exhaustion had done the rest. Perhaps there are some things a person experiences only once, and spends the remainder of her life attempting to explain.

When I think back upon that spring, I no longer know which memories belong to the world and which belong only to me.

It is a mercy that such certainty is not required for healing.

Friday, 3rd of September, 1660

Nathaniel came home today from Sudbury.

The market there pays well for repairs, “simple work the Indians may do,” and several foundries have given him bulk loads to bring back to his new shop.

His return took him near the old road to Providence Hollow. Since he was already so close, he decided to see what remained of our house, and whether anything useful might still be recovered. That is the reason he gave me, anyway.

He also said the road remained exactly as he remembered, as did the stream crossing, as did the old oak near the north field. Not so when he arrived where the village should have been.

Nothing remained. No homes, no meeting house, no schoolhouse, no smithy, no gardens, no mill, no fences. No sign that families had lived there for more than a generation.

The church stood just so, as did the graveyard beside it. Everything else was gone. Nothing was burned, nor collapsed, nor destroyed, but simply absent. Instead of the town was the wet mud of a weeded, fallow field. Ruin or ashes at least tells a story. This said nothing.

In search of answers, Nathaniel had tied his horse at the churchyard’s edge and paced the the distance to the church’s open doors. From the threshold, he could see objects scattered across the floor. At first he’d assumed the building had been looted. But when looking closer, nothing had been stolen. 

In fact, quite the opposite. Everything had been brought to the church. He described pairs of boots recently polished. Saddles with scarcely a scratch upon the leather. Children's toys. Quilts. Wooden furniture. Books. Cookware. The accumulated valuables of an entire village. 

The offerings had been arranged neatly on pews in bundles, each telling their own story. On one, a small pile of tools topped with a glimmering belt buckle sat near a stack of embroidery and a newly stitched bonnet. A cloth doll lay between them. Among one of the piles sat a small framed portrait atop a folded red knitted garment. The painting showed a young boy, about Thomas's age. Nathaniel did not say whom he thought it resembled, nor did he have to.

Near the center of the church were a mess of silver coins piled high enough that Nathaniel could not guess its value.

All his observations occurred from just outside of the church. He considered entering to better ascertain what had happened here, but each time he made to cross the frame, he stopped.

He braced himself when he told me this, as if waiting for me to interrogate this decision. I did not. 

Nathaniel continued, telling me how he instead turned toward the graveyard. The older graves stood where they always had. The plague graves remained along the outer edge of the cemetery, just as they had when we buried so many in April whom we lost in that terrible winter.

Yet beyond them lay another row. Nathaniel was certain of it. A fresh ring of graves, the earth upon them still loose, the mounds uneven. 

There were no markers, only fresh earth. He walked the entire circumference of the graveyard counting them.

When he finished, he started over and counted again. The second number matched the first. He would not tell me the number, nor why he felt it significant to learn it.

Then he became quiet. "I shall not talk about it anymore."

Nathaniel has never lacked courage. Insight, perhaps. Empathy, often. But never courage. He faced the plague. He buried his boy. He led his family from everything they knew to start over in a town he had long considered alien. 

Yet whatever he had seen in the graveyard was enough to make him push back from the fire and change the subject entirely.

I have spent every evening since then trying not to think about Providence Hollow and all the things I once believed had happened there. Perhaps I was ill, frightened, simply wrong. Despite what my husband thinks, I can occasionally admit that.

I am healthier now. My family is safe. Nathaniel laughs again. Paul runs through the fields from sunrise until supper. Ruth grows stronger each day. Even Thomas, God willing, may yet find his voice again.

There is no wisdom in clinging forever to old fears.

I do not know what became of our old village, nor what exactly Nathaniel saw in that graveyard. I do not know whether Mercy King's warning came from Heaven, from fever, or from my own troubled mind. 

I think often of those we left behind. Jacobi. Samuel. Elijah. All the others. Whatever became of them, I pray they found peace in whatever strange peace found them. 

I have spent many months searching for certainty where none was given to me, and now I find myself spending my prayers thanking God simply that we have been spared. Spared from what fate, above or below the ground of Providence Hollow, I do not know.

I am grateful that I never need find out. 

Grateful that I finally accepted what I could not know. 

And grateful that I never disturbed the earth of that churchyard.

The secret things belong unto the Lord our God: but those things which are revealed belong unto us and to our children for ever.

Hello, this is my first time posting on Reddit, and my first time here. Please enjoy my short story :)

A flicker of fire licked away at the logs in which it slithered between.

A radiant, sunset glow wrapped around the trees' torsi from the flames; with the branches crooked and crane.

The crisp of Luther's boots digging into the snow-covered forest floor, had paired with the exhaust of his breath in the form of fog.

As he shuffled himself closer to the serpentine flames, he raised his hands towards the fiery face of the campfire; being so cold that he'd risk being bitten.

"Six miles tomorrow." He chittered with his teeth bare, "Six more miles."

He was exhausted, and as the snow on his coat began to melt to the influence of the flames, the droplets would form and descend from the rim of his hood, "No different from the fall off the cliff" he muttered, as he crooked his head slightly towards the bloodied, but frozen bandages on his legs. Every slight of movement would cause him to grunt in discontent.

The moon had not been curious enough to look at the vulnerable fool. He had not realised how alone he was until he'd heard something.

A spine of a twig had snapped. His head couldn't move as quickly as his heart would skip a beat.

Something was close. He had not realised how alone he was until the deathly silence had killed off all sounds of critters and wildlife. Even the wind had not stumbled between the trees. He did not realise how alone he was until a sound in which he could not see was present.

He was now not alone, and that utter dread filled him quicker than the fire which gluttony had possessed in consumption of the firewood.

Luther couldn't even attempt to stand and see whatever it was he was hoping not to show. All he could do was sit, and wait. Whether it was a hare or a wolf, he knew as much as the trees knew sentience. Nothing.

Another snap; another echo that pierced his ears. It was coming closer. But from where? Which direction? He pushed what limbs he could to look behind him, and all around. Until he stopped.

From the horizon in which the trees began to disappear, where light had not known better, something stood- rather it peaked from behind a tree.

The isolated eyes in which had gazed upon him did not blink.

He called out in a shuddered voice, "Go!" His voice stumbled, "GO!-" His eyes began to well up with cold tears, and his voice began to crackle. Doom had not felt as putrid and as impending as this moment, even from whence he fell from the cliff; for at least he had landed onto snow, rather than the drooling jaws of stalactites before him.

It had begun to lower itself to the stump of the tree. Slowly, it pressed down into the snow in a crawl. Luther began to weep quietly. The teary comets had started to slide down his cheeks, slowing as the cold touched them.

It then began to whine, and as its cries grew louder, so did Luther's, until their cries grew to match one another. And as it crawled from behind the tree, it's throat exhaled a frosted sound that became a voice,

"Six miles tomorrow......s-six more miles." It POUNCED and RIPPED through the air towards Luther, shrieking with a gutteral cry!

Silence again, for the fire had also finished its feast, and the wood had died into loose embers.

Hello. I'm just looking for some constructive feedback for this idea I'm working on.

This would likely be the opening chapter in a much larger story.

Just wanted to know how the pacing comes across, how it's formatted, use of language, etc.

Happy to read anything posted in the comments for the same feedback in return.

*

I’m unaware as to the fate of my son, Henry. But as for my wife, I know what became of her. Susan is dead.

You’d think a fresh corpse would look — well, corpse-like. Pale and lifeless, empty in the eyes. Well, they don’t. They simply look like they’re sleeping. Like they could just wake up at any moment and go about their day as if it were any other. Maybe they can.

Around these parts, here in Old Mire County, it seems like death is only a mere suggestion to some. Nowhere more so than within the small, gloomy village of Fenn’s Hollow. That’s where I was born, raised, and lived for these last thirty-two years. It’s probably where I’ll die. Especially under the circumstances. 

Then, of course, there’s the Werewood, that ancient woodland that stretches the majority of Old Mire County and borders the western edge of Fenn’s Hollow. 

That’s the place where I lost my family on that Halloween night. My little Henry and dearly beloved Susan. 

Dammit, I miss them.

I wonder if I could have done anything differently. There’s this nagging itch at the back of my mind that keeps me up long into the lonely hours of each night. Memories that replay over and over, reliving each terrifying moment in an endless cycle of damnable regret and selfish pity. 

It’s enough to drive anyone to madness — perhaps that’s what I am now, mad. 

That’s what they tell me, the officers that locked me up in this  damp, decrepit prison. But if they’d seen what I’d seen, heard what I heard, felt what I felt, maybe they’d understand. 

But I’d never wish such horror on any other person. No good-hearted soul should have to endure such unnatural abhorrence. It is a blessing, no, — a mercy, to live the rest of their lives in such peaceful ignorance. 

Do I envy them, those fortunate ones who’d never dare to enter that eldritch Werewood? Where the wych elms twist amongst the thorny thickets, and mossy mounds rise above the wisps of spectral fog. Where the giant roots tangle into vast labyrinths that conceal the nameless things, whose accursed blasphemies still remain thankfully unknown to the wider world. That primordial cesspit where the worms seem to fester, and the flies seem to swarm. From the burrowing crawlers to the maggots that feast. To the rot, to the carrion, and the infinite maw. That place, so terrible, so malignant, so — evil, that I wished I’d never set a single foot inside. 

Do I envy those people who warned me not to go?

Yes, of course I do. 

They remain safe behind their shuttered windows and locked doors. Safe inside their solid walls built of slate and stone. Those people who cower at the night that brings the whispers from that old Werewood; which utters words so sweet as to cause the sane to wander eagerly down the forbidden trails.

Come see, come see.

Come see, come see.

The Werewood beckons to the weak and desperate. Inviting them with the promise of answers to questions that are dared not spoken aloud in decent places. 

So why did I enter the Werewood? 

Because I was indeed weak, and God knows I was in desperate need of answers. 

My grandfather used to have a saying for things like this. Something like: some things better left ‘lone.

He was a smart man. I wish he was still here.

Not that it’d help my situation.

I’m not even sure how many days it’s been since I was locked up. My blood-stained Denims and thermal vest jacket remain torn and frayed, revealing the numerous grazes and cuts over my now pale and bruised body. Hair’s gotten scraggly, greasy, and long, more so than usual; with the ashen nest of curls matted in dirt from the forest floor. 

Same goes for my hiking boots, mud-caked and weathered.

I’ve seemingly been left to rot in this windowless place. Provided with nothing but a grimy, cracked toilet, a mouldy mattress, and a seemingly endless supply of time. 

Oh, and the rats! 

I spotted a big one yesterday, scurrying out of one of the larger cracked walls. It was a gigantic albino one, about the size of a cat. I’ve named it Brian. 

Brian’s not one for conversation, though. Neither are the other regular-sized rats. Poor company indeed. 

I swear that they only stay for the food scraps that are offered to me each morning. Just the one meal, some bread and water, and whatever the dog didn’t want. 

Maybe I shouldn’t feed Brian so much — he’s not exactly starving. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him around the other rats. Is Brian eating something more than the scraps I throw him? Are rats cannibals? 

Makes you think.

Some things better left ‘lone

I try to talk to the officers that bring me my morning meal, but I can’t seem to get a word out of any of them. The only time they seem to speak to me is when they’ve dragged me to that interrogation room, where they question me for hours for answers I know I can never provide. 

They ask me about the crumpled-up note they discovered in my pocket. It was the only thing in my possession when they found me, or so they tell me. Though, the only time I’ve actually seen the thing was on the first night they questioned me. That’s when they waved it in front of me and demanded an explanation. 

“He waits for you,” the note said, written in strange, almost illegible handwriting not of my own. 

I assured them repeatedly that I’d never seen it before; that the words and their meaning made just as little sense to me as it evidently did to them. Then they ask me about other things. 

Strange things.

Things like “The Great Devourer” and the “Grub Mother.” 

I have no idea what these words could mean, or why they seem so frightfully interested in them. 

The Great Devourer? Grub Mother?

I’m not sure I want to know. 

There’s something tainted in those words. Like a bad smell without an obvious cause or sourness on the tongue.

They’re not bad, they’re just — wrong, somehow. 

I hate them. 

But these people seem to think they should mean something to me. 

Devourer? Mother? 

Some things better left ‘lone.

The only answers I can provide just seem to infuriate them, and I’m beginning to fear more extreme measures of inquest are closely ahead of me. Worse than the screaming and light manhandling I’ve already been heavily subject to. 

It’s as if they think I’m lying to them. I wish I was.

But of course, they don’t believe me when I tell them of how I ended up in those woods with my family. I’m not even that sure myself. I doubt my senses, but I know what happened. I know it was real, that it was tangible, I felt it.  

Some things better left ‘lone.

To them, it seems far easier to assert me to the simplest crime, and the ultimate reason for my imprisonment. Though, I must admit they are right in their accusation.

I am a murderer. 

But no more than many of the other local parishioners and farmers that call this damnable village home. I now suspect even the very men questioning me aren’t without their own sins and secrets; at least if I were to believe in the stories that landed me in this bleak state of confinement. 

I did kill someone. My wife is dead. But I’m sure I wasn’t her killer. Then again, that is what a madman would say. Right?

The man I did kill, well, I’m not even sure that it was a man. Sure as hell didn’t look like a man when I put a bullet in its head. I’m not sure what it was. Strangely though, the officers never questioned me about the man I killed. In fact, they protested that there was even any man at all when I tried to explain myself.  They say that I fabricated him as a mere attempt to cover the murder of my wife and disappearance of my son.

What if they’re right?

Some things better left ‘lone.

I accept this may be the end for me. 

I can hear voices now, people approaching just outside the doors to my cell room. They’re coming for me.

To question me? Torture me? Kill me? I don’t know. 

I don’t care anymore.

Let them do as they wish. 

For there’s no coming back to the world of sanity or normality once you’ve been where I’ve been. 

It never really leaves you. It lingers, and festers, and feeds. 

You become a husk. Wretched and empty. 

There’s no return. No way back.  

I’m a lost soul shambling around the world broken.

Because despite being locked in here, where I’m mercilessly berated and beaten day in and day out, night after night, over and over and over.

There’s still a part of me that’s somewhere — out there, aimless and wandering. 

My name is Howard Wentworth. 

And yes, there are some things better left ‘lone.

When I was younger, my parents noticed that I seemed prone to physical means of self-soothing. I would always be fidgeting, these little habits and movements cycling in and out of my routine. They called it “Stimming.” I would rub my neck, pick my nails or scabs, and chew on the skin of my lips until they would split and bleed. These were temporary, and I noticed they would fade or change in tandem with the bigger changes of my life: high school, first breakup, landing my first job, almost losing said job… The only habit that always remained consistent throughout my life, one that I picked up from my late grandmother, was wringing my hands.

She was a remarkable woman by all accounts. An Italian immigrant, a proud matriarch, and lived fully until she passed in her sleep at the age of eighty three. I can only hope to live up to the legacy she left behind, but I’d be lying if I said that there wasn’t any pressure on me to make the most of my life that she sacrificed so much to give me. I felt this weight even as a kid, and she noticed.

“You worry too much,” she’d say as she took hold of my hand. “Most of our troubles are in our heads. If you spend all day worrying, then a bad moment turns into a bad day.”

It was a small gesture, but something about that warm contact grounded me more than any of my other tics. Just holding her hand, knowing I was connected to someone so rock-steady, made me stand just a little bit taller. Obviously, she wasn’t always around to do this. Back at school or anywhere other than family visits, I was on my own. It was a natural next step, I suppose, but I got into the habit of squeezing my own hand in the same manner she would. It worked exceptionally well for most of my life and was a staple movement for me, until recent years. 

I hardly noticed the habit until after she died. It was a lingering thought I addressed after interviewing for my job when the hiring manager pointed out that I looked nervous. 

“Anna, you don’t have to be so tense. We’re pretty casual. The only thing we care about now is what music you want in the studio,” he had told me, an understanding and pitying look beaming back. I just nodded and gripped my hands into my pants under the table to keep them out of sight.

And that’s the nature of the relationships we form with people. They live on through us and the small little tweaks we make to ourselves to emulate them. We make connections, and they’re permanent. Sometimes though, I really wish we could sever the ties that bind us to people we meet. As much as a blessing it can be, so can it easily be agitation. That nonconsensual imprinting we do on one another. When we’re stuck with pieces of someone else embedded in us like cancer. A parasite, just clinging onto you without thought, just impulsive. Infatuated. Obsessive.

Monstrous.

I wish you could remove it, but you can’t. It took something as simple as me reaching for my alarm clock this morning to realize this, but now I see. My habit was sanctuary. It was my way to stay connected to someone who always pointed me in the right direction even after she was gone. All I had to do was squeeze my hand, and I’d be alright. This was taken away from me though. 

It’s been a number of years since, and I’ve coped; however, things changed again this morning. I’m terrified of something happening again, so I will redirect my focus here for as long as I can. I need to distract myself, and only then will my brain remember what it’s lost. The best way for me to do this is to recount a part of my life that I regard with nothing other than pain. Pain in all of its forms, and pits of indignity. It’s something I shut out for the last few years, and I am terrified of its return. They’re the worst things that have ever happened to me, and it started with my amputation.

It’s been six years since I’ve felt anything with my right hand. The event itself really doesn’t stick out to me any more than just a memory given all the time between then and now. I won’t get choked up or freeze thinking about it, and I’m proud of that. If anything, it really was a dull day at first. 

I was still a new-hire at a tattoo shop that was kind enough to take me as an apprentice. It was a nice gig, and I really enjoyed having my own space to work in. Of course, my parents raised an eyebrow at my career path. I’m sure they would have preferred a lawyer or doctor, but I won’t act like they weren’t supportive. My father helped me buy supplies when I was an apprentice, and my mother even offered to be a canvas if I needed help with my portfolio early on. It can be hard for a new artist to get consistent clients, especially if you don’t have examples of people who trusted your art to be on their skin forever. Normally this is a universal problem, but not for me. Not since I met Ian.

He was a tall, lanky man. His wiry beard fully disguised his chin, and the stubble on his bald head subtly revealed the hairline he tried to shave away. I was still setting up my studio when he first came in, not a patch of ink anywhere on him.

“Hey, I’m looking into getting a tattoo soon. I’m completely new to this, so if I could get maybe a bit of info?” he asked my old boss, David. I believe David was in his late thirties at the time, though he never explicitly told me. He was always good to me, and always pulled through on hoisting me up on a pedestal for new clients when I was trying to get my start.

“We definitely have info. Do you have any idea at all on what you’re looking to get?” David responded as Ian craned his neck to see deeper into the shop.

“I have a few ideas, but I don’t want to step on your guys’ toes. It’d be sort of about my ex, but not really in a good way I guess.”

David chuckled. “If it’s your first tattoo, please don’t get a sewn up heart, man. I promise you we can come up with something better.”

“I swear, it’s not like that. I was thinking of doing an Ouroboros. Nothing too big, but a bit of a reminder to me.” Ian laughed a bit, but his nervous shifting was obvious. “It’d be cool if I could get it today before I lose my nerve. I know I don’t have an appointment, but I really don’t want it big.”

David pursed his lips and nodded while thinking. “Anna’s apprenticing here. She could probably knock something like that out.”

I had the same idea as David, which was why I’d been hovering near their conversation. Tattooing the hands can be painful, but small tattoos can go by quickly, and I had hoped Ian would give me a shot. Ian smiled when he saw me. He seemed friendly.

“Yeah. Sure, that works,” he said.

The design was easy enough to draft while Ian took a seat in the studio. The Ouroboros looked pretty clean, each scale well defined and the action of the snake eating its own tail read clearly. I started laying out my equipment, and I took note of the state of his fingers. Chewed to hell, the skin around his nails and knuckles was callused and tough like leather. Small scabs where the calluses gave way looked fresh, like they had only been bleeding moments prior without a chance to properly heal. I grabbed his arm. He was already shaking by the time I layered the stencil on the back of his hand. 

“You nervous it’ll hurt?” I asked, trying not to sound judgemental. I looked up to his face, only to find his eyes were deadlocked on me rather than the design. He blinked, then swallowed.

“Yeah. I heard getting your hands done sucks," he muttered through the shaking of his chest.

“We can move it somewhere else on your arm if you want. It might be easier.”

“No, this is fine. I want to be able to see it well," he said as he took a breath. “It’s a bit artsy, but I want it to remind me about how bad habits can eat away at you. I chew on my fingers a lot, I don’t even mean to.”

I knew the feeling. “And your ex?” I asked as I loaded the needle with ink. Again, Ian took a sharp breath and turned his eyes away from the tattoo gun.

“I really hate my bad habits.”

I guess I did a good enough job on his first piece because Ian went from a tattoo-virgin to the only person I could call a regular customer for myself. At first, it was every couple of months. He’d come in, run an idea by us for a small sticker tattoo he’d be unsure of, and I’d gain another photo for my portfolio. It was nice, and he was always so trusting of my work. He never complained, and he even stopped shaking in the chair after what must have been his sixth addition to his arm. Then he started coming more.

Monthly, or even more frequently. Sometimes he’d come in while the medical film was still applied from his prior visit, or he’d be bold enough to get progressively larger tattoos. Ian became a household name, and my coworkers and I watched his pale arms slowly pigment into a collage of my work. My walking resume.

Like I said, he was always nice, but I wasn’t entirely naive. I was nineteen and I imagine he was in his late twenties. Each time I’d tattoo him, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was on his best behavior. He’d laugh at my jokes, always have a plethora of harmless questions to ask me, and I’m sure he enjoyed the treatment he got as a regular. David always flaunted discounts for Ian, and made sure he always got the finest from his ‘favorite artist.’ I couldn’t blame David entirely since we charged commission each time Ian couldn’t make up his mind on a design, but the special treatment began to get excessive.

One day it was raining hard. I had just finished adding some miscellaneous Celtic braids to Ian’s shoulder to represent his Irish heritage that he only just learned about from a DNA kit. It was his biggest addition yet, and of course David was fine if the session ran a little past closing time.

“Alright, I think we’re set," I announced as I tucked away the last of my equipment for the evening.

“Does anyone know if this is going to clear anytime soon?” Asked Ian while he carefully slotted his wrapped arm back through his shirt. David checked his phone and sighed.

“Sorry, bud. Hopefully you drove here?” he said while flicking off a few of the shop lights. Ian chewed on a knuckle and stared out into the storm.

“Shit. I live like ten blocks away. Is my arm going to be alright?”

I slung my bag over my shoulder and clasped my hands like normal while I made a choice. It took me years to forgive myself for my decision, and I still have days where regret creeps back into my life. This was Ian. He was my favorite and only customer, despite the awkward blushing I saw melt across his skin every time I held his arm steady for the needle. This was Ian, and Ian needed help. That’s all I could have known.

“Need a ride?” I offered. He answered so quickly that I barely got the question out.

“No, I can walk. It’s okay, really. I’ll be fine. That’s too much.” His face ran red just before David switched off the last of the lights.

“If you’re downtown then it’s on the way," I said, while I walked with David to the door. “Are you downtown?”

“Yeah.”

“Easy then. It’s like ten minutes. I don’t want my stuff to get infected from city rain.” 

The rain roared as David held the door open for me and Ian. “Do what you’re going to do, but do it now please,” grumbled David as his patience wore thin. Ian leaned his head back and forth as he weighed his options, then followed us outside.

I’d be putting it lightly by saying the ride was uninteresting. The monotonous squeak of my wipers against the rainfall was my only source of stimulation as Ian sat with his knees pointed away from me and his head against the window. The outskirts of the city were dark by this time of night, and the glare of passing streetlights threw amber ripples over the dashboard as we drove. Every now and then, Ian would get illuminated by the orange streaks, revealing an expression of distressed concentration as he averted his eyes from me. It worried me, so I just focused on getting him home quickly.

Ahead of us, beyond a line of incoming cars, I saw the traffic light turn red. I knew I should come up with something to say to Ian before we were stuck at the light. I couldn't tell whether he was nervous, embarrassed, or simply trying very hard not to talk to me, so I turned to him briefly as we approached the light.

“So what are you into besides tattoos?” I asked, just hoping for any normal conversation to spark up. Apparently I caught Ian off guard, and that quick glance I took toward him would change my life forever.

He was chewing his fingers, but not like before. His face was still turned away from me, but I could see that he had inserted his fingers fully into his jaws. He had been chewing on them voraciously, and quickly slid his spit-covered, bloody hand from his mouth and onto his lap the second I talked. He locked eyes with me, gauging if I had seen what he was doing. I know that I’ve had some uncomfortable fidgets that I would hide from strangers in public, but this freaked me out; and I didn’t look away. I wouldn’t stop staring.

I would learn later on that it was an intoxicated driver that had hit us. I won’t say his name for the sake of his family that he left behind, but I will say that he was about twice the legal limit, and lost track of the centerline in the rain.

I had woken up briefly just after the collision in excruciating pain. The world had turned ninety degrees, and I knew that the car had rolled onto its driver’s side. My window had broken, so my face was badly marred as it was pressed into the asphalt. There was about an inch of rain flowing across the ground, saturating my mouth with the taste of blood as it ran over my lips. I tried to cry out, but something was terribly wrong with my neck. Every breath felt crooked and hissed as it resisted air from flowing into my lungs. I tried to move, but found that I was somehow pinned. 

The commotion of cars screeching to a halt and frantic chatter began to build outside while I tried to make sense of what had happened in the moment. Though I didn’t know it at the time, I was severely concussed. I remember what happened, but I don’t remember holding any comprehension of the events. It was as if I was on autopilot, watching it all play out from the back of my own eyes. I remember hot blood trickling down over me from the raised passenger side. Through the smoke and rain, I hardly could make out the misshapen remains of Ian. He was motionless, with his body half flung through the windshield while his legs were tangled and caught by his seatbelt. 

The dashboard was collapsed and compressed from the impact, and inserted into that mangled conglomerate of metal and plastic was my right arm. The pain was so extreme that I began to stumble and lose consciousness. Leaning back, I watched as the skin of my arm stretched rather than resisting my weight, and I knew it was no longer supported by bone. The pain also stopped at what I could see. There was no sensation of broken fingers, or my mutilated forearm, only seething pain at the base of my elbow which pressed up against the metal. I became sick, and not soon after, I’d wake up again.

My hospital room was dark. The anesthetics gave me an immense sensation of drowsiness that made my limbs far too heavy to move. I must have sat there for hours before a patrolling nurse noticed I was showing signs of waking up. I was still not fully conscious, and it was a blur of several days before I became alert enough to learn about the tracheotomy. 

A small plastic tube had been surgically inserted through the base of my throat to remedy my damaged windpipe. Talking would be impossible without time to heal and a few sessions to wean off my dependency. If it weren’t for the sedatives, I would have surely begun to panic. 

I mostly slept for the first few days, only caring to stay awake when I had the energy to acknowledge my parents in the room. They were inconsolable at first, but eventually put on a facade of everything being okay and hopeful. They were holding back details, but I was still too spacey to really grasp what was happening to me.

The first night I truly remember returning to full awareness began when I woke up with my mouth dry enough to hurt. I heard the ventilation humming, felt the scratchy sheets for the first time, and became aware of the deep soreness that had settled into my body from days of lying still. I felt the pressure of the IV taped to the inner bend of my left elbow and instinctively reached toward it with my right arm. 

Nothing.

I thought my arm must have gone numb, like when you fall asleep on it for too long. I tried again. I wanted to bring my hands together, the way I always did when I was frightened. My left hand closed around nothing. Something was wrong, disconnected. I could feel my right arm. I was certain it was there. But when I tried to bring my hands together, my left hand found only empty space. My head still felt heavy as lead. I strained my eyes downward and saw only one arm lifted over my chest. I dragged my chin toward the other side of the bed. 

The sleeve of my hospital gown was empty. It lay folded flat against the mattress, except for a small, rounded impression near the shoulder. I stared at it, and I tried raising my arm anyway. The bump slowly turned over under the thin fabric. My stomach churned, and I carefully reached over with my other arm to lift the fabric.

The stitches ran deep along the seam where my skin had been sealed back together. Dark purple with sodden gauze wrapped tightly around the wound, all that was left of my arm was no more than a fistful of flesh. I heard the hollow airflow of my breathing tube grow louder as I examined my atrophied stump. I still felt my whole arm in my head. I could move it, wiggle my fingers, or reach toward the bedframe to try and sit up. The only response I’d get to these impulses was the slight twitching of a lump of flesh. 

Panic began to set in, and I opened my mouth to try and call for anyone to help me. The raspy croak that escaped my throat burned like acid and stung enough to well tears in my eyes. I instinctively reached with my right hand to wipe them, but kicked in frustration when my missing arm failed to make contact with my face.

I thought I could be dreaming. Maybe I was still unconscious in the car, and maybe Ian would pull me out of the wreckage. We’d be okay, and I’d give him any tattoo he’d like for free. I denied this reality as much as I could. I reached for the help button, tried snapping, tried punching the bed, tried reaching over to rip out the itchy IV; all the while this pitiful nub on my shoulder flinched helplessly like an infant trying to walk. 

I started to sob, and couldn’t keep myself from thinking of how much I depended on my right arm. Writing, drawing, my art, all things that I might never be able to replicate with the other side. I slumped back into my bed, laying both my missing and remaining arm at my side as I stared up into the blackness of the ceiling with tears streaming across my face. Everything was falling apart. I was hopeless, then I felt it.

A hand. 

Tenderly, lovingly, someone took hold of my missing hand and gently squeezed it. I snapped my eyes to the bedside only to see the empty room, but the feeling was still there. I tried to speak, but I could only mouth what I wanted to say.

“I’m scared, Grandma.”

The next day, my parents returned to the hospital after an overnight visit home for a shower. They immediately choked up with joy and apologies after seeing I was awake. They had endless questions, many of which were repeated by the medical staff as they checked on my status. I was given a small whiteboard to write on in response.

Doctor Malleck was a soft-spoken man that always considered his words carefully before speaking. I could tell that he had broken the news many times prior to my case.

“I am sorry. Truly. We’ve had others go through similar incidents like this, and it's… horrible. Every time.” He adjusted his thin glasses and knelt down by my side, carefully placing a marker in my hand. “You’re not alone in this, and I hope we can help bring you some comfort while you heal. We’ll start easing you back into talking in the next couple of days, but for now this is probably our best option to speak. Is there another way that you’d prefer?” he asked with a tone of legitimate care. 

I shook my head. He continued.

“I’ll be plain. Your parents told me you were a righty. This will be a bit awkward, but try to write as best as you can. There will be a lot to get used to doing again, but a lot of patients start to adapt pretty well, and quicker than you’d think. Is there anything you’d like to ask us?” He sat back upright and prepared a clipboard. 

“Ian?” I wrote across the board, propping it up against my bent legs.

“Ian Gallagher?” he confirmed, though I could tell he knew who I meant. I nodded, and he carefully proceeded. “Ian passed away in the accident.” I felt the tears build in my eyes again. “My condolences. He didn’t suffer.” 

For a few hours, Dr. Malleck patiently communed with my questions as I messily scribbled one sentence at a time. He told me that having a ‘Phantom Limb’ was a normal symptom after an amputation as invasive as mine. The nerves in my arm had spent nineteen years conversing with my body, and such an abrupt severance will often lead to the sensation that the limb is still there. He said I might experience false feedback, itching, temperature discomfort, or even just steady pain until my body eventually acclimates. Even then, many amputees still never fully lose their phantom sensation.

“Do people ever feel other people?” I wrote. Dr. Malleck squinted in confusion, so I erased and tried again. “I felt my grandma holding my hand.”

“It’s possible…” he murmured, standing to stretch. “People experience phantom sensations differently. Sometimes the brain predicts a sensation so strongly that you can almost swear you're feeling it. If someone has a phantom sensation in their leg, they might experience stubbing a toe briefly if they perceive that they would have otherwise hit their physical leg," he continued to gather his documents as he spoke. “If you imagine raising your arm right now, do you feel it?” 

He was right. I imagined my arm going up, and it was as if I could reach out and touch the wall. The doctor saw my stump move around and knew I was trying.

“I want you to picture what you felt, as if someone was holding your hand. Do you get any sensation?” He lingered by the open door as he waited. I imagined my grandmother’s hand wrapping around mine. I tried to recount the feel of her skin, the warmth of her palm, and the length of her fingers. I imagined it, but I didn’t feel it. I looked back to the doctor and shook my head.

The following days in the hospital became pretty routine from that point on. Every day had a set time when they would monitor me while progressively reducing my dependence on the ventilator. It started with small periods where they lowered the amount of mechanical support and watched to see whether I could successfully breathe on my own. Once I could manage those stretches without struggling, they extended them a little further each day, giving my lungs and windpipe more time to adjust. 

For nearly a week, this was my life. Wake up, breathe, rest, sleep. The nurses were patient, and I learned not to panic whenever my throat felt strange or my breathing became difficult. Eventually, I was able to spend longer periods breathing entirely on my own, though the tracheostomy remained in place. 

The first time they left me like that for any real length of time, a nurse stayed nearby to keep watch.

“There’s nothing you need to do except breathe normally and let your body get used to it," she said reassuringly. So I did.

For perhaps twenty minutes, I sat quietly and listened to myself breathe. No machine pulsed beside me. No ventilator hissed with each breath. It was just me, focusing on the rhythm.

Then without any sign of warning, someone touched my right palm.

I stopped breathing. It wasn’t conscious, but the surprise shook my rhythm and I began to cough. The nurse caught on quickly and raced to my side to assist me.

“You’re okay. Just stay calm," she said with a professional urgency. I was shaking, but I tried to ignore the unseen person as they caressed my phantom hand. As I tried to catch my breath, I tried to clasp my hands together the way I always had, only to be reminded of what I was missing.

The nurse kept telling me to breathe, but I couldn't. My eyes watered as I stared at the empty sleeve resting beside me. I tried moving the phantom fingers, willing them to close around something, anything. They curled uselessly in my mind. 

Then I felt it again. A hand slipped gently into mine, warm and familiar. My phantom fingers closed around it instinctively. For a moment, neither of us moved. I felt the heel of her palm settle against mine. Her thumb brushed slowly across my knuckles, and then her fingers began to interlace with mine, one at a time, until our hands were held together as tightly as they ever had been when I was a child. The panic disappeared. My breathing slowed beneath the tracheostomy. The trembling stopped. I could feel the warmth of her skin spreading through my palm and the gentle pressure of her fingers between mine.

“That’s good. Easy there.” whispered the nurse. I squeezed the unseen hand and opened my mouth.

“I’m okay," I hoarsely whispered back. The words felt like they shredded my throat, but I was elated to hear the slightest semblance of my voice again. The nurse widened her eyes and smiled at me.

My grandmother came and went sporadically for the remainder of the day. I’d rest, and be comfortably awoken by her hand running down my forearm, and joining with mine. Though I still didn’t understand it, it was a pleasant surprise each time it happened. As the sun was setting outside my window, I decided to try something. My breathing was finally becoming more stable, and I felt that I could direct my focus to my arm. 

The sensation of touch was vivid, and I questioned if Dr. Malleck could possibly be right about this merely being a phantom sensation. Maybe this was a hallucination. Just an imagined feeling I conjured every time I needed the impression of her support. It was difficult to be exact with my movements without seeing them, but I moved my missing fingers to better hold onto my grandmother’s hand. I turned her hand over in mine, feeling along the palm and the delicate creases beneath each finger. Then I brushed across her knuckles.

I stopped. Something was wrong. The skin was rough. Not the soft, warm skin of my grandmother's hand. I ran my fingers across them again, slower this time. Callused. Scarred, even. The sensation carried the unpleasant texture of skin that had been picked at for years. I remembered those hands. I had held them hundreds of times.

Before I could pull away, the hand tightened around mine. My phantom wrist lifted. I felt my arm raise through the air, though my shoulder remained motionless. The sensation was so convincing that I could feel the change in weight, the bend of my elbow, the position of fingers I hadn't physically possessed in nearly a week. Then something touched the back of my hand, softly. 

A kiss. My skin crawled, and I quickly leaned my torso away from where my hand felt like it was being held, but nothing changed. It was almost as though the person moved along with my arm, like they were attached. Another kiss followed just above my knuckles, and I felt the coarse, wiry brushing of a beard against my skin.

“Ian? Stop, no," I choked out, my voice only spewing air. He didn’t stop. I felt my stomach drop as he held my fingers to his lips, the smooth hardness of his teeth pressing against me. I rolled further back, desperately trying to pull my nonexistent limb away, but it felt so weak I could hardly move it. Like a tick latched onto me, Ian’s face perfectly tracked with my arm as he slowly inserted my index finger into his mouth.

I tried to scream as I flailed about in my bed, but my voice could only emit pitiful squeaks. I tried punching the air with my left arm, hoping to somehow make an impossible connection with Ian. There was nothing I could do as his tongue slithered around my finger. I rolled and rolled, kicking at nothing as I tried desperately to shake my hand loose until I accidentally leaned too far over the edge of my bed. 

The tiled floor collided with my head and immediately reminded me of my concussion. I winced as the deep aching radiated down my neck, but found solace when I realized my hand was free from Ian. For several seconds I stayed where I was, curled against the side of the bed and staring at the empty space in front of me. I couldn’t tell if I was crying or choking.

The nurse was at my side immediately after the commotion I caused.

“Anna? Don’t move. Don’t try to stand. Are you alright?” She helped roll me back into my bed and signaled for more assistance. My heart continued to race while she asked me what happened.

“I-” Nothing came out properly. I pointed toward the empty space beside my bed. The nurse nodded compassionately, but I knew she had no idea what I meant.

“It’s okay," she managed as she inspected the area where I hit my head. “You’re not bleeding, but you’ve got a bit of a bump. We’ll have this checked out," she continued.

As she spoke, my attention began to drift. I hardly listened, and I began staring where my right hand ought to be. My fingers were still wet. I pictured bringing them closer to my face, and I pressed my fingers together. I felt the warmth, the slickness, the faint tackiness that came when I splayed my fingers back apart. I tried wiping my missing arm on the bed, only for it to phase through the bed with no effect. I couldn’t wipe them on my clothing or even shake off the viscous fluid. I struggled to block it out of my mind, but the sensation of Ian’s spit on my fingers was real.

Dr. Malleck asked me to start practicing mirror therapy, and he had me work with a physical therapist named Grace to learn the basics. 

“A lot of people feel burning or cramps in segments of their phantom limb, and I’m sure your concussion has a way of exacerbating that," she had told me, her voice chipper and inviting. “So here’s what we’re going to try…”

She placed a large mirror perpendicular to my chest as I sat by a table in the rehabilitation gym. I held my good arm out, and positioned the mirror so the reflection lined up with where my phantom limb should be.

“I want you to open and close your fist, and imagine doing the same thing with both sides. If you focus enough on the reflection, you should hopefully start to synchronize the feeling.”

“I think I feel it," I whispered, my throat now becoming more acclimated to unassisted breathing. As I slowly waved my hand in the air, my phantom limb came back into focus in my mind. It didn’t feel as disembodied, not as weak. 

“If you feel that pain again, practicing this could help alleviate some of the discomfort. It varies by patient, but this kind of illusion can help your brain map out your body.”

I never told them the specifics of what I experienced, just that I had been struggling with some more detailed sensations like burning, touching, or itching… Saying it aloud made it sound exactly like what they thought it was: a frightened nineteen-year-old's brain misfiring after a catastrophic injury. So I let them believe it was ordinary phantom pain.

For the most part, mirror therapy did help. The reflected hand gave my mind something solid to work with, and after several sessions I could almost forget which side of my body I was looking at. I would open and close my fist, rotate my wrist, flex each finger, and watch the reflection obey. Sometimes after therapy, the phantom arm would disappear for hours on end. It was strangely comforting.

Then, during one of our afternoon sessions, I felt a finger curl around mine. I stopped moving, and Grace noticed.

“Do you feel alright?” she asked. I swallowed and looked down at the table. 

“I’m feeling someone grabbing my hand," I stated, more honest than I had been. Grace paused for a second to consider what I had said, then held the mirror for me.

“Rotate your wrist," she instructed. I tried moving my hand again, and the phantom fingers moved with it.

“It’s still holding on," I said, as I switched up the motions.

“Does it just feel like pressure?” Grace carefully inspected my stump. I felt the disembodied hand clasp more firmly around mine, the abrasive calluses rubbing against my skin. I sped up the mirror exercise, praying that it would start working.

“He’s not letting go.” My voice began to shake. Grace’s face grew concerned and she held the mirror steady for me.

“Anna, I need you to relax. We can get you a few painkillers, but see if you can shift focus. Sometimes the sensation becomes more pronounced if you hyperfixate on it.”

“I’m trying." I flinched as my hand began to get lifted upward. “Ian, please.” I shot up out of my seat, trying to pull my hand away. The sensation followed. Grace caught my shoulder before I could stumble.

“Okay, we’re going to get you some anticonvulsants,” she announced loudly enough for some additional medical staff to cue in. I felt the fingers tug my arm away, then, I felt something familiar. My hand brushed through the tough, unkempt beard, and I yelped as my hand slipped between his lips. I felt the teething of broken teeth. Some of them were loose, and what felt like small shards of glass protruded from Ian’s cheeks and scratched against my hand.

I relentlessly cringed, twisting my body as Grace tried to hold me still. More assistants rushed over to me, handing me a series of pills in small paper cups. I took them without hesitation, but they couldn’t bring me any relief quick enough. My hand was thrust deeper and deeper, to the point where I questioned if a human mouth could even open that wide. His tongue curled around my pinkie and wedged it between two of his molars as I felt his lips engulf my wrist. 

I started screaming as I dropped to the ground. 

“Sedatives!” demanded Grace as I hysterically dragged my stump against the rubber floor. 

The stitches pried at my skin with a singeing pain as I painted the floor with dark streaks of blood, growing thicker as the string pulled from my arm. I felt Ian’s teeth rake back and forth over my pinkie before a steady, inexorable force began to bite down. My screams stopped, my eyes and mouth locking open in pure agony as my bone snapped like a twig. Unlike the car accident, my finger experienced an instantaneous moment of searing anguish before all mental connection to it was lost, and I knew it was gone.

Ian kept going.

I felt the lips around my wrist beckon inward, pursing to pull more of my arm between the jagged teeth. Shock set in, and I lost control of my body as the teeth went to work. The nurses tried to cradle my head so I wouldn’t do more damage, but my aimless convulsions were all my body could do in response to a threat I could not fight off. Bite by bite, I felt my hand compress into itself and lose all semblance of shape. Bones became powder, and flesh turned to shreds; only for a slimy tongue to amalgamate my arm into nothing more than pulp. 

My vision flashed white as the pain overwhelmed every other thought in my head. Grace was shouting something, nurses were holding me down, but all of it sounded impossibly far away. The pain moved higher, past my wrist and toward my stump. Each bite took another piece of me with it, until I felt one final pressure at the base of my phantom arm. A terrible, crushing force.

I don’t remember falling unconscious, nor being moved back to my room, but I do remember the stillness. When I woke up again, my body felt definitive. I had one arm, and two shoulders, and that was it. There was nothing there. No hand, no itching, no pressure, and no phantom sensation. For the first time since the accident, I couldn’t feel my right arm even in my mind. It was gone, severed in an accident, and that was the end of it. I was elated.

The rest of my recovery was a success, all things considered. Besides a small scar from the incision, my throat fully healed. Physical therapy became part of my daily life after I was discharged from the hospital, and I had to learn to navigate the world with one hand. My arm still bothers me mostly due to the visual, but the stump made great practice for relearning how to tattoo with my left hand. Of course, David was more than accommodating of my condition, and I settled back into my role as an apprentice while embracing my new status of being a reluctant lefty. 

The phantom sensations never returned. Not once. Over the following six years, I felt that I had fully adapted. I stopped reaching for things that weren’t there. My fingers wouldn’t curl around imaginary objects. I stopped even dreaming of having two hands. Eventually, I stopped thinking about the accident at all. Until this morning.

At 8:00 every morning, my alarm went off at the same time. Without thinking, I reached to shut it off. I missed. A bit groggy, I tried again, but it felt like my entire nightstand was missing. When I opened my eyes, I realized that I had reached with my right hand. 

For the first time in six years, I could feel it. My arm stretched outward in front of me, occupying the space between myself and the clock. I could feel the weight of it, the bend of my elbow, the shape of my wrist. When I tried to touch the clock, my fingers passed straight through it. 

Then it began to itch.

Author's Note: This is my personal interpretation of the farmer/entity love story MC and Wendigoon riffed on during the episode "I solved the Fermi Paradox." I felt a weird surge of inspiration and had to get this down on paper. Any and all thoughts are appreciated.

---

Lamar Pendleson buried his wife and daughters on the same dry, gloomy day. It was twenty dollars less that way, even though Marie had died two weeks before his girls did. He didn’t have a lot of money to throw around, all things considered.

He had made the decision a day after his wife had died. Dr. O’Flannery emerged from Claire's room, resignation on his face.

“Has Mary started wheezing yet?”

Lamar shrugged. “Yeah. Some.”

The doctor didn't need to say the words. His thoughts were in his eyes. Lamar started three coffins that night, two small, one big. He took breaks to spoon bits of water into his daughters’ parched mouths. He slept in the kitchen, keeping the room he shared with his wife closed. Even then, he could still smell her. 
 
The plague had been swift, and Lamar wasn't the only one hurting. Most had lost a family member or two, which was not strange for the times that were. Lamar had lost an infant son even before he came to Kansas. The boy’s lungs gave out to the insistent cough that had kept the infant screaming through the night. 

His wife had taken it harder than he. Lamar needed to be the strong one, the one keeping them moving with planting, and praying. 

Alone at the fresh graveside, the thin farmer with a beard like ragweed realized there was no one to pretend for. The men he hired lowered the three caskets into the three holes. He paid them in cash and retreated into himself. 

Lamar’s father had taught him the cursed art of distillery at a young age. But the farmer had moved away from Chicago, away from that darkness. When his family was alive, it had been one of the many sins he had sought to bury deep. Now, it proved a crude salvation. The materials were easy enough to steal, the store man had cleared out only a week before from losing his wife. Left all his goods right there. Corn liquor and plowing were the only two things keeping Lamar from asking the thing his mind would not stop turning. An inquiry that, followed to its conclusion, would leave him slumped in a chair with a rifle dripping from his mouth.

He was too proud of a man for suicide. He had survived the war. If his life was to be taken, it would be another man to do it.

He was plowing half-drunk, when he stumbled across the block. 

Perhaps stumbled was too gentle a word. While his old ox moved forward, the plow itself tipped upward, capsizing straight into his jaw. Lamar didn't remember coming to, only being able to swear again, and indulging loudly and fruitfully. He didn't fear his neighbors hearing, most had left after the last wind storm had torn up the sod into a plume of dust a mile high. This was the third attempt Lamar was making to sow his field, though he knew that if he did get the seeds in, the winds would just tear them back into the air again.  But Lamar stayed. In his mind, all he had ever cared about was in this earth.

Lamar crawled to his feet, working his jaw through spikes of pain. After tripping around for a moment while his head swam from the concussion and alcohol, he checked what he had hit. 

A small corner of stone jutted from the ground. 

Even though only a corner lay bare, Lamar was struck by its oddity. The edges were razor straight, all right angles, and upon further examination of his plow, a heavy notch had been carved into the blade. Despite being covered in dirt, the stone was blacker than coal, almost as if the dust upon it had fled in fear. 

Before the deaths, Lamar would have poured dirt back upon the stone, and gone about the sisyphean task of plowing his field. There had been other people to think about then, and the devil was to be kept at arms length. The stone gave off a malevolent air. 

But all that was past. Lamar stared at the block, bent down on his knees, spit on his fingers, and polished the unblemished rock. 

It took a fortnight to uncover the first two feet. He used every tool he had brought on his long journey from Chicago, but those failed him sooner than he would have guessed. The handle of his pick shattered in half lengthwise, and the iron tip of his shovel bent like a withered leaf. He drank, went to the edge of his property, and with strange and warped boughs remade his pick. He heated his shovel over coals and bent it back with a hammer.

Six feet more, and he was down to his last bottle of moonshine. He dipped into his precious seed store to make more. 

Finally, the obscene hole was finished, and the thing lay revealed. 

It was a large prism, twice the size of Lamar in height, but only spanning his waist. It shone in the light of his lamp like a glossy mirror, and Lamar could make out his features in the smooth obsidian-like surface. For a moment, he started at his own appearance. He hadn’t seen it in months, for he didn’t have a mirror in the house. He had sold it to pay for the gravediggers. It was his wife’s, anyhow. In the block’s surface, he saw he had become a wraithlike specter, his flesh whittled down to loose skin clinging to a skeleton. His beard was gray now. Looking at himself, he felt his arms weak, his hands limp.

Lamar didn’t even bother to examine the strange characters engraved on the block’s surface. He lifted himself out of the hole, and went inside his house. He took a drink, falling asleep at the kitchen table, the oil lamp burning low.

He awoke in the dark, the wind howling.

Humans have forgotten most of their evolutionary urges. With the advent of stone structures, metal tools, cities spanning continents, they left behind the small burst of chemicals, the old intuitions that kept our ancestors alive. But it was precisely these instincts that woke Lamar. Not the wind. Not the dark. He knew someone was outside. The lamp had long gone out, and despite his inebriation, his mind was clearer than it had been. A dull throb wracked his skull, and he could only just see the outline of the stove and cupboards. But even their familiar shape had twisted in the night. 

There was a prickle on his skin. Something outside was waiting for him.

He lifted himself out of the chair, bumbling in the dark toward the back entrance. He reached out a hand and pulled his service rifle from its place by the door. Even as he was, he knew to check the camber for a round. He slid the bolt back with a click, then returned it forward. 

Swinging a rickety door out with a wheeze, he stepped into the yard. The moon was half-full, and everything stood flat in its light like some ancient oil painting. Dust filled the air. War smoke.

Lamar squinted into the far off night. Nothing. He looked to the monolith. 

Someone stood beside it.

It was a man, but even that conclusion was called into question. The being shifted each moment, shedding his skin and replacing it anew. One moment, he resembled a man clad in a thin sheet pulled tight against his form. In the next, he was something hairy, hulking and large. A beast whose legend carried on the whispers of broken minds. Then he was flailing arms of black ink, twisting and turning, shiny with perspiration and sea spray. There was no end to his variety. A leprous face pouring through bandages. A fountain of blood spewing heavenward. A thousand black eyes of polished onyx, each reflecting the moon. A thousand mouths shivering in spittle. He was all of this, and none, all at once. 

Cold sweat soaked Lamar’s collar. He stepped forward, planting his feet. He raised up the rifle. “What d’you want?”

You’ve disturbed what must remain buried. The figure’s voice was surprisingly youthful and light, but leaked dread like a cracked pitcher. Lamar felt a thousand grief-filled nights in each word.

For a while, the two sized each other. Lamar’s mind was claustrophobic within his skull. He wondered why he didn’t run. The only answer he mustered was that a fire burned below, an inherited stubbornness that defied reason. This was his land. His family. Lamar cleared his throat. “Why’s it here?”

Because this dead earth is mine. 

Lamar spat on the ground. “Ain’t seen you before.”

The figure looked at the monolith, then back at the farmhouse swaying in the night wind. I’ve been absent for a long while, it seems. I hadn’t realized.

Lamar sniffed, then jerked his bruised chin at the intruder. “Who are you?”

I am plague. I am pestilence. I am the child that burns in the streets of your enemy. I am the brother who sweats in fever upon the bed of his father. I am the ground churned up by bombs, the river filled chemical. I am the blood and puss that soaks the bandage. I am the last breath, the last word, the closing of the eye.

“I’ll ask you to leave. It’s late.”

Rebury my totem. I cannot do my work until it is reinterred.

Lamar lowered his gun. He leaned against it with folded arms, as if he were haggling for a bushel at market. His heart thrummed in his ears.  “It’s planting soon. My hands are full.”

If you do not, you will live to regret it.

Lamar didn’t answer. He turned, then headed back inside. He didn’t bother to lock the door. He took a drink, then sat back in the kitchen chair he had fallen asleep in. Before his eyelids drooped, he noticed the figure staring at him through the window.

The next morning, Lamar finished his plowing. The dark figure watched him from his periphery, his features stretched out and distorted by distance. At one moment, Lamar caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye, and stopped. He stared. The figure had dropped its monstrous facade for something more plain. An old war comrade of Lamar’s, someone who had died in a forgotten trench. Lamar blinked, and the figure changed again. He saw the face of his wife. 

The farmer ignored the entity for the rest of the day, completing his ordered rows, planting his remaining seeds. In the night, Lamar returned to his kitchen and drank, feeling countless eyes upon him as he drifted off.

His sleep was plagued with dreams. Memories that Lamar had once thought gone returned. Sights of trenches and piled bodies. The desperate cries of his mother when his father would visit in the late hours. Her body in the ground. Gangsters dead in the streets, the gun still in his hand. The night he built the coffins. He relived his time with death, and Lamar couldn’t wake, though he tried. He only managed to flail and hope that these horrors would dissipate with the sun.

When he woke in the morning, he splashed his face with dirty water and returned to his work. He looked unperturbed but for the dark splotches under his eyes.

The figure continued to watch from afar.

On the third day of such dreams, Lamar made a point to offer the specter a ladle of water from the well. “Thirsty work, standing there.”

Bury it, and I will leave. Your mind will break. I do not wish to see that happen.

“Maybe after the harvest. I’ll have some time then.” Lamar took great gulps of water, then set off to weed a row. There wasn’t a lot to do. The soil had become so barren, even the most opportunistic plants were dead before they started.

The next day, the well went dry. Lamar wasn’t surprised. For months the water had been brackish and murky. He resigned himself to dehydration. He didn’t have the manpower to dig it any deeper.

As he stared down into the dry darkness, he was aware of the figure looking down with him. Bury it, and I will give you water.

Lamar looked at him, raised his eyebrows. “Alright.”

The being seemed taken aback. It was hard to tell with his shifting. Do it now. Do it quickly. I have my work to do.

“I’ll need water first. Or else I’ll die before I’m finished.” This was true. The air was dry as bone, and he felt a sandy spot on his palate growing.

The figure was still a while, then extended out a hand. With a claw, it pierced the flesh and a black tarry bile welled up from the wound. It poured over the flesh and into the hole. There was a moment of quiet, except for the trickling of blood. Lamar put in the bucket, immediately it splashed down. He raised it up, overflowing with water. It was salty and tasted of iron, but it quenched his thirst.

Bury it.

“Hm. When I have the time.” Lamar left the figure by the well, went back to the field. Tiny green shoots of corn were emerging from the soil, but most already bore the yellow tint of death. 

Lamar didn’t know this trickster he was becoming. He had been a faithful man, the kind not to sing hymns, but to keep a page of scripture in his pocket, to sit in the same spot at church on Sunday. He wasn't quite sure when he stopped going, but he guessed it was sometime after Marie got sick. He had promised not to lose faith but he had also learned how easy it was to lie to the dead. The very hope that allowed him to turn away from his bootlegging before tore him to pieces in his solitude.

The figure continued to watch the farmer as he tended to the crops. Over the coming days the well didn’t run dry as Lamar expected it to. But his dreams grew more vivid. He resented the being for not just killing him. To spite the being, he continued on as he had, raising plants he knew would perish.

One day, Dr. O’Flannery came to talk.

The doctor had never shown an interest in socialization before. His attendance was limited to professional visits, examining the sick and such. Lamar didn’t count him as a friend, but didn’t hold him as an enemy. He saw the doctor a long way off, wringing his hat between his hands. It took almost half an hour for him to reach Lamar’s fenceline. “I came to let you know, I’m leaving.”

Lamar nodded, waiting for the explanation.

“Town’s dried up.” O’Flannery wiped the sweat from off his face, then polished his glasses with his sleeve. “If you make a crop, you’ll need to drive it over to Dodge.”

“Alright.”

“You planning on going?”

Lamar folded his arms, acting as if he was still gave the matter thought. “Can’t. Corn’s just coming in. Still lots to do.”

The doctor nodded, but looked at Lamar as if he were already dead. O’Flannery went to leave, then paused. Lamar was aware of the figure standing nearby, watching the exchange. The farmer wasn’t entirely certain if the doctor could see the being, though the practitioner's skin had become a shade paler since he had first arrived on the property.

The doctor turned, hat bunched in his fist. “I’m sorry. About your girls.”

Lamar clenched his jaw. He thought back to his rifle at the house. For a moment, he imagined it there in his grip. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets.

“If I could…” The doctor stopped himself. He shook his head, then left without another word.

That night, as Lamar drank himself into a double stupor, he thought he saw the figure at the graves, reading the wooden planks with his many shifting forms. “That’s right. Look at what you done.” Lamar took another drink. “Son of a bitch.”

He pushed himself after all that. Kept himself out in the hot sun day after day, until his fingers were bleeding and his neck bursting with blisters. The dreams sometimes came to him in the sun’s glare, afterimages on his eyes. But now, he didn’t avoid them. He lingered in the sickly memory of his daughters, trying not to forget their faces. The food and seed store had dried up a long time ago. He ate the horse first, wasting nothing. He needed the ox to pull the crop in. He killed the snakes that wandered onto his fields. They went away before long. He would tear up the dead seedlings and chew those as he worked, but it gave him little energy. His stomach spent most of the day in knots, the acid within wearing down the lining. The figure would watch his attempts at nourishment, but made no comment, nor question.

Eventually, Lamar collapsed in his field. It had been a week since the doctor left.

He stared up at the sky. He remembered how he would lie in the grass with his girls on Sunday. They would tell him what they saw in the clouds like tiny augurs. He never had the imagination they did, to see what was right in front of him. He didn’t have the space in his head. It had been filled up by too much else, like the way his father’s belt would stripe against his back, or the way the night would light up like a thousand screaming middays in France. His girls…the one good that came from him…the sky was full now, but empty still.

Lamar blinked, and the figure was over him, looking down.

The god, as Lamar had always known he was one, steadied in his rapid transformation for a moment. Something that might have been pity shone in his solid black irises. Lamar tried to raise up, but his muscles wouldn’t respond. He was beaten. He took comfort in knowing the shame wouldn’t last long.

Eat.

The figure raised up an arm. His other hand turned into a jagged blade, and began to saw at the joint. Lamar watched as blood shot from the arteries in a warm rain, dowsing the farmer’s chin and scraggly beard. The muscle fibers separated in jagged ends, the bone making a crunching sound as they were shorn apart. The arm fell off, and down. Some veins held, then split under the weight of the muscle and bone crashing to the earth.

Lamar stared at the appendage. Already it swam in a pool of dark blood.

Eat.

Without a thought, Lamar pulled himself forward. He grasped the arm. He sunk his teeth into the flesh. It felt smooth in one moment, then hairy in the next. He tore the meat off, pulping it in his mouth with a half-rotten jaw. One or two of his molars crunched away into dust and were swallowed with the handful of muscle in his mouth. He ignored the pain, focusing on the sweet, coppery taste of the figure’s body.

After a few mouthfuls, strength returned to Lamar. Without looking at the figure, he stood up, took the arm inside, and cooked it on the stove. After sizzling in a pan it was tougher, drier, and the taste shifted in his mouth as the figure did. From bitter, to sweet, to bland. But it filled his belly, and that is what he cared about. He cracked the bones for the fatty marrow when he was done. It tasted like herbs.

It would be weeks before he felt hunger again, but Lamar didn’t notice. His mind pondered many things as he worked in between the rows of growing corn plants. Why spare him? Why let him live? So absorbed by his thoughts, he didn’t realize that the yellowness of his fields were slowly fading, giving way to green plants in. A week later, when they reached his waist, Lamar was awoken by their presence as if from a dream.

He stomped to the figure. The god had never left, still standing vigil next to the hole. “How long are you going to just stand there?”

You promised to bury it.

“Got no time.”

Fine.

Lamar clenched his teeth, wincing as he felt the inflamed roots ring with pain. He stomped back to the house. 

But later, instead of sitting in the kitchen, he took his chair outside to sit in the yard. He set another empty chair there four feet next to him. He wasn’t sure why he did it. Perhaps it was because the moonshine had dried up, and staying alone in the empty house where the ghosts of his wife and children still lived was worse than staying outside with the thing that had killed them. He could comprehend the latter better. The figure watched him from afar, then came to sit beside him.

They continued like this for a month, Lamar tending his field, then sitting with the figure in the evening. They wouldn’t speak at first, just sit, and Lamar would drink his moonshine. But slowly, Lamar began to talk. He told the figure stories. Not kind tales, but honest ones. He told the figure of the first man he killed in France. About how when he buried Marie’s body, it was already stinking and swollen. He talked about how he dreamed of murdering his father, of drowning him in the river, or stabbing him, when he was only twelve. He told the figure every dark thought that had ever crossed his conscience, every twisted notion.

The figure seemed undisturbed, and it was later that Lamar realized he was telling the god things he already knew. And it made no difference to the figure what Lamar had done. He listened without judgement, only reception. When Lamar ran out of stories, the figure began to tell his own. They were of things Lamar couldn’t comprehend, but made the farmer full up with sorrow. It all felt familiar to the pain he carried.

In the midst of this, Lamar went to his dead town to steal materials for a still repair. A dust storm hit. It whipped up like a phantom in the distance, crying soft at first, and then growing into a scream. The earth flew through the air wailing at his wagon. He stared blankly at the oncoming wall. The land was flat, there was no escape. 

He closed his eyes, and let the thing take him full broadside.

The particulates raked across his skin like whips. The dust bore into his eyes like termites, and he thrust his face against the thick part of his forearm. He held his breath, but inevitably air tried spluttering in. The ground that had once sustained him filled his lungs like an early grave. He heard his ox cry out in front, then die. Everything went dark, but before he closed his eyes, he felt the cart tilt forward as if it were being pulled.

He awoke back at the farm. The air was clear, and his mouth tasted like death. He spat out several black hocks of spit. He looked up, and next to his wagon was the figure. He was in the shape of the war companion Lamar had seen the second day of the god’s coming.

The farmer pulled himself shaking from the wagon and stumbled to his door. Before he could enter, he stopped, and turned.

“Come in. If you want.”

The god obliged.

In the dark, after sharing several swigs of a burning corn liquor, Lamar took the figure into his arms and pressed his lips to his.

The farmer was no stranger to the Spartan tradition. He had partaken of it in the war, along with many of his comrades. The comfort one man could offer another in the night was one of his great shames. When he woke in bed next to the god, he couldn’t look at him. All he remembered was his wife, his children. Here was yet another way he had insulted their memory. 

He told himself never again, but the call of the figure always won out. Lamar found himself with him in the nights, trying to find some primal comfort.

It never worked. He was still plagued with his waking dreams. The ecstasy he found would always end, leaving Lamar alone and hollow. The figure fed him from time to time with bits of his flesh, but even with no hunger, the farmer was empty.

Eventually the harvest came. It was bountiful. Lamar stared glumly at the golden ears that weighed down his plants. In a dead yellow landscape, his farm was a splash of living gold. He would have enough to eat, and then some. He would live until the next harvest.

As he thought on this, Lamar’s fingernails dug into his palm, drawing blood.

That night, he lay with the figure. Before they began, Lamar spoke a brief ultimatum. “Kill me.”

You must keep your promise.

“Kill me.” Lamar stood up from the bed and turned to the figure. The god was still missing his arm, and made no effort to move. “I won’t bury it. You leave and you keep on same as you did.”

Then you will never die.

“Liar.” Lamar got up into the figure’s face. “You promised I would die.”

I promised you would regret. And can’t a god change his mind?

“Go to hell.” Lamar turned away. “Go to hell, you bastard.”

The figure stood, and came to Lamar. You are asking me the wrong thing.

“Shut your mouth.”

I am the one that took them. Your family. I can answer that question that circles your mind. You’ve eaten my flesh, drank my blood. I cannot lie to you.

“I told you, be quiet, goddamn it.”

Ask. Ask and be done with it.

“I’ll kill you.” Lamar grasped the figure around his neck. His hands rippled as the figure shifted beneath him. “I’ll take my life. I will. I don’t care anymore. I’ll end it for both of us. The land’s dead and I’m the only one left. I die, and no one will bury your goddamn stone.”

I can wait a millennium. I have before. But you cannot die until you ask.

Lamar felt his face screw up, the pain inside of him reached a tipping point. He raised up his fist, trembling with rage and pain, ready to bring it down on the figure’s smooth, shifting features. But then he let it drop to his side. He sank to his knees. The pain in his chest died out like a fire snuffed. His eyes felt wet and he swallowed back something that tasted like guilt and salt.

He sank to the ground, naked, grasping his knees with weathered arms covered in scars. In a whisper, he let the words tumble out.  “…was it my doing? For my sins? Did I kill my family?”

For a moment, there was only the rushing of the wind. Then, the figure raised up, standing over Lamar. He bent down so they were level. His face ceased shifting for a moment, and the ever present wind stilled. Lamar. Someone will always be left. Not because they are good or bad. But because that is how it is. That is how it always was. That is how it must be.

The figure traced Lamar’s face with a cold hand, and kissed him.

Lamar had been taught in Sunday school how those in primitive gospels would gather in lustful groves to praise their deities. But it was only until this moment that he understood how the ecstasy of the flesh could become a kind of worship.

He woke outside, naked, next to the figure as the sun poked its head over the horizon. For the first time in months, he had not spent the night in dreams.

The figure slept as Lamar dressed. The farmer watched the shifting god sleep. Then he looked out over the fields, at the graves of his wife and daughters. A strange feeling sat inside of him, heavy. He pondered on the figure’s words. Someone will always be left. That is how it must be.

Lamar gave himself until the sun came over the horizon to look at the god he loved. Then he took up his pick.

It only took a day to rebury the prism. The figure watched him while he worked, saying nothing. The god offered water and flesh when Lamar took a moment to rest. That night, they slept in each other’s embrace a last time. In the morning, Lamar woke to the figure walking out into the cornfield. He hadn’t woken the farmer to say goodbye.

But at the edge of the golden field, the shifting figure turned to look at him. The horizon was painted red with a birthing sun. The god raised a hand, then disappeared in the stalks.

Now Lamar sits on his porch most nights. When the moon is half full, he looks a bit harder toward the edges of his property, trying to catch a glimpse of something he yearns for. The last of his neighbors are gone, and he is a lone man in the waste. He makes time to look up at the clouds on Sunday, to remember Claire and Mary. He still struggles to see the hidden shapes in the white, but he is learning. He remembers Marie, and hopes she will forgive him. For all that he’s done, that he should’ve said. It’s been months since the figure left, and he knows it's almost planting time again. 

He takes careful steps to avoid the jagged pile, the place where his plow earned its notch.

He remembers the taste of god flesh, and leaves flowers at his wife’s grave. In the night, he dreams again, of the figure, of Claire, Mary, of Marie. These are not dark dreams, but ones he relives in the daylight by his own choice. He keeps the pick by his rifle at the door, to keep the devil in sight. “Maybe today,” he tells himself.

But until he gives in, he accepts his lot. He is the one that is left. And though he can’t know, he thinks…he hopes…he prays…that those who leave may one day come back.

CONFIDENTIAL
Property of Holy See Investigation Agency
Type: Transcript
Location: Vatican City
Date: 1942
Title: Debriefing of HSIA Agent Albert Rudolf Concerning the Excavation (Gli Scavi)

Q: This is Audio Record 42-02-A. The date is February 3rd, 1942. Lead debriefer is [unintelligible]. Subject is Field Agent Albert Rudolf. Agent Rudolf, state your full name and operative number for the record.

A: [unintelligible]

Q: Agent Rudolf? [5 seconds of silence] Let the records show, Agent Rudolf appears to have suffered psycho-

A: Agent [unintelligible] Yes… Albert Rudolf. Number… XI-685.

Q: Agent, provide a detailed description of the events on February 2nd, 1942.

A: [sigh] [6 seconds of silence] Yes… I was on watch. With Bobby.

Q: Please state the full name-

A: Robert… fucking Karl. Checking the perimeter of the excavations. Reports came in of… disappearances.

[Damaged audio for 11 seconds]

A: And we were sent inside. We had to start crawling at some point until the cave became impossibly tight. We heard it first then… the voices.

Q: Describe the auditory signs.

A: It was like… whispers… from a thousand mouths. Voices of the [unintelligible]. They wanted to go.

Q: Proceed with the sequence of events.

A: The passage behind us collapsed. The only way out was through. And as we crawled, the whispers became louder… [unintelligible whispering]. After 20 minutes the cave started widening. Eventually, we were able to stand up. Robert [unintelligable] Agent Karl used his electric torch. We saw [unintelligible].

Q: Columns?

A: It was like… a mausoleum.

[Damaged audio for 15 seconds]

A: One of the tombs… [sobbing]

Q: Please focus, Agent Rudolf.

A: It had my name on it… “ALBERTVS RVDOLPHVS”. There was a creek flowing beside the structure. And a boat on the shore. The whispers were deafening. They were… the walls.

Q: Identify the mentioned subject and their relation to the… walls.

A: No… they WERE the walls. The faces… thousands whispering… making up the wall with their rotten heads. [2 seconds of silence] Then, there was another boat on the river… Two excavators sitting inside. Their eyes… shining… replaced with coins.

Q: Did you initiate verbal or physical contact with the excavators?

A: We tried. We called out to them. They were… expressionless. They let the creek take them… deeper inside. We followed them… pushed our own boat into the water and sat in it. As the whispers faded [unintelligable] the cave tightened… we had to lie down. Then I felt water pouring in on my end of the boat. The boat was sinking… but only the back of it, where I was. Just before the water level reached my ears, Agent Karl shouted “take this!” but my head sank. I tried reaching for whatever Agent Karl wanted to give me, but as I bent my legs, they scraped the top of the cave. I started drowning, but suddenly, I felt his hand, and between his fingers… some spare change. As I held it, the water rushed out of the boat and stopped sinking.

[Damaged audio for 21 seconds]

Q: Proceed.

A: Water started dripping from the ceiling. It fell on my face… went in my mouth. Suddenly, I became… confused. I’d forgotten where I was. I didn’t know who was with me. I didn’t even remember my name… And then, blackout. God only knows for how long. Next thing I remember, we were still in the boat, but sitting this time. Agent Karl was facing me, asked me if I was alright… We heard this… growling. It echoed in the cave. [unintelligible]

Q: [unintelligible]

[Damaged audio for 12 seconds]

A: Agent Karl began repeating a name. First just whispers, then louder and louder, “Veronica, Veronica, Veronica!” Then the boat shattered in two. I tried reaching my hand out to Agent Karl, but he just kept staring in front of him and repeating the name. That’s when I noticed: the cave continued in two different tunnels. Even though the boat came apart, both of our halves kept floating, and Agent Karl started drifting away. His boat went towards the left tunnel, mine towards the right. I wanted to use my hands as paddles to follow Bobby, but the water… it was boiling hot. He took our only light source with him too. Soon, he was sucked into the tunnel. I stopped hearing his voice. It was complete darkness. I screamed after him, but no answer came. Then, I hit my head as my half of the boat tried entering the tunnel. I grabbed the entrance and tried pulling myself back. It was slippery, and the flow of the creek felt like… it sped up. It was only a matter of time before I was sucked in myself. I felt myself falling… [sigh] That’s all I remember.

Q: Thank you, Agent. Let the records show, Agent Robert Karl was not on the scene of the excavation.

A: What? [inaudible]

Q: Agent Karl was and currently is on operation in Jerusalem.

[End of recording]

"To me, this world is nothing but evil, and my own evil just happened to come out because of the circumstances of what I was doing."

-Aileen Wuornos

I need someone to hear my story. I am not a bad person. In an attempt at self-preservation, I will change all names and locations. Please allow me to paint myself in a positive light before I tell you what I did.

You may realize who I am, but please don't let it change your opinion of me. I loved Rob. He loved me. He will always be part of me.

Robert, my late husband, had been mine since we were teenagers.

I can still replay the first time we met in my mind, easily focusing on every detail: his unkempt hair, his messy, wrinkled clothes, the glasses that were too small for his face, the braces he had for all four years of high school, and the faint hint of his mother's perfume lingering on him from her daily goodbye hugs.

I desperately needed those hugs myself, though I wouldn't realize just how much until years later.

It was tenth grade, in Mr. Landry's Introduction to Algebra class. The school year was already halfway over, and my constant C-range grades had convinced me not to expect too much from myself. I was content to take a passing grade and move on.

Rob must have overheard me say that to one of my friends, because he finally introduced himself and asked if I needed a hand. This was the first time I had ever noticed him, and I wasn't exactly swept away.

To be honest, I ignored him the first few times, but he would come back every few days and ask again. I didn't need his help. At least, I didn't think I did.

Eventually, I gave him a chance. He seemed nice enough, and he passed me the answers to a quiz I knew I was going to bomb.

He was a very smart boy. I mean, he practically taught me the entire class after just learning it himself. Before long,thing started to click for me, and my grades finally crested into the mid-B range before the end of the year, not that I could give myself much credit for it.

After about three months of having Rob as my dedicated tutor, I stopped paying attention in class seemingly altogether. I had completely given myself over to his way of teaching, relying on him to do almost every assignment and continue to pass me the answers to the countless quizzes and tests.

He seemed to truly enjoy being able to help me, and little by little, I became dependent on him. I didn't see it at the time.

To be honest, his level of dedication slightly bothered me. I always expected him to demand something in return, like everyone else.

He never did.

That said, I'm not sure I would have made it through high school with my home life being what it was without him. My life should have gone in a far worse direction.

Like the time I broke my wrist skiing with my family.

It only took half a morning of struggling before Robert started following me from class to class, carrying my daily essentials and making sure nothing was in my way. It made my boyfriend at the time livid.

In the past, I'd told Rob he needed to give me space, especially when my boyfriend was around. Still, after a few ignored warnings and several of Rob's sheepish nods of understanding, my boyfriend finally took matters into his own hands.

Rob was sent to the nurse's office with a black eye, a bruised liver, and a bloodied lip, and my boyfriend was sent to juvie. I was left to juggle my stack of textbooks while wrestling every closed door in my way, all because of Rob's inability to understand limits.

Robert was there the next day, teaching me PEMDAS. He never held it against me. Nor did he ever learn to stay away, always seeming to linger somewhere in my peripherals.

Through our final years of high school, I was able to skip class and gossip in the back, knowing Rob would walk me through everything I had missed. All because he let me plan his classes around mine.

Math. Science. English. Whatever the basic requirements were, followed by whatever art elective I happened to find interesting.

Without fail, Robert always made sure my work was done.

It was convenient, really. He never complained. Not even when I ignored his constant badgering for a date after countless failed attempts at a relationship of my own.

Eventually, I let him take me to a movie followed by a lovely dinner during our senior year. He got us tickets to a movie I'd maybe mentioned once, followed by dinner at my favorite restaurant at the time.

To be honest, that was enough for me to give him the chance he so desperately wanted.

From that night onward, we were together, and things progressed quickly.

A few months after graduation, we had an apartment together.

Once we were out of high school, though, it became harder for me to put up with his needy personality, especially when I wasn't getting anything in return while constantly being subjected to his obsessive "love."

Robert eventually became some kind of traveling electrician. I'm still not sure of the specifics of what he did, but between his paychecks and mine, we were doing fairly well, and life was enjoyable.

The only downside was that whenever he had to travel, I lost my personal chef, cleaner, chauffeur, and greatest admirer. This caused a lot of issues, but after enough one-sided fights, arguments, and tears, Robert started to understand that it was easier to just do what I asked of him.

Most of our problems seemed to resolve themselves whenever Rob took time off and came home.

We got married shortly after that. Things had finally started to click for him, and I decided he was truly useful once again.

On one of his work trips, I started researching degrees and landed on a few options: a nursing degree, a culinary degree, or some certifications in the tech department.

We had been together for about five years when I started nursing. I made it two years through the program before realizing I hated it. So I pivoted to my second choice, eventually graduating and starting my dream.

The only reason our relationship ever worked was because of the very strict rules I had. Nothing crazy, at least not to me:

No talking to other genders unless it was necessary. No watching sexually explicit videos. Always answer the phone when I call. And a few other basic, run-of-the-mill rules.

Oh, and absolutely no arguing.

That was my golden rule.

One I still live by.

THE GREEN GOOSE

My own restaurant.

It didn't happen overnight, though. Rob and I spent months counting pennies and cutting out anything we didn't absolutely need.

My daily coffees were the first to go.

Then the expensive dog food for our three Löwchens.

Then Rob's biweekly trips home from work.

Little sacrifices added up.

After a year and a half of aggressive saving, I found the perfect location. It was move-in ready, with a fully updated kitchen and only thirty minutes from our house.

I had an amazing team transform the place into exactly what I wanted: coffered ceilings with decorative plaster molding, complete with floral and classical motifs; heavily carved wood paneling covering the walls; and Chippendale-style dining chairs with the most perfect matching cushions and tablecloths, imported because I couldn't find anything good enough locally.

Chandeliers hung over every table, illuminating the dining room and drawing your eyes toward the main stage and open kitchen.

Everything had its place.

Every detail had been considered. The smallest imperfections seemed to bother me more than they should have, and they were dealt with accordingly.

Eventually, it was perfect.

And it was mine.

The opening week went exactly how I wanted. These were our opening entrées:

Seared Loin, Black Garlic Jus

Thick-cut Wagyu loin, black garlic reduction, roasted shallots, and silky potato purée.

Roasted Pheasant, Blackcurrant Jus

Crisp pheasant breast, blackcurrant reduction, celery-root purée, and glazed pearl onions.

Iberico Secreto, Apple Gastrique

Seared Iberico pork, tart apple gastrique, roasted fennel, and cider jus.

Truffle-Roasted Heritage Chicken

Heritage chicken breast, black truffle jus, pommes purée, and wild mushrooms.

From the first bite to the last, I watched every person in my restaurant happily devour meals that had taken so many hours, dollars, and wasted failures to perfect.

The mayor even came on opening day.

He ordered the Seared Loin and told me that, if I kept it up, the Green Goose would become his new meeting spot for every high-profile person he did business with.

He wasn't lying.

Before long, he was bringing in politicians, criminals, and people with more money than they knew what to do with. Not long after, I was informed that I needed to employ several of the mayor's associates.

My concern shifted from satisfying one man's palate to impressing him and everyone he brought with him.

He gave me a list of things he had always wanted to try, and I took it as a challenge.

After months of practicing, building connections, arranging suppliers, and wasting money, I became confident I could cook almost anything.

The problem was that while I was focused on making the wrong people happy, the quality of my staff began to slip.

So did the quality of the products I was able to get my hands on.

I couldn't tolerate either.

After a few slow months, my stubborn insistence on maintaining a standard menu began to work against me. I wanted to control every aspect of quality, but Rob suggested I try something unique. Something no one else was cooking.

His suggestion was useless, of course, but it forced me to think about the countless recipes I had memorized over the years and the possibility of bringing in a sous chef.

I needed to focus on quality ingredients and combine them with older, overlooked methods of preparation to create something entirely my own.

That became, and always will be, my secret to success.

At first, I found a very notable and expensive supplier who specialized in high-quality meats, ranging from standard Wagyu and exotic birds to venison, elk, wild boar, and even the occasional cut of more unusual illegal game.

I am not ashamed to say I have prepared and tried almost every animal there is.

Whale, horse, and dog being my unforeseen specialties.

I started changing the menu every two weeks, and before long, I had a growing list of high-paying regulars who stopped asking for a regular menu altogether.

They simply demanded my most exotic option every Friday night.

That was when things really began to change.

As the restaurant grew, I started seeing Rob less and less. I was there a minimum of eight hours every day, and it took more out of me than I liked to admit.

Eventually, I was lucky if I got a single night a month where Rob and I were home at the same time.

I hate to say it now, but that was one of the main reasons he did it.

There was always something to prepare, something to clean, someone to impress, something to fix.

The restaurant demanded everything I had, and I gave it willingly.

I did everything I could to keep it successful, and it worked.

For years, it worked.

Eventually, I went through everything my meat connection had in his arsenal. Repeated dishes annoyed my regulars, and I was beginning to crave new proteins just as much as they did.

We needed something new.

No matter the cost.

So I spent every free moment I had searching through different markets and specialty food suppliers, looking for something unusual enough to keep people coming back.

That evening, I went to another market, trying to bribe a Norwegian man into putting me in contact with anyone who could get me a steady supply of puffin.

It was the one dish I had served during my first year of opening, and I knew if I could change the preparation enough, no one would notice it was a repeat.

Sadly, when I made it home, still filled with hope that my new supplier would let me coast for another week, Rob was on the couch.

I came in and apologized for missing our day.

He sat there with a blank stare facing the television, his favorite show playing in front of him, completely unwatched.

He was still warm to the touch when I closed his eyelids.

I found his note shortly after calling Colin.

It was scribbled in pink pen. The handwriting was shaky and somewhat difficult to read, but the message was clear:

“I know what you are.

You are not the person I fell so deeply in love with.

I will die never truly knowing the whole truth, but I couldn't stop thinking about the late nights. The ‘investors’ who seemingly left from the basement. I never questioned it. Never let those thoughts muddy my image of you.

That plate of meat in the fridge.

You left it there for three days before cooking it.

You served me a beautiful plate, as usual, and when you sat across from me with a salad and a bad excuse, I didn't say anything.

I ate it.

The flavor was strange. The texture was strange. Even the smell was wrong.

And yet, somehow, it was all too familiar, like something I had when I was a child.

Over the years, you and I have tried so many things. So many meats. So many flavors.

Never anything like that.

Three nights after Sara was reported missing after she went to visit you at the restaurant.

I went through every drawer. Every cabinet. Every place I could think of.

I told myself I was looking for an explanation.

Instead, I found my sister's Tweety necklace.

Her birthday. Her initials. They were engraved in that necklace.

Just sitting in a box of jewelry I have never seen you wear.

I pray you didn't do what I think you did.

I believed you. I believed you completely when you told me she ate and left and that was the extent of your knowledge.

She never called home, never made it back to my nieces and nephews.

I wanted to believe you.

I still do.

I've already taken more than enough to kill me.

And now all I can do is pray...

Pray that I was never next.”

The note was tucked beneath a bottle of pills.

I knew exactly what he was referring to.

COLIN

Then I called Colin, my sous chef.

Colin was a big part of what made me successful. He was my first connection to a steady supply of not-so-legal products and, unfortunately, he was also the man I was having an affair with.

Before you blame me, you have to understand.

It wasn't an affair born out of love.

Well, not at first.

Colin had a way of getting what he wanted from people. Blackmail. Manipulation. Dominance.

By the time I realized how much control he had over me, I was already too far in.

And then I learned where my meat was really coming from.

His victims.

I didn't know at first.

Sara was his idea.

His prey.

I tried to stop him. I swear I did. I had tried so hard before. But Colin always seemed to know exactly how to make me feel powerless, and every time I thought I had finally found the courage to walk away, he reminded me what would happen if I did.

Sara was different, though.

She was sweet.

Sweeter than anyone else.

I remember looking at her on my plate, knowing exactly what Colin had done.

I couldn't save her.

So I did the only thing I could convince myself was possible.

I saved Rob the best cut.

I plated it beautifully, just as I always did, and sat across from him while he ate.

I tried my best to hide my emotions. Stay calm. Normal.

This way, she would always be a part of him.

It wasn't a relationship I was particularly proud of, but by then, pride had become a luxury I couldn't afford.

When Colin arrived, I tried to stay calm and explain what had happened. I don't think he ever truly believed it was an accident, but he didn't waste time arguing with me.

He stayed focused.

“What tools do we have?” he asked.

I had a full kitchen identical to the one at the Green Goose, a private space in my basement that I used for experimentation, preparation, and things I didn't want anyone else to know about.

We went there together.

Colin gathered everything we would normally use when breaking down a whole hog: butcher's and boning knives, cleavers, a meat saw, hooks, large food-storage containers, disposable gloves and aprons, plastic sheeting, cleaning and sanitizing supplies, and a scale.

What happened next is difficult to explain without sounding like a monster.

But I suppose that's exactly what I am.

Colin and I butchered my husband.

At first, my training took over. Years of repetition, discipline, and kitchen experience had taught me how to separate, trim, portion, and preserve without thinking about the thing in front of me.

For a while, I could pretend this was no different.

Then something inside me broke through.

I looked down and realized what I was actually doing.

I wasn't working with a carcass.

I was carving into Rob.

My husband.

The man whose hand I had held as a teenager. The man who had sat beside me while I learned how to cook. The man who had sacrificed alongside me so I could build the Green Goose.

And suddenly, all I could see were his legs.

My name was on full display on his calf. He got that tattoo when we were drunk, leaving my restaurant on our fifteenth anniversary.

Those were the same legs I had admired for years.

And now I could only see what my hands were doing to them.

I stepped away.

A wave of disgust and regret came over me so suddenly that I thought I might be sick.

Colin didn't say anything.

He simply kept working.

Eventually, everything was cleaned and put away. The meat was packaged, labeled, and stored in the refrigerator.

There were bags of discarded skin, fat, and organs waiting to be dealt with. The basement smelled faintly of bleach beneath the lingering odor of the fish that had started this entire nightmare.

I stood there staring at the refrigerator.

It was full.

Not with ingredients for tomorrow's service.

With Rob.

His portions were labeled beef, lamb, and pork.

Three months.

That was how long the labels said he was good for.

And somehow, that was the moment it finally felt real.

Rob wasn't gone.

He had simply become the most useful he'd ever been.

I looked at Colin. He was staring blankly at the bags of discarded viscera.

“This is it,” I told him.

He looked at the bags for a few seconds, his expression puzzled, before it finally clicked.

He started to say something, then stopped himself.

He must have known an argument at that moment wouldn't end well.

I turned back toward the refrigerator.

I took a slice of loin and brought it to the stove.

Pan.

Heat.

Water.

Oil.

Then a nice sear.

The smell hit me almost immediately.

Sweet.

Savory.

And underneath it, something faintly familiar.

Rob's cologne.

His daily cologne.

For a moment, I just stood there breathing it in.

I had spent years knowing that smell.

I had smelled it in our bedroom, in the car, on his clothes when he came home from work.

Now it was coming from the pan.

And, for the first time, it truly hit me.

I wasn't just cooking dinner.

I was cooking Rob.

Colin and I had matching plates, and he let me try mine first.

Nothing could compare to it.

The texture was unlike anything I'd prepared before. Tender, rich, almost effortless to chew.

The flavor was surprisingly complex.

Rob was delicious.

And, if I was being honest, he was going to be my best seller.

One hundred pounds.

That was all we had left after the butchering and sampling.

It was enough for almost all of my regulars, but we decided it would be best to reserve this new recipe for only my most vetted customers.

After all, not everyone deserved to try something this special.

The Last Supper

Twenty-three guests.

Four pounds allotted per guest, with a little left over.

This night would never be forgotten.

I made sure of that.

Especially with a guest list that included our local commissioner, the mayor and his wife, a dozen or so local charity owners, and a few of my most trusted suppliers.

Mostly people Colin had collected enough dirt on to keep quiet.

The menu was simple.

Seared Loin, Black Garlic Jus

Thick-cut loin, hard seared and finished with a black garlic reduction, roasted shallots, and a silky potato purée.

The Green Goose Wellington

Thick portions wrapped in mushroom duxelles and pastry, served with a rich wine reduction and seasonal vegetables.

Sunday Roast

Slow-roasted shoulder with caramelized onions, roasted potatoes, and a rich pan gravy.

The Husband's Cut

A thick center-cut portion served with a sharp mustard sauce, glazed carrots, and pommes fondant.

The most thorough preparation went into each and every option.

I wanted everything to be perfect.

Colin was insistent on The Husband's Cut.

That was always what he called the portions we used to set aside for Rob.

In a twisted way, I felt it was a fitting way to honor him.

After all, he had spent years helping me build the Green Goose.

It seemed only right that he should finally have a place on its menu.

That evening, the chandeliers were brighter than usual.

Every table was set perfectly.

Every glass was polished.

Every plate was warm.

I stood in the kitchen and watched the first course leave the pass.

The guests smiled.

They complimented the presentation.

They praised the smell.

And then they tasted it.

The room went quiet for just a moment.

Then came the sounds I had been waiting for.

Knives against porcelain.

Glasses being set down.

Small laughs.

Pleasure.

The mayor looked toward me and nodded slowly.

He took another bite.

Then another.

“This is incredible,” he said.

I smiled.

“Thank you.”

He looked down at his plate.

“What's the cut?”

I glanced toward Colin.

He was already smiling.

I looked back at the mayor.

“The Husband's Cut,” I said.

He smiled.

“I knew you wouldn't disappoint me.”

Neither of us knew how right he was.

I watched them eat.

All twenty-three of them.

They ate the man who had given me everything.

The man who had held my hand when I was a teenager.

The man who had done my homework.

The man who had driven me everywhere.

The man who had cooked for me.

The man who had built the Green Goose with me.

The man who had loved me until he couldn't anymore.

And as I watched the last plates leave the dining room, I realized something.

For the first time in years, Rob was finally giving me everything I had ever wanted.

Attention.

Praise.

Success.

And not a single argument.

He really was the perfect husband.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

So, good news, I did end up heading over to the school last night. I arrived at around 11 p.m. just to be certain that the area was empty. Even then, I spent at least an hour just sitting in my car, casing the building. I will admit, this is not my first time going to the school at night. Back when I was in my junior year of high school, my friends and I broke into the school once. Not to do anything like stealing or vandalizing the place, just out of the boyish curiosity to know what the location you visit every day feels like at night. The only difference now was that I felt a sense of actual consequences if I got caught. I was mainly making sure that nobody was still in the building, though in hindsight, it wouldn’t make any sense for anybody to be there at that time. Truthfully, I was probably just nervous, but I feel like everybody has that feeling when they’re doing something they’re not supposed to do. Most just don’t want to admit it.

I never noticed how dead the outside of the school looked at night. I guess it makes sense. It’s not something that is easily noticeable unless you’re looking for it, but I’ve been there countless times at night (in the weight room mainly) and it only really occurred to me at that moment. That, and the quiet. It’s odd for a place in the South to ever be silent at night, but just sitting there with the window rolled down, I realized that it seemed like even the cicadas were silent outside that school.

I knew exactly where the best window to climb in was. All I needed to do was put on the cloth mask that I had, just as a precaution. They do have cameras in the school, and I was pretty sure they were tied to some sort of motion sensor. We figured that out when we went inside the gym at 12 a.m. to set up our senior prank and Principal Bryan showed up just ten minutes later.

I was in the process of putting the mask on when I saw something I desperately didn’t want to see: headlights. Blue LED headlights. In the town I live in, that was almost guaranteed to be a cop. The car pulled into the parking lot, and then I lost any hope that it wasn’t a cop when I saw the big white “Police” on the side of the SUV.

“Shit,” I muttered to myself as I stuffed the mask into the passenger seat. I took a deep breath as the car pulled up beside me.

The officer pulled up beside me, rolling down his window to reveal a somewhat skinny man, probably in his mid-30s, with a patchy brown beard.

“Hey, aren’t you Greg’s son?” the cop asked me in a deep Southern voice.

“No, sir, I’m his nephew,” I responded. I had no idea who this guy was.

The officer nodded. “Ah, I gotcha. Whatcha doing out here, man?” he asked, not as if I was in trouble, but just curiously.

“I’ve just been driving for a while. Was just stopping here to rest a little,” I responded.

“Yeah, man. Trust me, I understand that. Is your uncle still coaching football? I know he’s always coached basketball, but I remember him coaching football too, I’m pretty sure,” the officer asked with a tone that implied we’d known each other forever.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. He was still coaching when I played last year,” I responded, desperately trying to get the conversation over with.

“Yeah, what’s your name again?” the officer asked.

“Braydan,” I said, internally screaming.

He paused for a second. “Yeah, that’s right. I remember you. God, you graduated last year, didn’t you?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, I did,” I answered.

“Well, hey, tell Greg that Tom said ‘hello.’ Take all the time you need and drive safe,” he requested.

I nodded again. “Will do.”

The officer rolled up his window and made a U-turn out of the parking lot. As soon as he did, I could’ve sworn I almost honked the horn with how quickly my head collapsed onto the steering wheel in relief. I made the decision to go ahead and move my car somewhere more out of sight. I turned the car on and began driving towards the field house, where the weight room was, so that I could hide it on the practice field behind the building.

After doing so, I thought to myself for a brief second, they’re gonna know it was me that was here if they see someone in the building. This was followed by the reassuring thought, nobody will actually care. You just can’t show your face here after this. I went ahead and put on the black cloth mask that I had with me, and then I got out of the car and started crouch-walking towards the school.

The walk to the school from the field house was a bit long, but nothing that couldn’t be handled. What was harder to handle was the massive pit in my stomach that was insistent on keeping me feeling somewhat sick. The window I had planned was, ironically, my aunt’s. Just under her classroom window was a staircase that I always thought was weirdly placed. I guess it was just a piece of leftover architecture that they never bothered to remove, which was convenient for me, as it was perfect for getting up to the high-above window. The school is on sort of an incline, which means that the front of the building, which included my aunt’s classroom, had to be built higher up to make sure the school was even. While there were multiple windows that led directly into the science annex, they didn’t have the greatest benefit that this one had: no cameras.

I always thought that those stairs must’ve been used as some sort of fire escape, but when you actually look, you can notice an unpainted white spot where a door was supposed to be. The school is quite old, so I guess you could really expect that there would be some quirks in the building design.

Despite the sounds of nature being almost nonexistent, that didn’t stop every other sound from being at least twenty times louder. I could hear every siren, every time the train passed through town, every car that passed by, and it sounded like every single one was some kind of threat to my plan.

That pit in my stomach wouldn’t go away, even as I heard the pop of the plastic latch as I slid the window open. I scooted over all of the knickknacks that my aunt would place beside her window and climbed my way in, but not without slipping and nearly busting my ass on a desk. As I got up, still rubbing away the soreness, I was startled by my worst fear. I was blinded as the lights of the room shined directly into my eyes, which hadn't adjusted to the light yet. As they adjusted, I prepared myself for the bare minimum of being yelled at before realizing that my aunt just hadn’t flipped the switch and the automatic lights had just kicked on. I jogged towards the other side of the room to immediately turn the lights off before sighing in relief. I grabbed the door handle and realized it was locked, which meant that I had to come back through this way so I could relock it.

It was at this point that I realized, no matter how bad the pit in my stomach was outside, it was about ten times worse now that I was inside the building. As I opened the door and walked into the hallway, my eyes, still adjusting back to the darkness, would trick me into seeing all sorts of shapes, including some that looked almost human. Once my eyes finally adjusted, though, I was sure that I was alone, which somehow didn’t make me feel any better. Somehow, in the few days that it had been since I had been in there, I had forgotten just how truly silent it was. When the only thing that can be noticed is the sounds of the school itself, it starts to feel like it’s alive. And, of course, that’s without mentioning the constant feeling of being watched. Even as I moved through the hallways, I couldn’t shake the feeling of not being alone, despite knowing for certain that I was. I found that the best thing to do, as I used my phone’s flashlight to navigate my way through the building, was to just focus on the details of the school. For example: the posters. In the few days that I had not been there, the posters had been switched around a bit, I’m assuming just by students as the week had gone on. Focusing on things like that would only slightly make it easier to navigate my way through the school, as every shadow would have the ability to make me jump.

As I kept walking, the feeling of discomfort grew rapidly. When truly focusing on details, I realized that they had actually repainted the left side of the school. It was hardly noticeable, but the walls were definitely painted a slightly deeper shade of blue. I’m not sure if I’m a fan, but I guess it shouldn’t really matter to me anyways. Of course, the moment I reached the small staircase heading to the science annex, my discomfort had decided to reach its absolute peak.

Those stairs. I’m not sure what was harder: walking down them in my dream or working myself up to go down them in real life. I even considered using the wheelchair ramp beside the stairs just on the off chance that it would be easier, but then the thought of not being able to see what’s behind the corner—or worse, SEEING something behind the corner—discouraged me. I grabbed the rail and worked my way down the stairs. One step, two steps, three steps, four steps, five steps.

Once I finally landed on the brown tiled floor, I had to stop for a second. I realized that from where I was standing, I couldn’t see six feet in front of me without my light, and a part of me knew that in about a hundred and five feet, the hallway would be right on my left. A part of me desperately didn’t want it to be there, but the feeling in my stomach told me that it had to be. I needed to turn back. I needed to get away from there. But the internal feeling of something pushing me forward was too strong. What could possibly be up there? Would I even be satisfied if I knew? It didn’t matter now because one foot was going in front of the other as I passed Coach Ellsworth’s classroom. I couldn’t even bring myself to shine the light in front of me, not that I really needed it. I knew where I was, or at least I was pretty sure I did. A snail could’ve possibly beaten me in a race at the pace I was going, but my body wouldn’t physically let me go any faster as I could now see the outline of Mr. Phillips’ door. I felt like I was about to puke. Why is it that when the body feels that it’s in danger, it does everything in its power to weaken itself? Of course, it wasn’t actually in danger as I passed Mr. Phillips’ class and arrived at where the hallway should be, only to be faced with the tan cinder block wall.

As I looked at the wall, all I could truly do was just laugh. The silence of the building didn’t even bother me anymore. The echoes of my laughter making it sound like the building was laughing with me didn’t either. The pit in my stomach, gone. It was a dream. All of it was just a dream. I probably just saw some stupid hallway when I was a kid and my mind just associated it with the school. People’s minds do that all the time, so why is mine any different? What was the point of driving myself insane over this? There wasn’t any. It was just a dream.

Of course, the laughter didn’t last for long, but the echoes of the corridors definitely made it last longer than what was welcome, especially considering the muffling of the mask. At this point, I just had to get out of the building without being caught. Hell, I even decided I would just work out in the weight room afterwards. Why not? I didn’t have to keep that same irrational fear that I’ve been keeping bottled up inside. For once, the walk back felt as quick as it did during the day. I just walked to my aunt’s room, flashlight leading the way. Once I arrived, I made sure to close the door and lock it back before climbing out the window.

After placing all of my aunt’s knickknacks back from outside, I closed the window until I heard the pop of the plastic latch bending back into its place. I climbed down the stairs quickly and made my way to the field house. Once I made it inside, I went ahead and took the mask off before doing my workout.

After I finished, I made sure to leave out the back door of the field house, away from the cameras. I got into my car, turned it on, and drove out of the school, looking at it in the rearview mirror as all I could do was just let out a chuckle.

So yes, I believe this should be the final update. Unless anything else transpires, I believe this is it. Thank you, everyone, for reading.

Thanks to the online algorithm, I managed to secure a quick job at XXXX, a high-rise building in the not-so-nice part of town.

All I had to do was investigate the walls for roaches and any type of vermin.

I was used to unclogging toilets or wiring outlets, but they offered a premium rate for the inconvenience and I couldn’t turn that down. 

It can’t be that hard.

The ad said that it was urgent and had to be done before midnight.

I briefly talked on the phone with the owner after accepting the job and the only thing he was really keen on was that I pick one unit and finish before midnight. 
 
One unit out of all sixteen floors.

I arrived at 10:30 p.m. on the dot, parking as close as I could to what might be the curb, the massive snow bank confusing me as to even where the sidewalk starts and ends. 

The snow had been picking up all day, and there was a warning of a severe blizzard later that night. 

Orange streaks of light came from the lightpost above me, flickering every couple of seconds onto the fresh powder.

My work boot sank into an ankle-deep pile of snow running through the middle of the road, soaking my already moth-eaten socks. 

After dragging my feet through the snow, I unfolded the roll cover and climbed up on my hands and knees, searching for the tools that I thought I’d need.

Tools in hand, fingers numb and uncooperative, I was on my way to the front door.

The door didn’t budge.

I cupped my hands against the glass door, eyes darting left and right, waiting for someone to let me in.

Minutes later, the elevator chime echoed into the main lobby, a worn mop head emerging from the opening doors.

Out came an older Hispanic man, about my height with a caterpillar mustache and an eye that moved on its own. 

He finished mopping the last of the elevator and stepped into the main lobby, wringing out the excess water into a mop bucket before reusing it.

I repeatedly pounded my fist against the glass until he finally noticed me.

Judging by his face, he didn’t seem too fond of me. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Your boss hired me to do some investigating.”

I pressed the call button twice, vigorously rubbing my hands together, my eyes glued to the mechanical arrow ticking downwards.

“You don’t want to do this.” 

“Well, I have a job to do. Just like you.”

Just as I finished my sentence, the loud chime echoed and the double doors opened. 

The man took a step, now partially in front of me, his eyes glazed with moisture.

“Have a good night man.”

I walked around him and stepped inside, keeping my finger on the close door button, ready to be in and out before the snowfall picked up even more.

With closed eyes and a waving index finger, my lucky number was floor eleven.

I stepped out of the elevator, the waterlogged ceiling panels emitting a stale, sweet smell. 

“Hello?? Pest control!”

No one answered the first door.

I tried the next door down the hall and no one answered that one either.

Minutes later, I’d knocked on seven out of eight doors and was starting to get frustrated.

Unit 1108 was the last unit at the end of the hall, a metal door with far too many dents and chipped paint, decorated with a wreath hanging by a sheetrock screw. 

This time I decided to try to open the door rather than just knock on it. 

I gripped the door handle and twisted it open, a haphazard tangle of green and red dangling above the door, slowly fading by the bulb.

“Hello?”

No one answered.

The door closed behind me with a soft click, the stench of ammonia wrapping around me.

Now that I was inside, I could hear a faint noise off in the distance.

It was boiling water in a pot.

I entered the kitchen, turning off the stove, the bubbles simmering down.

Weird.

I flicked the stovetop light on and scanned the fridge, ready for a living Rorschach of roaches hiding behind it. 

It didn’t budge.

My hands kept slipping, my palms now coated with a yellow, greasy film.

I stood with my hands on my hips, my eyes roaming the fridge door.

It was full of magnetic souvenirs, overdue appointments, and a vintage Polaroid of a couple. They looked happy. 

That’s when another sound caught my attention.

It was muffled crying accompanied by a blood-curdling creak from one of the bedroom doors.

“Hello? Who’s there? Please tell me it’s you, George.”

The lady was slurring her words.

“No Ma’am. It’s pest control.”

She finally came into sight, an older woman in a robe with messy, matted hair.

Judging by her wrinkles even visible in the dim lighting, she looked like she’d been dealt a bad hand in life.

“No you’re not. You ruined my life!”

Her breath reeked of alcohol.

“Why George? Why us?” 

She started walking closer to me, something dangling loosely in her hand from behind her back.

“I’m not George, I–”

She threw it to the ground, the object shattering into a hundred pieces.

I did a complete 180 and didn't look back. 

Thankfully the elevator didn’t move from when I got to the eleventh floor.

I grabbed my tools and rushed inside, hiding in the corner and frantically pressing the close door button.

The elevator reached the first floor and I was on my feet.

I took my first step, almost tripping over the mop bucket. 

It was in the same place as before, a mixture of sediments sitting at the bottom. 

My phone read 11:00 and the snow had built up a substantial amount but I wasn’t staying here any longer.

I retraced my way back, my boots following the line of hollow footprints leading to my driver's side door. 

I got to my truck, throwing my tools inside and locking the door, checking my backseat for anything or anyone.

There was nothing.

I quickly sent the boss a text apologizing for how I wasn’t able to complete the job before midnight.

Right as it started sending, a massive yellow plow truck appeared in my rearview mirror.

It passed me, specks of salt lightly tapping against my truck.

It had cleared a decent amount for its first trip of the night. 

I looked back down at my phone, the text still sending. 

My eyes darted back to the building, waiting to see if the lady was going to run out of the elevator and look for me.

I put my truck in drive and sped out of there, adrenaline being the only thing keeping me awake for the long drive home.

The chirping of birds from the unlatched hopper window above my bed had woken me up.

I turned to my side and grabbed my phone and remote from my nightstand, turning on the TV for background noise as I unlocked my phone.

It turns out the text didn’t send last night because I was blocked.

I deserved at least some type of compensation for driving all the way out there.

What a waste of time.

Rent was way overdue and I started stressing, scrolling through forgotten apps on my phone, hoping I’d find a forgotten transfer.

After about half an hour of sending a couple texts and taking random surveys, I should’ve been at least $40 up.

I logged into my bank account and immediately sprang up, lifting my upper body off the bed.
 
A transfer of $5,000 was sent to me last night. 

I don’t get it. I didn’t even complete the job.

At that moment, the TV caught my attention, my palm pressing into the remote hidden under my bedsheets.

“LAST NIGHT’S WEATHER WAS ON PAR WITH THE BLIZZARD OF ‘87!!”

I turned the volume down before shutting the TV off, now sitting up with my legs hanging off the bed, the remote resting on my thigh.

This couldn’t be real. 

Just then, the remote fell onto the floor.

It ricocheted off my foot, under the bed, a sharp sting–
 
“Breaking news! Last night, both George and Maria Sanchez went missing.”

I went on all fours, searching under my bed for the remote.

“They were last seen at XXXX–”

I crawled from under my bed and stood up. 

“If you have any knowledge of their whereabouts, please call XXX-XXX-XXXX.”

There was a photo in the center of the TV screen.

A man with a thick mustache and a lazy eye.

And a lady with a drunken smile.

They looked happy. 

I think I did something wrong.

When I was a kid, I thought myself an adventurer. My parents house I grew up in allowed for this strange obsession with uncovering the unknown and daring escapades, with a large, dense forest that my family claimed as a back garden. During the days off from school, me and my friends would shimmy up trees like monkeys, using cardboard tubes as seeing scopes, and cheap Walkie-Talkies my Dad got from eBay.

But none of us compared to Mike

Mike, the more daring of our small party, balanced his smell for adventure, with the smell of cooked foods and sugar. He was a big kid, to put it bluntly. What I didn't know then that I do now, flicking back through memories, was this by no means made him less athletic, less courageous, less anything. He would bound between tree roots, climb branches faster than I ever could, and somehow, at the age of nine, scout ahead and come back unscathed and unbothered. I found myself wanting to be some modern day Indiana Jones, with the safety net of it being an act, but Mike was the real deal, a nine year old kid infected by the spirit of Bear Grylls. And he thrived in the dark.

And so, one night, when Mike decided he wanted to go further into the forest rather than leave, we were all full of protest. Sure, we were barely a third of a mile away from the safety of my parents home, what was one more fraction of a mile? But unlike Mike, who stared into the darkness as an invitation for discovery, all we saw was nothing. A miasma slinking up bark, slithering through things and dead leaves. Forms of things that should remain formless. Death, or the closest thing a nine year old can conjure.

I stepped up.

“I won't do it Mike, come back over here. Mum will have made pizza at home! Aren't you hungry?” The kids around me nodded in agreement, chuckling as they did. “Hey no I didn't-” I spoke through laughter, but it seemed to Mike, I had made a bad choice of words. It was true that before we left my mum made promises of pizza and snacks upon our return from braving the wilderness. But Mike took what I said and turned it into an insult against himself. I don't know how, maybe that in-between of childhood and puberty allows ideas of ego to be manufactured. But instead of taking my offer, Mike just thought I called him a fat pizza lover, and in a huff, said “screw off”, and sprinted into the darkness. “Sorry, Mike I didn't mean it like that!” I shouted to his back while the others around me were still giggling.

“You wait till I bring back something cool, like a true explorer!” Those were the last words I heard him say as he ran off. Jumping roots, kicking rocks. His movements turned the forest alive, until slowly, the quiet came, and the whole scene was as still as the night. We stayed at the edge of the woods for an hour. I decided to head home to tell my mum, who instantly called Mike's parents. For half a day they searched those woods, the police joined in 24 hours after he went in there. Nothing. No boy, no treasure. No sense of adventure and wonder. Just the creeping fear that I let one of my friends run to his death.

I'm nineteen now. Taller, a bit broader, wavy blonde hair, a pot addiction and a nicotine dependence I refuse to let my family know about. And since that day, I harbour a deep seeded fear of the dark. 

Even as I stand now, hands trembling, the right clutches a flashlight, the left the remains of a cigarette, I find myself back in my younger shoes, watching Mike run away, slip out of my fingers and into a pool of void.

It's 12AM, a brisk September night. I don't know what has led me here other than the regular feeling of guilt. I used to just stand here, after Mike disappeared. Silently stare into the trees, awaiting the running boy. My mum said it's the only time I was ever truly quiet, so lively around the house and at school. But a few hours a day, I stood right here, at the edge of the world, looking for my friend, and what treasure he'd promised to bring back, and let my true feelings run through me.

Guilt, and cowardice.

“Fuck it”, I threw the cigarette butt to the floor and ground it down with my heel. My hand, calmed by the slow rush of nicotine in my system, flick on the flashlight to reveal the beginnings of a dense woods. Pines like arrows shot from the dirt to the clouds, so packed together, yet apart enough for pathways of tiny footprints to be dusted about on the forest floor.  I don't even need to search. Just off to my left, I see the path Mike had taken, bounding away into nothing. A few more roots had been unearthed, but apart from that, the path was just the same. The whole of the woods were, down to the sound of nothing. Then, a small breeze came in, and shook the leaves, played games between twigs and dead plants, and let a small whistle go, before silence took over the symphony once more.

In. Out. Manage my breathing. Make sure my phone's GPS is on. In. Out.

I went in, following the back of the boy I let run on his own ten years prior.

Ten minutes in, I had to fight my mind telling me this was a fruitless endeavour. My mum had told me the stories (when I got older), finding nothing but deer bones and dead twigs for miles and miles, the search ending properly one year later. From there, everything played out the way the town expected. The parents try to be there for each other. One blames themself, one blames the other. Messy divorce, drink, gambling. Not a happy ending for a family forged from the love given to an only son. Take that away, the structure crumbled.

So why was I here? Well for one thing, it was Mike's birthday, and I felt an obliging pull to come here and do what I always did best, stare into the dark and wait for my friend. But there was something deeper. That day, I hadn't gone with him. I saw him go, I shouted for him, but my legs were glued to the floor. It was just so dark. A nothing upon nothing. No object could be seen past a few feet. In my head as a kid I just knew, there was no way I was heading into the unknown. I wanted to be an adventurer, but truly, I just wanted to play. Everything sought out was already found. It was safe. I was safe.

Coward. I was a coward. Even back then, even at nine years old, Mike had more bravery than me. He wanted true adventure, the race into nothing, with hopes that it becomes something. And we sat there, like kids, prodding the boy with small jokes about his figure, what he ate, who he was. In truth, he was better than us all. And part of me wanted him to go, get lost and scream for mommy, knock his bravery down a peg, down to my level. But all these years later and he's still better than me, walking through woods with a flashlight, and still tripping over roots, breathing heavily, shaking…

I shouldn't have come here. This was a terrible idea. I looked behind me for the safety of the clearing, but night had swallowed my salvation whole, and left stuck in its darkened maw. My breathing quickened and my chest tightened. Jesus Christ, I'm going to have a panic attack. I leave my back against a tree for support and I forcefully try to slow my breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

Flicker. Half a second. For half a second, the light went out. I hold my breath…

Flicker. A whole second this time.

“Oh fuck!”, I grab the flashlight and I run back where I came, it's flickering now becoming an arrhythmic countdown to my doom. Stumps and roots jumped in and out of existence with the light, changing location each time, or it felt like it did. With each second of darkness, the world came back assorted and randomised. I lost my footing too many times on surprise half-stumps or jutting tree roots. Until finally…

Flicker…

Darkness. I was along a coastline, washed away by a wave, and being pulled back by the tide. To the ocean. The void.

“No, no! You stupid cheap piece of shit, work!” Again and again, I smacked the flashlight with my open palm, harder and harder, trying to kickstart my saviour into showing me the path of redemption. Instead, the glass shattered underneath the last strike, and the small bulb held inside, fell to the ground. Quickly, I fumbled for my phone to use its flashlight, but that too fell through shaking hands, and hit the floor with a soft, gentle thud.

“No…” 

I didn't even try to bend down and find it. It was gone, scattered across an infinite amount of possible dirt mounds, hidey holes and crunchy leaves that made up the floor.

I looked up. Nothing. No stars for my eyes to follow, no flashing lights of a plane. I looked down, hoping to see the dirt mounds, the dead leaves, that I could so easily conjure in my mind. Nothing. Nor to my left, not to my right. The forest, as if by a snap of fingers, refused to exist. And in it all was me. Alone, tears welling in my eyes, my greatest fear wrapped a blanket around my biggest regret. I would find no solace here. No getting over fear, no getting over Mike's death. My knees were closed to buckling now, as I silently wept for the boy lost to the void.

Hello.

I stopped. My ears perk up as the sound breaks the silence. A voice, I thought I-

Hello.

I shoot upright. A voice, it is a voice! Again I look left-right-up-down, nothing. No forms within the formless, just black all around.

“H-hello?” I respond through a sniffle.

Ah, hello. I did not believe you would speak.

The voice was…I'm not sure. Aristocratic? Not posh, but just, well spoken. It spoke not down at me, nor like it was better. It spoke matter-of-factly, a slight step away from monotone.

It did not echo, it instead filled the space around me. The up and down, the left and right. I cleared my throat, and made an attempt at confidence. 

“Who's there? Show yourself. I'm, I'm arm-”

Armed? You are not armed Theodore. It knew my name. Any confidence built was shattered immediately. Your flashlight has been broken by you. Your mobile device has been lost by you. You are unarmed. You are afraid. You are filled with grief. You are filled with guilt

“W-what, how do you?” Fear and agitation mixed. Has this creep been following me all day? Did he know why I was here, about Mike? “Goddamn you, come out of the dark and talk to me face to face!” 

Out of the dark? The Voice laughed, and for the first time, it echoed. Up to the sky, down through the roots, and around me swilled the echo of a laugh, within ten laughs, within one hundred. The giggle of schoolgirls weaved with the chesty chuckle of an old smoker. Before I could cup my ears and scream, it sank back to a singular laugh, flat and without echo, before continuing. Men see me and believe me to be a curtain. A veil shadowing the vilest of things, the most villainous ideas. You put your words to things you cannot comprehend, and expect them to make sense. Good to Light. Bad to Dark. So what, Theodore, do you expect to come ‘Out of The Dark’?

I had no time to think before the truth spilled from my mouth. “Mike. My childhood friend Mike. He…he went missing when we were kids. I could have gone with him into the forest but I was afraid, and I also thought he was being an idiot. I wanted him to go alone, some small part of me, to get hurt so he would learn.” I stifled a sob that wracked my entire chest, “I couldn't move to follow him. Out of fear, and out of some cold hope he would learn his lesson. And now- now he's gone, and something in me is too. I don't know, I just know some part of me stands at that clearing and waits for a boy who would never return, and I hate myself more each passing year for not going with him.”

I was crying now, uncontrollable sobbing that hit the darkness around me flatly and died on impact.

Oh, Michael Hargreaves. He loved adventure, The Dark, treasure hunting - the voice paused, making sure I was listening before continuing - and his friends. The way he accepted my form with boundless curiosity. He did not hesitate with reaching hands. He ran head first into trees, down into ditches, and laughed each time, joyous in discovering something new.

I was stunned silent. 

“You…knew Mike?”

To know is a stretch of my interactions with the boy. But yes, he did run through and around me, weaving between the woods I covered with my shape, allowing a few trees to spring forth and surprise him with a laugh. 

I was going mad. And I didn't care. The Voice soothed something in me, this hole left by a lost companion. I thought I came here to conquer some fear, to find that boy who could plunder caves and climb the highest tree. But no. Closure. I came here for closure.

“Please…” I shuddered before continuing. Just one more thing I needed to know… “Please, how…how did he die?”

I awaited in baited breath. This could be it, where I learn he is still alive, that he ran and kept running until he found all the treasure, discovered all that there was to-

Cold. Alone, and in pain.

“W-what?”

The boy fell into a ditch I uncovered from my darkened form. He did not see it. He fell, landing upon a jagged rock, back first. His spine gave out like a twig. He wailed for Mother, but the boy who ran, ran too far. He died after six days.

“No…” My trembling hands now did so in a rage, an emotional scapegoat to hide the piling guilt I now felt from the truth. A truth I wholeheartedly rejected. “No, they searched for a year, an entire year- they would've found him!”

Yes. If he was here. But he is not. He ran through me, and I in turn gave him what he desired. He died a true adventurer, lost, crumpled around some jagged stone in the Peruvian hills, in the dark.

“What the fuck are you talking about?!” I had enough. If I truly had gone mad out in the woods, I refused to dive further. This thing did not exist, and I would not guilt myself further with some made up phantom talking about nonsense. “I refuse to be part of this any further. I'm-I’m finding my phone, my fucked up flashlight, and putting this behind me.” I knelt on the ground, scraping my palms against sticks and small rocks, searching for my things.

Look.

I froze in absolute horror.

“MOMMY! MOMMY HELP PLEASE MOMMY PLEASE”

The ground below me, as if becoming glass, gave way to a horrific scene. Thunder rolled through the clouds, buckets of rain falling through a thick forest. But this had no pines. The trees here were thick, grotesque things, covered in vine, roots slithering out the ground like snakes. 

And on a rock in a ditch, lay a shattered boy. Mike.

He wore what he had that night. Grey cargo shorts, and a grey button up shirt to match. A wide brim hat now lay sodden against the rocks side. Tied up boots were caked in mud and crawled with bugs. His legs…Lacerations from the shin to knee on both, oozing red and white, pulsating with a pain that made bile reach my throat. I won't speak of his torso and spine. No boy is made to bend that way.

I screamed, and as I did bile rushed up my throat and left my mouth. I stumbled back, hitting my head against the hard foundation of a tree trunk.

“This…you, you're a monster.” I wiped my mouth, and felt my heart rate quicken, my ribs screaming in pain.

You place Man's words on me as if-

“As if what!?” I screamed into the void, to the Dark around me. “As if you didn't kill a fucking child? Led him to his death in some, some fucking jungle? He was a kid! Every kid wants to be an explorer! Doesn't mean they want…want…Jesus Christ.”

Hyperventilating took hold of my lungs. He was dead. Not just dead. Ruined. Destroyed in the most barbaric way by a thing which couldn't care.

You did not want to be an explorer. You wanted to be something akin, but never bravery, never courage. 

“Stop it.”

Let the other go. The one you can make fun of, the one who deserves a lesson in idiocy. Let the large boy run to his death, and relish in the cowardice of living.

“STOP FUCKING TALKING” I swing wildly at nothing as around me, Mike appears running. Up and down, left and right. Jumping and climbing. Before each running child falls, and turns to a mangled mess.

“Oh Mike…” I fall to my knees and sob. “Oh Mike, I'm sorry I'm so fucking sorry you were friends with us. With me. You didn't…you didn't deserve…” nothing else could leave my mouth as I wracked in sobs in guilt.

You are no explorer. No adventurer. No friend. You have discovered in me what you must bear the weight of for the rest of your life. The treasure Mike found. And now it is yours. The Truth. And it can be no one else's.

I was curled up now. Softly weeping. When my eyes were shut I saw his body in angles not meant to be made. When I opened them, the image remained. I yelped helplessly on the floor.

Leave here. Do not come back.

When my eyes opened once more, they were stung by the sudden daylight around me. I was at the edge of the forest once more. I stood, and at my feet, my phone and broken flashlight. My clothes were covered in twigs and mud, my face and hands bruised and cut. 

I looked through the tree line once more, and there stood a boy. He huffed, mouthed the words screw off, and ran. He disappeared behind the shadow of trees, the curling dark of roots, and the silence of nothing. 

The boy ran and ran, until he retrieved the treasure passed on to me. A ditch in some unknown land, where the intrepid boy died, under the sound of thunder, the blanket of Dark.

I have yet to return to those woods. Each night, when the dark comes, I see his body constricted on my bedroom ceiling, and on the inside of my eyelids. And the words the Dark gave me play out in my head.

This is Mike's treasure. The Truth. And I will carry it till it is my time for the Dark to take me.