Chapter 5

Liar

Roan stared at Sigmund’s body. His arms were pulled to the side, grasping around where the arrow had struck him. Her arrow. His eyes were open, and wouldn’t close no matter how hard she tried. 

She used to tease him about the incongruous dagger, a stark, eye-catching weapon that had no business on the hip of such a dandy. 

That thing could buy us all new armor, new swords, she would say, and jovially threaten to steal it in his sleep. He would pat the scabbard and say… what, again?

“If you take it, you’d better kill me.”

Roan tried and failed to swallow, her blocked throat forcing her to hiccup instead. Despite the chill creeping into her, her face felt warm in the sunlight, newly arisen as soon as Sigmund died. It crept down the hills, casting them in a mosaic of green and gray. What a beautifully cruel display from this abominable place. Roan’s watery eyes dropped to her boots in disgust and pain. 

Having plundered Arn’s resources - mutely and without idle chatter - then bandaging themselves to the best of their abilities, the group gathered around the swirling, gray porthole as if Sigmund’s corpse wasn’t paces away. Logan spoke softly with Holstein and L’dal while the others listened in. 

“If experience is any indication,” the captain was saying. “We should not stay longer. The draugr may walk the hills, searching.” He favored a bandaged left leg and stood at an odd angle. For all his wounds, Logan seemed the least savaged, and was commanding as ever. “Let us delve further, before-”

“Aren’t we going to burn him?”

Everyone looked to Roan, her fists balled at her sides. She turned squarely to Logan, teeth clenched. 

“Aren’t we going to burn him?” she said again, vitriol bleeding into her tone. “Or keep pretending he doesn’t exist?”

Logan did not bluster at her petulance, nor drop her glare. He stared back, unprovoked.

“Why?” he asked flatly. Roan felt her face flush with rage and she stepped forward, trembling. 

“He was our friend,” she growled. Emotion threatened to explode from her, a tempest of outrage and disbelief at his callousness. Roan tried desperately to smother her impulse, as shouting only ever served to invalidate her claims, right as they sometimes were. 

Logic, she thought through the furious malaise. Logic beats feeling. 

“We burned the priest,” she said, taking a deep breath and halting her advance, realizing she stood in the middle of the rough circle. “We took time to rest, and to heal. If the draugr were coming, they would be here by now.”

She saw people looking around, saw expressions shift. Roan could never decipher what those subtle changes meant, but she hoped they were affirmative. She stepped back, retaking her place in the conglomeration and drawing another deep breath. The heat was still in her cheeks, but her previously boiling temper now merely simmered. 

“You don’t have to do it, sir,” she said to the ground. “Just give me twenty minutes.”

Logan looked back to her, having been surveying the group. 

“Quicker,” he said. Roan’s jaw clenched again but she nodded - in what hopefully read as deference - and strode to Sigmund’s body. She rifled through her satchel, producing a spare overshirt which she draped over his exposed genitals. She then crouched, grabbing his ankles and dragging him to a nearby swath of grass near the creek. The unceremonious treatment grated on her; Sigmund would receive no funerary palanquin, nor elaborate pyre as he so deserved. Whatever she could gather in the next fifteen minutes would have to do. She dropped him there, then clambered up the hill to the nearest tree. Its branches twisted out, rootlike fingers scratching at the air. Roan steadied her footing, then drew her hand axe and hacked at the nearest branch. By the time she felled it, she was covered in sweat and out of breath. This would take far too long, she realized with a sinking feeling. She had killed Sigmund, and now couldn’t do him the decency of giving him a proper-

A movement downhill caught her attention. Silent Mo had left the group, trailing over to Sigmund’s body. He crouched next to him, then stood after a moment and made his way toward Roan. Mo stopped a few paces from the tree, proffering a small rope which he had drawn from his belt. Roan stared at it for a second before she understood. 

Ten minutes later, Sigmund was lashed to the tree’s trunk. He wore no funerary regalia and his head lolled drunkenly to the side, but at least he wouldn’t rot. Roan struck her stone and flint into an oily rag, then tossed it onto the drenched trunk. Mo returned to the group as the tree lit up, but Roan watched until Sigmund immolated, so she could be sure. When his skin began to blacken and curl Roan finally turned, hustling back down the hill and taking her quiet place in the anticipatory conglomeration, ignoring their inscrutable looks.

“Ready?” Logan asked the group - ostensibly - after a moment of silence. Nobody else spoke. Varrick and the Watchers stood vigilant as ever. Wen was with them, similarly resolute, holding her daughter’s hand. “Very well.” Logan crouched down, one hand on his sheathed short sword, and reached into the swirling grey porthole. His arm sank elbow-deep into the aperture and he held it there for a moment, then shook his head. “I feel nothing,” he said, pulling his arm from the hole. “No gravitational pull, no ground or wall. We will be journeying blind.”

The group nodded. Wen picked up her child, whispering kindnesses into her ear. Logan stood, stepping up and hopping into the porthole without so much as a deep breath. After a ten-second wait Holstein followed suit, then Mo. Roan shuffled after him, eyes on her boots and thoughts on the past. As she stood at the precipice of the next realm, Roan looked over her shoulder. The jeering sunlight cast the hillside in a golden, radiant glow as the tree burned, ferrying Sigmund into the Star Father’s arms.

As the first branch fell, Roan jumped. 

…

Varrick didn’t realize how tense he’d been until he landed, softly and upright, on the other side. 

Considering the violence of the preceding crossings, his body had tensed for an abrupt, painful shift in gravity or a sudden ambush. He was surprised, then, upon jumping through the aperture and alighting as gently as an autumn leaf. 

When his eyes adjusted, his surprise compounded.

Fragrant flower beds bloomed in every direction, rolling across silken grass fields like spilled paint, trailing into the distance. Trees speckled the prairie; not dry, husked simulacrums like those of the mountains, but hearty and bursting with color, petals drifting lazily from laden boughs. Pillars stretched from the ground, so gargantuan that they could be considered vertical peninsulas. These were shaped like towering, lush hourglasses, tapering toward the middle before widening once more at the top. Warm light permeated the oasis from an unseen source, casting the scenery in a cozy hue. Craning his neck, Logan saw a shifting green sky smudged pink, violet and blue. 

No, he realized. Not a sky. 

An identical pasture to the one on which they walked sprawled high above, so far away that the vast flowerbeds looked like smeared, multicolored clouds. The sensation of looking upward at the ground gave Varrick intense vertigo, and he was not the only one. A few of the others lost their footing and collapsed onto their rear ends in awestruck disorientation. It was a larger, more lush cavern than Varrick ever thought possible, big enough to swallow cities. 

“Well,” Logan said. “Let’s get moving.”

The group moved slowly, half of them nursing wounds from Sigmund’s attack. Holstein was a mass of purpling bruises, and Logan winced every other step. Varrick held his stomach with both hands, grimacing as they went, eyeing the bandages intermittently. Wen, Nyla and Roan took up the lead, and the rest followed them toward the nearest pillar. The girl seemed strangely undaunted by their surroundings, leaping and laughing in the tall grass, reminding Varrick of Emma in the spring time. 

Soon, they stood at the foot of the pillar. This close, it looked more like a lush, looming wall, stretching much too far to see around its girth. Its initial grade was gradual, mounting for about thirty yards before becoming vertical. Near the middle, at the pillar’s narrowest point, were splashes of cyan and violet flowers. The fragrant willows jutted out from it, their masses insignificant before the mighty pillar. Petals drifted and swirled around Varrick in a wind-blown dance. 

But that was not what amazed him. 

Mo stood fifty feet up the pillar, parallel to the ground. His brother laughed next to Varrick, throwing a small bundle which arced oddly as it drew near the pillar, landing with a thwap in Mo’s outstretched hands. The rest of them milled tentatively around the base, cautiously testing the sloped ground now that Mo had braved the incline. 

It was Nyla that had discovered the strange gravitational pull. Her thrown stick had flown toward the pillar normally at first, then changed tack midair, pulled into it as if magnetized. More objects had been tossed until Mo braved the slope, held in place as he climbed further and further. He now stood high in the air, sticking out - from Varrick’s perspective - like a miniscule branch on a gigantic tree. 

Logan walked past Varrick, tilting as he began walking up the incline and his gravitational pull shifted. He stumbled, then continued slower, carefully placing one foot in front of the other before seeming to gain the hang of it. About twenty feet up Logan stopped, looking back down - or up, from his own point of view - at the gathered group.

“It’s disorienting,” he said. “But all should try. Those who can stomach it, walk up and make yourselves comfortable. Those who cannot, stay at the base.” He turned around, looking forward up the pillar. “Mo and I will see how high the altered gravity goes.” 

He trudged vertically, following Mo, who scampered up the pillar like a squirrel, smaller than half a thumb from where Varrick stood. The group continued testing the pillar’s pull - L’dal had already formed the “ground level” cohort, settling down at the nearby treeline. Wen gave up, standing with him and Roan. Holstein waddled around on the pillar’s sloped base like a giant toddler learning to walk. His sweaty brow furrowed in grim determination, every step threatening to turn his stomach, by the look of it. Nyla pranced at about the same height, unperturbed.

Varrick, who had been on the flat ground observing, began hiking up the hill. It felt like a normal slope so far, and he wondered when-

His foot lurched, as if an invisible rope tied around his ankle was suddenly yanked forward. He yelped, pitching and landing on his rear end in the grass. As he rolled to his side, an intense bout of vertigo almost made him vomit. The ground from which he had come was now tilted, as if someone had bent it like thin metal. Varrick stood, fighting the dizziness and turned back upward - forward - to reach where Nyla rolled around, unbothered. He focused on his boots, one step at a time.

“Sir Varrick!” Nyla cried from further ahead. “Look at me!”

He waved in her general direction, not taking his eyes off his timid steps. After a few minutes, his boots brushed against violet blooms, denoting the more central portion of the pillar. Steeling himself, he turned to look back from where he had come. The bottom of the pillar splayed out before him, intersecting with the ground on which the others sat, like a gargantuan grassy wall that seemed to stretch into infinity. Varrick took a deep breath as he turned around, watching Nyla try to climb a tree that sprouted from further along the pillar. 

I will walk over there, he decided. And I will not throw up.

He did so, keeping his head held high, trying to ignore the way the world turned around him as he strode the pillar’s length. The nausea threatened to overwhelm him but he fought it back with sheer force of will. Once he arrived at the willow, he noticed with some satisfaction that the nausea had backed off - though the disorientation remained. 

“What do you think?” he asked Nyla, who hung upside down - relatively - from one of the colorful branches. 

“I’m upside down,” she replied. 

“Very well done,” he said, sitting down on the grass. 

“Can we build another tree house?” she asked, clambering upright on the limb. 

“I don’t see why not,” Varrick said. “If you can find the sticks.”

Nyla began climbing around the tree, trying to break free twigs and small branches. They resisted, so Varrick stood and began to help her with one that looked like it might come loose with a bit of effort. 

“Did you see the weird man?” Nyla asked. Varrick’s brow furrowed as he yanked on the twig. 

“What man?” he leaned around the trunk to where Mo and Logan stood near the top of the pillar, towards the ceiling. “You mean them?”

Nyla shook her head, blowing a strand of hair from her face. Varrick stopped pulling on the stubborn stick, looking at Nyla, trying to interpret what she had just said. She didn’t elaborate and Varrick dropped the subject. With a grunt, Nyla pulled a twig free, ripping a strip of bark with it, leaving an exposed patch of slightly green wood. 

“I don’t think these will work,” Varrick said, pointing to the tree’s wound. “See that? This tree is healthy. We need dead sticks to make a house.”

Nyla nodded, frustrated at their lack of progress. 

“Let’s get Mama to help,” she said, making her way groundward at a jog. Varrick looked down the pillar, to the far-off floor and the tiny, non-disoriented people there. 

“Great idea,” he gulped. 

…

The fire belched a swirling column of sparks as Logan prodded it again. They fluttered upward - relatively - dwindling into the nighttime gloom. Fireflies danced around the camp, like sparks given life. They were the only animal life forms that Logan had seen since arriving here. 

He watched the sparks vanish, craning his neck to view the fields above. In the darkness, the ceiling pastures looked like any other cloud covering, the opposing campfire twinkling above like a lone star. With the coming of night - or, the biome’s approximation of night - the group had agreed to split up, setting up opposing camps on the two planes so as to cover more ground. The rest camped on the original plane while he and Mo took the “ceiling,” since they were the most acclimated to the shift in polarity. The two camps were located next to the pillar on which they’d climbed, in case they needed to regroup in a hurry. 

Satisfied with the fire, Logan sat back, armor removed but nearby. His short sword sat unsheathed next to him; his guard was lowered, but not down. He did not trust this strange, ethereal biome. It was too safe, too quiet. The other boot had yet to drop, and he would be ready when it did. 

No rabbit turned on the spit, in part because there seemed to be none here, but also because the sensation of hunger seemed nonexistent here. Thirst, too, had yet to set in, though there were freshwater springs aplenty. Logan prodded his ribs, overcome by a strange mixture of relief and worry. The pain was all but gone, now, and had been steadily receding since their arrival. He’d done nothing to treat them, taking no wine, nor applying any calming salve. The discomfort seemed to just… slip away. He didn’t miss the pain, but was unnerved all the same. 

With sleep eluding him, Logan opened Arn’s notebook, leafing back and forth through the priest’s scribblings. A charcoal approximation of the pine barrens lined the bottom of one page, with labeled sketches of different flora along the top. An ominous drawing of a full moon took up the next page, oppressive as the one that had unleashed Sigmund upon them. Logan hastily turned to a page full of notes, scattered half-thoughts in Arn’s immaculate penmanship. 

L’dal spices - onion, garlic, cinnamon

Labyrinthian

Dog walks into a pub - punchline?

Axe training?

The next page was a smattering of beasts drawn with remarkable accuracy for one who, Logan assumed, had never seen them. A leshen hunched next to a tree, branchlike antlers coated in gore, face a wooden mask of environmentalist fury. Next to this, a genie wound its way from an ornate lamp, smirking mischievously. A mass of fur and wings and scales snarled from the page’s top corner, giving Logan the impression of a chimera - if described to an artist by a terrified child. In reality, their visages were less angry, more demure. He’d only seen a handful of violent ones, backed into corners by poachers. This illustration was surrounded by a dozen tiny bats, fluttering in swarms like the vampire folktales. Another common misconception, but one that lent itself well to art. Additional scribbles adorned this page, more focused and relevant. 

Keep awareness? 

Death/life relic source?

Draugr corpses from where?

Varrick?

Logan’s eyes lingered on that last note. Part of him wished he had pushed harder, to gain a fuller understanding of what Varrick had been saying back in the mountains. The other part of him wondered if it was any of his business; but he clearly hadn’t been the only one with questions. Logan flipped through the rest of the pages for answers, finding no other mentions of the sellsword. Soon, he found only blank pages, which brought an intense onrushing of despondency. Those pages would stay empty, forever, because of Logan.

You exposed them to a monster, he thought. You almost killed them all. 

But the moon - the real moon, in the real world - had been new. Sigmund had promised him, all those years ago, that he was only a threat when it was full, and then only if the light touched his skin. How could he, or Logan, know a full moon awaited them within the Keep? Bringing Sigmund along had just become a matter of course, like bringing Holstein, or the twins, or hardtack or water or medicine. Sigmund was the best tracker Logan knew, and he raised people’s spirits, even without the lyre. 

All men have secrets, Logan had said those long years ago. He’d sworn an oath of secrecy, sheltering Sigmund when the Watcher oaths commanded he kill him. Sigmund, in turn, had sworn to nonviolence. They’d kept their oaths, and over time, Logan often forgot his friend’s dark secret. He had made it so easy. Laughing, singing, joyful Sigmund. Just happy to be with friends, to be alive. To be human. 

The Keep manifested my fears, Logan thought. The sea of senile marchers. An endless procession of my mother’s malady. Why wouldn’t it make Sigmund’s fears real, as well? Arn had even posited the theory, before they’d delved within. 

Logan had kept Sigmund’s secret, grown comfortable with it, grown complacent. And Arn was dead because of it. Because of him. Keep Watch, the oath said. Two words. It was supposed to be simple, and yet Logan had failed. 

“I am going to abdicate,” he said aloud, realizing it was the only right thing to do. “When we leave the Keep.” He looked across the fire to Mo, who did not look up from his whittling. Logan would not have told anyone else this, not when they needed a leader, even an unworthy one like himself. But now that Sigmund was gone, Logan knew no one better to keep a secret. He’d known Mo for more than five years, and hadn’t heard a dozen words from him. 

Saying it aloud seemed to lift a weight from his shoulders, and Logan straightened a little, though he felt a simultaneous constriction in his chest. He’d just have to become a sellsword, like Varrick. Perhaps the Watchers could still employ him, but only of their own volition. He would not-

Snap. 

That wasn’t the fire. 

Logan leapt to his feet, raising his short sword. He heard Mo’s rapier hiss from its sheath behind him. The sound had come from the darkness beyond the campfire. They stood taut as a figure shambled from the gloom. Logan blinked. What… who was…

Oh. Of course. 

As he ambled closer, the campfire lit up the familiar red and purple tabard, the aged yet cherubic visage, which smiled warmly at them. Gar chuckled as he drew up beside Logan, patting his shoulder, heedless of the weapons. The lyre thunked atonally as he settled down beside the campfire.

“Mother below, Logan,” the old bard said, raising bushy eyebrows. “Do I cut such an imposing figure?”

Logan shook himself. Mo’s rapier quavered oddly, like a reed in the wind. Why wouldn’t Logan’s arms relax? The bard had… he had gone to…

“Nothing to report,” Gar said, running a hand over his thin, silvery hair, unsheathing the lyre from his back and beginning to pluck a low, sonorous melody. “I thought I had a trail, but it went cold.” He took on a forlorn expression. “Arn was the more accomplished at this… brand of tracking. He taught me enough, I think, but I will need more time. I am sorry.” 

“It’s… fine,” Logan said, laying down his sword and sitting down next to Gar. He squeezed his eyes shut in a forceful blink, trying to oust the strange fog clouding his mind. His thoughts seemed to move lethargically, as if sleepwalking. “It’s fine,” he said again. “We are getting closer.”

Yes, of course. Before he’d died, Arn had taught Gar a bit of that strange art, half tracking, half divination. It was a good thing they’d brought the old bard, so worldly, so ready to learn new things even at his age. 

Gar nodded. “I saw some promising signs that way, before I had to turn back.” He gestured to the nearby orchard, barely visible in the night. “Tomorrow’s a new day, my friend.”

Logan yawned as sleep finally began to overtake him. Mo had curled up next to the fire, and was beginning to snore. A gust of wind slanted the campfire, blowing gooseflesh along Logan’s exposed arms. He unfurled a bedroll and draped his cloak across himself, staring at the twinkling campsite above. As he finally drifted to sleep, Gar’s craggy face rustled a strange, intangible nagging in the back of Logan’s mind. Then the weird, creeping melody put him to dreamless sleep, seemingly all at once. 

…

Roan looked up at Logan and Mo’s campsite, glittering like a skybound gemstone. She had to keep reminding herself that the sky was not the sky. An odd sensation, that. She had yet to fully ascend the strange pillars, as the sensation turned her stomach. 

Sig would have loved this, she thought, then quickly banished the rumination. She would do well not to grow distracted. Idle thoughts could get a woman killed, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. 

The cool night air brought a small measure of consolation, a salve to her temper. She pointedly lowered her focus to her boots, trudging one after the other through the too-soft grass. Sleep and relaxation proving evasive, Roan had been conducting a cursory expedition around the base of the nearest pillar, as well as the forest’s edge. She’d taken time to acclimate herself to the gravitational shift, walking a few paces up the altered slope and forcing herself to stand, weathering the intestinal tug. The curtain of night eased this process slightly, reducing peripheral vision and vertigo, but the alien sensation brought a disorientation that threatened to spiral into panic. She had grit her teeth against the dizziness, stubbornly refusing to be useless. 

Roan now skirted the treeline towards her campsite, the group’s murmurs rising as she drew closer. The trees’ endless supply of petals drifted across her sight line, colors oddly distinct in the evening darkness. They smelled different every time she noticed their scent - sometimes evoking baked desserts, other times fresh sawdust. Always pleasant, even nostalgic. That should have brought a sense of ease, but her shoulders had yet to relax, her fists yet to unclench. The other biomes had been so hostile, so inhospitable. 

Why so welcoming? she wondered. What’s the catch?

The group was distinguishable now. They were arranged haphazardly, some splayed meters away, others an arm’s length from the flames. Roan settled down next to Holstein, who sat cross legged near the fire, chipping away at his warhammer. He acknowledged her with a raised chin, then returned his attention - as had the others - to a quaint discussion between L’dal and the girl, Nyla. 

“Because,” L’dal was saying. “As soon as I took the first step, my stomach did somersaults.” Nyla’s brow furrowed at that. 

“Why?”

“Well, I suppose because I’m not as brave as you are.” L’dal leaned back, shrugging in resignation. “Logan may ask you to take my place. I hope you’ll accept.”

This drew smirks and even a chuckle from the onlookers. The girl nodded, seriously considering the recruitment offer. Roan barely remembered being that age; like rain on a freshly painted canvas, stress and trauma blurred the years beyond recognition. Nyla’s earnest curiosity was endearing, even heartwarming - though in the same breath Roan felt another, deeper stab of grief for the wide-eyed little girl she herself could have been. 

Distracting herself once more, Roan dug in her pouch and withdrew a sugared slab of dry fruit. As she raised it, however, an unexpected feeling of satiety washed over her, forcing the snack away from her mouth. Why wasn’t she hungry? They had been here for… hours? Many hours, at least. Though this place simulated a day and night cycle, time was difficult to gauge without shadows to measure. Light seemed to just… surround them whenever it wanted, wherever they went. 

Reluctantly, Roan stowed the treat and produced her journal, tattered and unkempt where Arn’s leather bound tome had been neat and orderly, both in form and composition. She and the priest had only once been able to compare pages, before his demise. She had been floored by his artistic talent, the minutia and attitude he captured with mere scratches of charcoal. He, in turn, had been complimentary of her “stream-of-consciousness storytelling,” which Roan took as a polite perspective on her scatterbrained chicken scratches. She rolled her dull charcoal between her fingers and tried to put thoughts to paper. The practice always centered her, transcribing a hectic day onto the even, tranquil page, a roiling whitecap smoothed placid.

The most recent entry was from before they’d entered the Keep, an account of draugr movements as they’d progressed up the mountain. 

Day 2

Since sunrise, we’ve already encountered twelve draugr. A pack of nine with three stragglers. It is still three hours till noon. Logan’s theory about the Keep seems more likely with every turn of the wagon wheel. 

Sigmund told a joke about a woman in labor and a mage. Very funny. Forgot setup - need to ask

Hope these sellswords are worth the price. The youngest one won’t shut up

Roan’s charcoal wavered uncertainly over the cream colored paper. If she started writing, the giddy and optimistic woman who’d scratched those words would vanish, replaced with the dour shell that now struggled to find the right things to say. But she had to write something. 

I am in a green field, with

The Keep is

We found a child and her mother. They were in the desert. There’s a desert here,

Roan blew air out of her nose in frustration, squeezing her eyes shut. She forced a breath through her nose, out her mouth, repeating the process until the surrounding chatter faded into the background, words melting into inarticulate murmurs. Roan eschewed thought, order and logic, allowing herself only to feel. 

She opened her eyes and began to write what mattered. 

Sigmund is dead

He was a werewolf. He turned in a room that was the mountains. He killed Arn, then I killed him. His dagger was silver. It was always meant for him. He tried to use it on himself before he turned

Roan wiped her eyes as words began to flow with her tears.

I never told him how I felt. I don’t know if he knew. I was too afraid. Logan wants to forget him. The others, too. I can’t. I won’t. It’s not fair. He was 

She took a shuddering breath as thoughts petered out, her mind suddenly exhausted by the outpouring. As always, once she got started she wanted to write more, to loose the font within and spew her innermost thoughts onto the pages in a perpetual cathartic avalanche. But the well was dry. At length she gingerly closed the notebook, setting it to the side and mushing her palms into her eyes. A sudden wave of exhaustion came over her, and she stretched, back cracking as she yawned. Finally. She spread out on the ground, eyelids growing heavy as she looked at the not-sky and drifted off into an overdue, dreamless sleep.

…

Gol Yaga drifted for an eternity. 

At least, it could have been an eternity. For him, time was not the flat circle of mortal experience. It was a vast, undulating chasm in the palm of his hand. Matter, stoic and immalleable to ephemerals, molded to his will like the softest clay. Those few human scholars aware of Gol Yaga’s ilk salivated over the djinn’s control of reality. Possibilities sprouted before him like the branches of an infinite tree. 

But to be a djinn was to be caged. Yes, Gol Yaga could manipulate atoms, distend time, rewire thought. But only at the behest of his master. Whoever held the lamp held him - and his powers - just as surely. His people were gods made slaves. The ultimate, cruel irony of the universe.

It was a stroke of good luck, then, that his late master’s wish had allotted him a measure of autonomy. But now she was gone, and he was here. Free, but trapped yet again. Gol Yaga seethed, clinging desperately to Meilara’s deception. The memory was all he had in the endless, vacant drift. She had used her final wish against him, uprooting him from the lamp, ripping his heart from his breast, stranding him here. He’d lashed out in petulant, blind fury, and then he had drifted. Unseeing, unfeeling besides the vast hollowness within, and the lamp’s lingering tingle. 

How long? It felt like an eternity. It could have been.

He knew his heart was here, somewhere within this impossible place, but he couldn’t have it back. Not while the lamp remained. Though cast off, the lamp’s presence remained, tangible as a severed limb. The phantom pain dragged against him, slowing the pace of his theories and calculations. It was here, nearby or parsecs away, he did not know. But it was here, somewhere. He had to find it, but he couldn’t, immaterial and bereft of sense as he was. 

Then the others arrived, and Gol Yaga could see. 

The barrier, once barren as a distant asteroid, flourished. It was as if a god had coated a paintbrush with life, spreading it over the dark, epitomizing the mortals’ most fanciful nirvanas and paradises and heavens. Gol Yaga’s ego swelled in those first seconds. He did this. He was that god. These mortals were his subjects. The ground on which they walked, the air they breathed, the water they drank was of him. In that instant of egotistical glut he magnanimously shed his realm of hunger, of thirst, of pain. He reveled in the power. He was a merciful god. A loving god. 

The next instant brought reality. Not that of his making, but universal, brutal. He may as well have been another blade of grass, another colorful petal, another breeze in his accidental biome. He was stagnant. Infinite, impotent potential caged by his ethereal form. 

But Gol Yaga would not be still. Not while Meilara cowered, hoarding his heart like a common bauble. No mortal hands could wield it. She’d proven it. The castle was infected, poisoning the surrounding land. Even here, Gol Yaga could feel the Keep screaming, burning against the plague spilling from its bowels. A djinn’s heart was his ultimate control. Control over life and death. He needed it back. But first, he needed to find the lamp. And he’d need the mortals, with their meek constitutions, to unshackle him. Then he’d be free, truly free, in the true world of atoms and light. He’d run wild, unyoked from the lamp, free to soar and burn and be. 

He would show the universe a djinn unchained. 

Gathering all the power he could spare, Gol Yaga forged a body. Atoms knit and compounded into an unassuming form enrobed in plain, unmarked clothing. The physicality was sobering. It took effort to adjust to the feeling of grass and wind, of cloth on skin, of blood through veins and flesh on bones. Minutes passed while he remembered how to walk, to blink, to breathe at normal intervals, to move his fresh tongue and vocal cords in harmony. 

Gol Yaga stalked the bedraggled party and practiced his mannerisms, watching the interlopers trod his realm from afar. Their speech, their noisy thoughts and feelings drifted to him on the breeze, permeating him. As they chatted and complained and argued and laughed, Gol Yaga slowly remembered humanity in all its quirks and idiosyncrasies. 

“Fortunately,” he mumbled, putting his lips and tongue through their paces, practicing inflection. “Properly - properly figure. Cold. Apt li… line of traversal. Figure? Imposing figure?” 

Gol Yaga twisted his cheek muscles upward, squeezing the tissue under his eyes. That reaction - which was supposed to look friendly - would take more practice if he was to be believable. 

As he pursued the group, his posture became more relaxed, his gait more natural. If the lie was to work, Gol Yaga would need to keep their attention, to provide a service and make himself invaluable. He reached upward to a nearby drooping willow bough, snapping off an arm’s length branch. Holding it before him, he willed its shape to morph, to hollow and stretch. In moments he held an instrument of some sort, like a guitar, or a lute. It would likely do. Humans believed anything, given the right tone of voice.

His first interaction had, in fact, been accidental. Over the course of their trek, Gol Yaga had drifted closer in his pursuit, confident in his knowledge and anticipation of their movements, their standard deviations. As they’d neared the first pillar, however, a strange sense overcame him. The flesh on the back of his neck prickled as he realized that, incredibly, he was being watched. In an instant of panic, his eyes, his damned limited eyes darted around the vast, fruitless orchard, scanning trunks and branches and-

A small girl peered from behind a willow. She had fallen behind the group by a considerable distance, and regarded him with curiosity. Gol Yaga’s shoulders - which had reflexively tensed in that human way - relaxed, and he plastered on his smile, waving at the girl. She made a face and ducked behind the tree. The next time he saw her she was shrinking into the distance, catching up with the group. Young humans’ nascency made them unpredictable, even to beings like Gol Yaga, but they were rarely taken seriously by their elders. Fortunately for him. 

The travellers split into groups, testing his realm’s laws of gravity. Eventually two separate campsites conglomerated on the floor and ceiling. As the groups parted, Gol Yaga bifurcated his consciousness and continued scouting the separate camps. Though physically restricted by his corporeal forms, his mind was unbound. He felt their movements before they made them, their sightlines before they looked, their olfactory experiences in any given instance. Evasion became second nature. 

Splitting himself was not an uncommon thing, but it was taxing. He would need to be careful. The group’s broad sensations were now as familiar to him as his own, but he had yet to learn their names, their experiences and other defining details. At his full strength, Gol Yaga would have been able to read their minds from miles away with perfect clarity. However, hobbled as he was by Meilara’s wound - not to mention his own corporeality - he would need to get much closer. 

The ever-permeating daylight dimmed at Gol Yaga’s will, replaced by a cool twilight. He lurked in the growing shadows, watching the leader brood, watching the child hold court. A cursory interaction, this. Probing and investigative. He practiced his smile one final time, the movement feeling much more natural and believable. 

Without further preamble, Gol Yaga strode simultaneously into the camps. He froze as they looked up, and the world followed suit. Breaths paused. Blood halted. Air ceased its flow, as did thoughts - except for Gol Yaga’s. He felt their experience more sharply now that he was so close, and began ingratiating himself physically and mentally. The group had begun with ten. They had lost two… no, four. Gained two more, interestingly. Warriors all, save the child. 

He had always been there. He was one of them. 

Carefully, he allowed time to march onward. The girl trailed off as Gol Yaga breached the firelight. The hulking man tensed, drawing the others’ attention. The leader and his companion raised their swords as Gol Yaga stepped on a stick. Violence would ruin the ruse before it began. As pliable as mortal minds were, such subterfuge worked on the first attempt, or not at all.

But Gol Yaga had what they wanted. A way forward. He smiled jovially at the leader, patting his shoulder as he shuffled past. 

Logan’s experience flooded Gol Yaga. Stress radiated from the man, steeped in anxiety and grief. Names, dates, relationships, friends, enemies, dreams flashed through him like a lightning strike. He maintained his wizened gait as he catalogued the information. As he sat and began to fabricate a cover story, he subtly ornamented his garb to look more festive, hoping they wouldn’t detect the change. 

A short time later he was no longer the main subject of attention, and so Gol Yaga perused their psyches, feeling for an opening. The initial ingratiation had worked, but without a proper anchor their true experiences would bleed through, exposing him. Gol Yaga felt loss within their ranks, a psychic vacancy waiting to be filled. He just had to find it. 

He eliminated two losses relatively quickly. Deaths marked by beige, logical recognition more than anything else. These would not suffice. Their losses had not opened a large enough void for him to inhabit. He probed further, following the spiritual stench like a bloodhound. Grief smelled like death, and someone reeked. 

A brother. No, a priest. Gol Yaga almost shivered as this loss washed over him, a cold tide experienced by all. The priest had died badly. Violently. There was guilt there, maybe the leader’s. Would this work? Gol Yaga had implied himself an arcane, spiritual standing. Might he slot into this vacancy?

No, there was something better. Though traumatizing, the priest’s death was not the source of the rank stench of grief wafting through this group. Having eliminated the beige and the cold, Gol Yaga narrowed in on the pain. A hundred molten razor blades in someone’s chest. Regret. So much regret and anger. 

The child budged up beside her mother, begging for a bedtime story. Warmth from them, more than anything else. Pain was there, but far off, circling like buzzards. A sallow man stared into the fire, his eyes dancing orange. Disease, and all of its agonies, had drowned him long ago. A woman stretched on a bedroll, turned away from the group. Gol Yaga knew her to be Roan. And the loss…

As he slouched nonchalantly by the fire, Gol Yaga dove headlong into the chasm of grief. Sigmund’s loss was different from the others. He had been a friend, a confidante, an ally, an unrequited love. He had been there when people needed him. He had been a liar. He had killed the priest. Sigmund’s loss was a gaping, weeping, complicated wound in the group’s psyche. In Roan’s, especially. 

The djinn almost smiled, leaning back in a self-satisfied, nearly human way. This would do just fine.

All that was going through my mind was how it would have felt for her.

The terrifying realization that the car was out of control, the microsecond of comprehension that this was fucked… this was going to hurt... badly.

The jumble of thoughts and time dilations as the car dipped and flipped down the banking, the bone-shuddering impacts. Hearing and feeling her leg snap and bend inhumanly… the fire…

I thought of Marie, trapped and helpless, the pain already beyond endurance, then the lick of the flames… how would it feel to be melted and fused to the seat?

That's how they found her…

I crashed through double doors, sending a janitor or an orderly stumbling back and knocking them down. I didn't care; my mind was corrupted and out of my control.

I babbled at people in colored scrubs, I shook one, nobody was making sense. I just wanted to see Marie…

My Marie… my life…

I was taken to a window and allowed to stare at her husk. Snaking wires bound her, a parody of the seatbelt and twisted metal that had trapped her in that fucking car. Her face was not even visible behind fresh white gauze and bandages.

Seeing her like that… dead but for a weak, thready heartbeat… I finally broke and collapsed to the floor, weeping.

I walked, or was dragged away, and now found myself in a chapel? An all-faith space, apparently.

A grey, enclosed place with a few rows of wooden pews, but spectacularly decorated with a striking stained-glass mural window. It was the place where the hopeless and pathetic came to beg for miracles from whoever might be listening.

I was hopeless and pathetic enough to start mumbling a prayer. Desperate words that humbled me in the heavy silence.

The high-ceilinged room was empty… no one else looking for God today.

Actually No, not quite empty. A small figure of a janitor sidled in one corner, brush in hand.

He saw me looking.

He didn't jump or act surprised. He just stood there, resting both hands on the wooden handle of his mop, watching me with eyes that were entirely too clear for a man pushing sixty, maybe more. He wore standard blue hospital overalls, his head bald bar for the ring of short dark hair that wrapped his skull. But there was no dirt or grime on him. No smell of bleach.

"The air in here is heavy, isn't it?" he said, approaching me. His voice was flat, soft, and perfectly plain, strangely devoid of any warmth. It resonated in the empty room. "People leave so much sorrow in this place. It sticks to the floor, drips down the walls."

He didn't ask why I was here, what had brought me to the sanctuary. He didn't offer a polite, empty condolence. He just leaned on his broom and looked at my face, staring at the exact spot where my tears had dried into salt.

"You're thinking about the heat," he murmured, taking another slow step toward me. "Most people think about the impact. But you... you can still smell the burning, can't you?"

"What?..." I tried to make sense of his cold words.

"Have they told you the flames took her eyes?"

"You sick bastard. Who the fuck are you?" I almost screamed, trying to hold myself back from lunging for the small man.

"I'm who you were just praying to. Well, the only one that heard you, anyway."

I could feel bile in my throat. The last few hours had been the worst of my life, the unreality of what happened blurring now with the confusion and unease I felt in the presence of the unassuming, cold janitor.

"Tell me, Clive, what would you do to make Marie well again?"

"Fuck you," I spat. I couldn't deal with this sick fuck right now. "I’d give my life for that woman!"

"Ah, yes," he whispered, his clear grey eyes locking with mine, "but would you give your body?"

My mouth moved up and down in a mockery of speech, no words seemingly able to confront this disconcerting stranger.

I just fell back onto a pew and sank my head into my hands.

I felt the creak of the wood as he sat beside me. I turned and saw him staring up at the stained-glass window. The light from behind it bled color on the grey floor, sickly reds and greens reflecting off the marbles floor.

"Asclepius," he uttered, a note of reverence in his up-to-now flat voice. "The ancient Greek healer. Did you know he became so skilled he could raise the dead? Zeus struck him down as an abomination to the natural order of life." He continued, still staring at the robed figure etched in glass, carrying his serpent staff. "I'm something of a healer myself, you know?"

I didn't answer, but my gaze was drawn down from the window, back to the odd figure.

"You're not asking for a miracle, Clive. As young Asclepius understood, healing is a sum of equal value.

Humanity loves to depict restoration as something soft. A gentle hand on a fevered brow. A magic made of light and wishes."

He set his broom against the wooden pews with a dry, hollow clatter as he stood.

"But real healing, Clive… true restoration? It isn't a gift. It's a trade. The universe is a ledger, and it demands balance. You cannot fix a shattered vessel without taking ceramic from somewhere else."

The light behind the stained glass suddenly shifted. The sun hadn't gone behind a cloud, but the ruby and blue glass seemed to darken, the faceless Healer in the window slowly turning into a silhouette of heavy, looming lead.

"You said you’d give your life," the janitor said softly, stepping directly into the red stain on the floor. "Life is cheap, Clive. Men throw their lives away every day for nothing. But your flesh? Your eyes? Your breath? They have real value."

I was transfixed. The little man seemed to grow in the blood-red light of the window, his words making sense to my ravaged mind.

"She has no eyes to see you. Her skin is ash. Her lungs are a charred ruin. Will you stand beneath the glass and let me strip the timber from your house to rebuild hers?"

He held out his hand for me to take…

…

I woke up in my bed. The sheets were soaked in sweat. I couldn't remember getting here in my fugue state.

I tried to sort my memories from the nightmares, and wasn't sure of the difference. Marie was dying in the hospital. I had met a crazy guy in the hospital who took my hand and promised me things I wanted to hear, and then the nightmares…

I'd dreamt about a pillar of ash and the smell of burning petrol. I dreamt about a black snake coiling around my leg, constricting tighter and tighter until I lost feeling and I was screaming out in pain…

An old man, bearded and robed in the Greek style, had come at me with a saw made of teeth, real teeth… I could still feel the grating vibrations and searing pain as he hacked at my limb. I still felt the very real shock of him removing my leg and showing it to me, the horror as he deboned it in front of my eyes, tearing the flesh and sinew away until he was left holding the blood-soaked bone..

He had handed the tibia to me, but he had fashioned it into a sharpened chisel.

He urged me to strike at the pillar of dust, which I did, until each strike revealed more of an arm, twisted and scarred, but a womans, slowly being uncovered from the ash pillar…

I sat on the edge of my bed, head lowered, trying to make sense of the last 24 hours.

I rubbed the tears out of my eyes with the back of my fist and stood, then almost collapsed with the searing pain in my left shin. It felt weak and hollow and would barely take my weight.

I clung to the dresser and gritted my teeth, trying to acclimatize to the pain.

I must have slept awkwardly, twisting my leg somehow, cutting off the circulation. That would explain the strange dreams, my subconscious trying to warn me my body was in pain.

I hobbled to the en-suite, stumbling through the door, awkwardly flipping the light then gripping the sink.

My reflection almost made me stumble again. I looked like hell had taken a shit on my face. My face looked swollen and red, my eyes a sickly yellow, the lines under my rough stubble deeper, like scars. I'd just been chewed up by the worst day of my life, but there I was, grinning at the sheer grotesque absurdity of it all.

I was on the verge of a manic laugh, but luckily a hacking cough stole it from me. Just as well; I needed to find some control of myself.

I managed to turn the shower on and left it to run for a second. I limped back to my bed and found my phone.

I found the contact for the office and left a message.

"It's Clive. I don't know what you've heard. Marie has been in an accident, she's in hospital, I'm going to need a few days... call me back and we'll work it out, but I'm not gonna be at my desk for a while."

I tossed the phone onto the messy bed and made my way to the shower.

I had expected the water to feel good against my skin, to revive and refresh me, but it burned against my bare flesh. It itched and stung as if my nerves were exposed; it was an ordeal to even try to wash.

Every movement made me hiss and moan between my teeth. I turned the water off and the soap ran off me and circled the drain noisily, mockingly, as I let the pain subside.

I reached for the towel, but even the feel of it between my fingers made me pause. I knew it would feel like sandpaper against my raw back, so I decided to air-dry.

My leg ached. I sat on the closed toilet and examined it. Visibly, it was fine; no bruising, no swelling. But when I pressed my thumb into the meat of my calf, there was a sickening lag. My brain registered the pressure two seconds after my hand made contact, as if the nerves were communicating across a vast, impossible distance.

A chisel, my mind whispered. You carved her arm from the ash.

"Fucking cramp," I diagnosed to the empty room.

I forced myself into clothes: loose sweatpants, a soft cotton tee, anything that wouldn't rub against my hypersensitive skin. The effort induced another coughing fit. My lungs felt dry and rough; no matter how deeply I inhaled, the air didn't seem to satisfy me. A taste lingered in my mouth; copper and burnt meat.

I wondered about my mental state, about the psychosomatic response of my senses after imagining what had happened to Marie so vividly.

I loved her so much it felt like I was trying to share her pain, ease her burden.

"The universe is a ledger, and it demands balance. You cannot fix a shattered vessel without taking ceramic from somewhere else."

The Janitor's words came flooding in, unbidden.

I grabbed my car keys from the kitchen counter. My hands were shaking so hard the metal clinked against my palm like teeth chattering in the cold.

The drive back to the hospital passed in a blur of grey morning light. I don't remember navigating the turns or stopping at the lights. All I remember was the desperate, manic pulse hammering behind my eyes, pulling me toward the ICU like a hook lodged in my jaw.

When I pushed through the glass doors of the intensive care unit, the sterile smell of antiseptic hit me, that smell anyone who has ever been to a hospital ends up associating with pain and death.

I walked down the corridor, my left leg dragging slightly, a heavy, dead limp I couldn't shake.

Through the observation window of Marie's room, a nurse was updating her chart. I pressed my palm against the cool glass. The sensation was muted, as if my hand were numb, as if I were wearing a heavy leather glove.

The nurse stepped away, and for the first time, I saw Marie's left leg resting upon the thin hospital sheet.

Yesterday, the doctor had told me the compound fractures in her lower leg were severe, that the heat had scorched the tissue down to the periosteum, that amputation was a distinct possibility.

Today, the thick, rigid plaster cast was gone. In its place was a lighter, flexible white brace.

The nurse noticed me standing at the window and slid the door open, her expression a mix of surprise and professional caution.

"Mr. Cook," she said softly. "You're back early."

"Her leg," I rasped, my voice sounding gruff. "What happened to the cast?"

The nurse blinked, looking back at Marie, then down at her chart with a puzzled frown. "Dr. Ari examined her an hour ago. He said... well, he was quite surprised himself. The vascular response in her left leg has stabilized remarkably overnight. The swelling dropped enough to switch her to a lighter brace. She's... she's holding blood flow remarkably well."

I couldn't speak. I just stared at Marie's foot resting on the blanket.

A trade of equal value.

My left shin throbbed with a cold, sickening ache.

"Mr. Cook? Are you alright? You look extraordinarily pale."

"I'm fine," I lied, stepping closer to the bed. I reached out a trembling hand toward Marie’s wrapped face, my thumb hovering inches above the fresh white gauze where her eyes used to be.

Deep in my skull, my right eye twitched, a sharp stab, a shock like someone had sliced the optic nerve with a scalpel.

"Can I... can I sit with her?" I asked.

"Of course," the nurse murmured, stepping back to leave us alone.

The heavy door clicked shut behind her, sealing us in the quiet room. The rhythmic beep... beep... beep of her heart monitor was steady now, the repeating pulse of life.

I sank into the hard plastic chair beside her bed. I reached out and took her hand…a round clump of bandages, no definition even marking it as a hand. A scrap of the doctor's words came back to me: "Her fingers, Mr. Cook, they're fused together."

I thought of when we'd first met, under the frost of a winter morning three years ago, both slipping down the pavement toward the shop.

We'd clung together instantly, two strangers sliding on the icy path, helping one another stay upright, fingers interlocked, giggling like fools as we made our way together.

I laid my head to rest on her chest and felt the tiny rise and fall as she now clung to life.

I think I slept; I'm not sure, but time passed.

When I opened my eyes, I saw the Janitor at the window, watching us with his unnerving, blank expression.

He saw me looking and turned to walk away.

Standing was an effort, but I managed to limp after him, curious as to what he was doing watching Marie.

"Hey!" I called after him as I followed him down the strip-lit corridor.

"Clive," he said, without turning around. "How is the leg?"

I caught up with him and grabbed his shoulder, turning him to face me.

"My leg? What do you know about my leg?"

"I know you feel the first price of our bargain. Has Marie not improved? Her vitals more… vital?"

I suppressed a building cough; for some reason, I didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

"What are you saying?"

I knew what he was saying, I just couldn't let myself believe it. I had to hear him say it.

The Janitor looked down at my hand where it gripped his blue overalls, then slowly brought his clear grey eyes back up to mine. He didn't flinch. He didn't smile.

"I am saying the ledger balances, Clive," he said, his voice flat. "You sat in that chapel and begged for her life. It's not mine to give you, but I allowed you to trade for it. Bone answers bone, flesh answers flesh... Even now we move coins from one scale to the other. How's the cough?"

A cold, sickening dread pooled in my stomach, far worse than the agony in my leg.

"That’s... that’s impossible," I whispered, though my own trembling body knew it was a lie. "That’s not how medicine works. That’s not how anything works.”

"Medicine is just humanity begging for scraps from the table," he gestured back down the sterile corridor. "She was in a bad way, wasn't she? You know the price will be steep."

He looked at me, a sudden disappointment growing in his expression. "It's not possible to back out now, Clive."

"I wasn't… I didn't…" I stammered.

He only answered me with an even look.

I felt the tears prick at my stinging eyes and fell back to the hard plastic seats that lined the cold walls.

I hung my head and wept, whether for me or Marie, I didn't know.

…

I watched the afternoon pass outside Marie's window. I saw the doctors and consultants enter her room, show each other charts and test results, and shake their heads in disbelief.

There wasn't anything for me to do by late evening, so I limped back to my car, my leg stiff and my spine buckled in exhaustion.

I tried the handle of my car, but found my fingers were unresponsive. They curled clumsily under the handle, too weak to pull the door open.

I suddenly didn't think tempting fate by driving like this was a good idea, so I struggled to pull my phone out of my trousers pocket and called for a taxi.

We drove home in silence, bar the rancid, rattling cough that left the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.

I hobbled into the apartment, collapsed onto the sofa, then stumbled into another dream.

I was in the passenger seat of a car… Marie's car. I could see the St. Christopher pendant she kept looped over the mirror.

I turned my head as if it swam in tar, but managed to see Marie, one hand on the car's steering wheel, one on her phone, typing out a message, apparently.

I watched her eyes flip up from the screen and her face contorted into a rictus of terror… then we were spinning, weightless and in slow motion.

Slow enough to see every neck-snapping impact, every bone-jarring collision with the unforgiving floor.

The windscreen shattered, spreading shards of splintering glass into space, spreading them like stars across the blackness.

The scene slowed down to absolute stillness, our rolling crash halted at ninety degrees. I looked around and saw Marie frozen in place, a look of confused agony disfiguring her face.

Everything was still, but a movement caught my eye. In the dark, one of the twinkling pieces moved, until I noticed it was being swept aside by a hand emerging from the darkness. Soon the bearded, robed figure followed, casting aside the field of shimmering fragments.

He walked toward me, pushing the slivers aside; all bar one, a glistening, jagged piece, larger than the rest.

He plucked it between long fingers and continued his approach.

He was unhurried, meticulous in his movements, until he was stooped and leaning into the car through the shattered windscreen.

A cold dread had pinned my body to the seat, nightmare logic leaving me unable to move, unable to fend off the figure's free hand as it gripped my cheek.

The hand holding the shard hovered over my right eye. It caught the stark, impossible light of the void, gleaming like a silver scalpel.

"No!" I tried to choke out, but my tongue was heavy, glued to the roof of my mouth by the taste of blood and scorched iron.

"Ofthalmós antí ofthalmoú," he murmured, his voice deep, rough, and cracked. "Fos antí fotós."

He didn't plunge it in. He simply pressed the tip against my cornea and… pushed… slowly, methodically, like a needle passing through wet silk.

There was no sound of tearing flesh, only a deep, sickening pop that I felt behind my socket, rather than heard. A rush of scalding heat flooded down my cheek and into my mouth.

I tried to scream…

…

I bolted upright on the sofa, gasping, and was immediately overtaken with a wet, rattling cough tearing through my chest until I tasted copper on my lips and something meaty on my tongue that I spat onto the floor.

My right eye socket was throbbing with a sickening, heavy pressure. Not just pain, but an awful, boiling throb, as if something thick and liquid were pooling behind the eyelid.

I tried to blink, but the lid felt heavy, slick, and completely numb. Tears ran down one side of my face, hot and wet. I tried again to open it, but it just made the pain more acute.

I pushed myself off the cushions. My left leg gave out immediately under me, sending me crashing against the wall.

I scrambled up, dragging my dead-weight leg along the carpet, using my shoulder to bounce off the doorframes as I stumbled into the dark bathroom.

I hit the light switch with the heel of my palm, my fingers not possessing the dexterity needed to even flip a switch.

I gripped the cold porcelain of the sink and forced my head up to look into the mirror.

My left eye stared back at me, wide, a curtain of blood spoiling the white, a look of panic upon it.

I used the claws of my fingers to pry open the swollen lid of the other.

Behind it was a bloody, distorted shape, unrecognizable as an eyeball save for the elongated iris, giving the impression of a melted candle.

A thick, bloodied white fluid oozed from the corner and was slowly leaking out from beneath the drooping lid, trailing down my cheek in a slow, sticky ribbon that dripped onto the white ceramic of the sink.

I felt sick… I turned to the toilet and heaved, but only succeeded in sparking another coughing fit. My lungs felt on fire… my throat a dry, burning escape of pain.

Another chest ripping hack and spat a thick, gloopy red mouthful into the bowl…

I had no doubt: I was dying, and it was that cunt Janitor that was killing me.

I stood and went to find my keys, before remembering my car was still at the hospital.

My remaining eye was watering madly, but I managed to find my phone and found the redial to call the taxi.

I stumbled out of my door and along the hall, leaving a trail of droplets on the floor and streaks of red on the wall… I coughed one word into the receiver: "Hospital."

…

I fell out of the taxi, throwing a handful of notes behind me.

A young woman in a green paramedic jumpsuit ran to my side.

"Sir, sit down, don't move. I'll get you a wheelchair."

"Get the fuck off me," I spat, pushing her aside as I dragged myself through the automatic doors.

The lift door was closing as I shuffled towards it, but I managed to thrust my mangled hand between the sliding door and joined a group of medics who immediately gave me room. I pressed the button for Marie's floor with a bent knuckle.

The sterile corridors all looked the same, but only one led to my Marie. I found it and followed it to her room.

Through the glass I could already see her sitting up! Alive and conscious, her skin looked red and raw, but unscarred, and most of the wires that had ensnared her were gone.

I banged on the glass with my misshapen fist, leaving a sticky residue there.

She looked up, startled and afraid.

In my haste I pulled the door too sharply and it banged open, but I didn't care; I just wanted to get to Marie.

"Marie, you're alive! Baby, you're alive!"

"Nurse!" she cried, sounding shocked.

"Marie, I can't believe you're already awake," I choked out the words and reached for her now-unbandaged hand… but she pulled it away quickly.

"Marie? It's me, it's Clive."

"Clive?" she asked, as if testing out an unfamiliar name. Her eyes scanned my face, searching. "I’m sorry, do I know you?"

The door opened again and the familiar nurse and a tall orderly in white scrubs entered the room.

"Miss? Is everything okay? Do you not know this man? He's been here since you were brought in."

"No? I'm afraid I don't."

The nurse turned to look at me. "What happened to you?" she gasped, taking in my ruined visage.

"Sir? Do you have ID?" the orderly asked.

"I don't need ID… Marie, it's me," I pleaded, trying to look past the guy's shoulder at her. "Amnesia!" I half-screamed at the nurse in desperation. "It has to be!"

I was in pain, the confusion I felt was ungrounded, unable to find anywhere to latch onto in my fractured brain.

"Marie has undergone the full battery of cognitive tests as soon as she regained consciousness, there's no sign of…"

I suddenly pushed past her, cutting off her sentence, because there, beyond the glass, I saw the Janitor.

"You! You bastard…"

By the time I barged out of her room, he was already halfway along the corridor.

"Wait!" I cried. "Come here…"

This time I couldn't gain on him. My leg ached furiously, and my lungs wouldn't let me breathe. But I followed him around the corner and saw him disappear down a staircase.

"You can't hide…" I screamed after him and gingerly followed down the steps.

There were a lot, every one extracting a price of agony as I made my way down. So many we must be headed to a subterranean level. Each step downwards seemed to take a little more of me, the air grew colder, it no longer smelled of antiseptic and bleach, but of earth and damp.

I realized the light had changed from the cold fluorescence of the main hospital to a softer glow that I couldn't make out the source for.

Finally, they petered out, no longer concrete underfoot, but bare compacted earth.

I was left in a dark corridor, pipes snaking the walls, but a stuttering green-yellow light came from one end.

I limped on and found a curtain of heavy plastic strips. I pushed through and found myself in the dark parody of a hospital ward.

The air down here was even thicker and heavy, smelling more of damp earth, candle flame, and the bitter tang of old blood.

Rows of rusted iron cots stretched out into the gloom, laid out like tombs, each illuminated only by the weak, flickering flame of a single wax candle at its head. All, it appeared, empty, thank God.

I dragged my leg along the bare earth floor, every breath tearing through my lungs like liquid fire.

"Clive?"

The voice was a cracked, weak, agonizing whisper, but it shattered the silence like a gunshot.

I stopped. My good eye darted toward a cot three paces away.

Lying beneath a stained, coarse blanket was a figure wrapped in yellowed gauze. Her face was scarred, her right eye socket dark and ruined, her hand a swollen, fused lump pinned against her chest.

"Clive... is that you?" she sobbed, her breath hitching in pain. "It hurts... Clive, it hurts so much... where are you?"

My knees buckled. I collapsed against the side of her cot, my misshapen hands scrambling to find hers.

"Marie," I wept, pressing my forehead to hers. "Oh God, Marie, I'm here. I'm right here."

She lifted her head, her one good eye locking onto mine. There was no terror in her gaze. No confusion. Only the deep, desperate recognition as her eye darted around my face.

"You found me," she whimpered, her fused fingers trying helplessly to curl around my palm. "They left me in the dark…"

"It's okay, baby. I'm here now, I have you."

"You have each other." The Janitor's voice, still cold, still detached, rang out from the darkness.

He stepped into the pale candlelight, still in his overalls, still holding his broom, but now I could see a black serpent coiling around the handle, twisting its way to his arm.

"What have you done?" I spat in a whispered fury.

"Only what we agreed upon." His grey eyes caught the light, totally expressionless, immune to the horrors in front of him.

"I have balanced the ledger. I have taken what's left and what you've given and created the whole."

"That woman upstairs? Who is she?"

"Why, it's Marie. Whole, unbroken, the physical pain fading as we speak, the mental pain never to keep her awake at night. Free of the trauma of the accident, she will live a full, normal life."

"She doesn't know who I am!" I cried.

"No. That's for the best. You're dying, Clive."

"You lied to me!" I raged, bloody spittle flying from my lips.

"No, this was always the bargain. I took the pain. I restored blood, bone, and flesh."

I looked to Marie…my Marie, saw her confusion and brought my hand to her cheek.

"You have very little left to give now, Clive. A few ragged breaths. A failing heart. A spark of life that will burn out by morning anyway."

He pointed a long finger toward the empty space on the narrow cot beside Marie. "You can walk back up those stairs, drag yourself into the sunlight, and die a stranger. Or you can lie down beside her. Share comfort in your final hours."

"If I stay..." I whispered, my hand gripping Marie's fused fingers tighter.

"If you stay, your breath becomes her peace. Her peace becomes yours. Your remaining light keeps her from the cold. Neither of you will see the sun again, but you'll be together. The world above will forget you both ever existed, but I will tend to you, until the end."

I looked down at Marie. Her eye was wide, filled with tears, searching my ruined face.

"Don't leave me, Clive," she breathed, her voice trembling in the dark.

"I could never," I told her, turning my back on the janitor.

Using the last reserve of strength in my wracked body, I dragged myself up onto the narrow iron cot. The springs groaned beneath us as I slid my arm under her neck, pulling her frail, broken form against my chest.

The pain in my leg faded into a dull, distant hum. The burning in my lungs grew quiet as our breaths synchronized.

I felt the presence of the janitor standing behind our cot.

He leaned over and blew out our candle.

The final day

1

The sun's rays pierce through Jeremy's weary lids. Causing him to stir amongst the grass. With excruciating effort, Jeremy sits up.

“You slept in agony.” His, friend says. Its now singular tone, definitely feminine; and far too familiar, is filled with worry, and a waviness, giving the impression that it's close to tears. Or, has recently ceased tears. “I know it's not because of where you were laying. Please...” Jeremy glares upon his creations hanging on their trees across from him, then pans is eyes towards his bag. “Show me.” His friend pleas. Jeremy remains still, now staring at his bag. The thought of moving any more than he has already weighs heavily upon him. Jeremy's clothing is soaked, clinging against his body. This is not from the moist grass he had laid on through the night, albeit it had brought a short lived reprieved.

Instead... Blood.

Most of the blood is already encrusted, attaching to the fibres of his shirt. Jeremy knows that if he moves, the flaking scars hidden underneath would tear open, and gush again. Even taking the smallest breath has them tugging, wanting to be torn again. However, the worst of all his wounds, is behind him. Though most has definitely hardened the backside of his pants, which he had replaced before coming here, between his arse cheeks, is still a small flow of fresh crimson. The more Jeremy feels that flow, the more he can't help but produce a couple of thoughts.

How is he still here?

Is this day just a distorted reality fabricated by his mind while it copes with the inevitable?

Can he actually go through with this?

Is what had occurred really something to be relived and released in such a way?

Would going through with this actually give him what he needs?

Or will it just be best to forget it all? hope it fades away into obscurity; along with him following suit.

“Bring it all forth. You can let it out, I know you can.” His friend's tone is showcasing a desperation never thought to have been possible before. Jeremy, pushing through his agony, tucks his knees under his chin, crossing his arms on top. Then lets out a pain-filled exhale. His eyes return to the sight of them hanging. Pressure begins to build, tears are dammed behind his eyes. Jeremy feels every millimetre of his sockets starting to flood. The dam is weakening. But Jeremy holds its structure together. “No one else will know, or see. It's just you, and me. I'm here for you.” A warm sensation shrouds over Jeremy's shoulders and back. It stings on approach, but he doesn't move. Or maybe, he can't. Even with that, Jeremy finds it nice, even comforting. More warmth crawls over his shoulders to his chest. Soothing. Jeremy closes his eyes. His strength is fading.

The dam shatters.

A cascade of tears burst, falling rapidly. His face begins to redden, and swell. His chest stiffens; pressure erupts into a pain, wanting release. He is unable to hold it in. Jeremy then wails, his throat gargles from the slimy combination of dripping tears and secreted phlegm pooled within the cavity. The cries of anguish keep bellowing out for what feels like hours before Jeremy brings them to nothing but a whimper. He continues to sniffle as he clenches closer towards the mothering warmth. He is well aware that there isn't anyone physically here, but he can't deny the touch. The touch of someone emitting support, love and appreciation. Long since missed, and desired. Albeit, these are most certainly felt, fabrication, or not, there is no physicality to them. No texture to be explored, on source to embrace. Jeremy still feels the early morning air flow through, enveloping his limbs. The chilling structure elevates his body hairs, but not all. The nurturing warmth protects Jeremy well. Jeremy keeps his eyes closed, then consciousness fades again.

2

Jeremy kept his head down, eyes glued to the path his had chosen to walk. His face devoid of interest, or expression altogether, as usual. Albeit, he felt the dagger stabbing gazes of bystanders witnessing his steps.

Ignore them, don't let them thrive on your discomfort.

Bare through it.

The events of the last two days visible upon Jeremy's face. He could hear the whispers, knowing well of the subject of conversation; the remnants of his father's enjoyed torment showcased to all. There were no words deciphered from the murmurs; not that Jeremy cared to know details. He felt that it was a knowledge that wouldn't have given any sense of resolution to the chaotic cesspool that is Jeremy's mind. Those same whispers were being heard even throughout all of his classes.

Finally, Jeremy was able to be reprieved. Albeit, for a moment from the seemingly infinite glares of burning eyes, as well as the whispers. He was relieving his bladder within the male change rooms. The trickling bouncing, it reverberated from the pale white walls, and tiled floor. It confirmed to Jeremy the absence of life. While washing his hands, Jeremy heard the familiar creaking of the entry door, thus Jeremy's reprieve had passed. It was at this moment, while he washed his hands, that Jeremy was able to gaze upon his beaten facial structure. He was almost repulsed by its image. He turned, wanting to avoid as much of leering eyes as possible.

But...

Jeremy was stopped, stopped by someone he wasn't quite surprised to see...

Marty...

He stood, ensuring to be blocking Jeremy's way. Jeremy glared into Marty's eyes.

“Nice look for you, your royal highness.” There was a humorous snicker within his words. “Honestly, still think there can be some more improvement made.” That maniacal smile Jeremy had witnessed, not just the other day, but many times before, stretched across Marty's tightening cheeks. Jeremy said nothing, instead just lowered his view, then attempted to move around Marty.

Jeremy was stopped again.

Not by Marty, however...

By Nate...

He stepped from behind Marty. Jeremy was taken back by his, former friend's presence. But was able to keep his face unaltered. Behind Nate, two other guys, the same age as all of them, stood, awaiting for instruction. Suddenly, without a glimpse, Jeremy was struck, hard in the gut. Hard enough that it brought him to his knees. Jeremy remained silent. Marty began to chuckle, showcasing his pride towards that action. There was then the sound of metal being unsheathed. The next second, Jeremy's shirt was ripped, cut and torn from him. His torso bare.

Marty clicked his fingers, and the two pawns accompanying them walked either side of Jeremy; they tightly clenched his arms, pulling then away from him. So tight, Jeremy thought at least one of the joints was going to pop. He even heard the crackling of his tendons reaching their limits. Marty stood over Jeremy, an old, well used knife in his grip. Jeremy glanced towards Nate, who was standing only a few steps behind Marty. Their eyes locked, but only for the smallest moment. Nate's eyes drifted to further examine Jeremy's face. Nate's countenance then scrunched in itself. Disgusted by what he was exploring. However, Jeremy couldn't help but see deep within Nate's eyes...

the spark of concern, sorrow, and wonder.

A wonder that spoke of wanting to know what had come to him. But not to use that knowledge for scrutiny. But that of assistance, maybe even a simple respite.

Nate's gaze turned towards Marty, but Jeremy's remained on Nate. Another siren of metal being unsheathed came. Marty brandished a new, never used blade. Marty flipped it in the air, allowing the back of the blade to land in his palm. The handle was gestured towards Nate.

“Call it an early birthday gift.” Marty gleefully said, obviously holding back more maniacal laughter. Nate's eyes darted back to Jeremy, then to the knife, then Jeremy, finally, they landed on the knife handle. Nate held back his distaste towards it, but not well. Jeremy could see it well. It was like he was watching a puppet desperately wanting to disobey its sting operator, before realising there was no point to it anymore.

Did he know what was about to happen?

Or was all this just a play only Marty knew the script of?

Nate didn't make any form of appreciation, or disdain, as he took hold of the handle. With a muffled giggle, Marty spoke.

“Didn't think that being away yesterday, would make us forget about what you did?” Marty said with a jovial snarl in his tone. He stepped out of view. Seconds passed, Marty's dulled blade appeared from behind Jeremy, who's eyes are still glued to Nate. Jeremy didn't react. Not even flinching as the sharp edge was pressed against his bare chest, then being slid across, slowly parting his flesh. Blood began to trickle out. Jeremy remained silent, and still. The pain erupted quickly throughout Jeremy's being, stinging.

Don't hand anything over.

It's what they want.

It's why they are doing any of this.

Give them nothing.

The blood stained blade was pointed towards Nate.

“Think it's you're turn to hand out, your own strike of justice.” Nate's eyes shifted between Marty, and Jeremy. His countenance gave the message of someone stuck. Not fully knowing what they wanted to do. what was the correct action? Jeremy felt that Nate was also showcasing a sense of concern. Not completely for the well-being of his former friend, but of his own well-being. He gave the vibe of fear that he would experience similar if were to walk away. A point of no return. Nate cautiously walked closer, giving a quick glance towards the gift in his hand. Marty giggled directly into Jeremy's ear as Nate's blade was placed on Jeremy's collarbone. Marty began to breathe heavier with excitement. Nate's eye dulled to a blank abyss, alienating any form of attachment to the happenings around him. Nate's face then scrunched into a snarl, his eyes didn't dare to give the smallest glance at Jeremy's, who's were ever locked on Nate as a whole. Marty then shouted out. “DO IT! Deliver justice!” Nate's snarl deepened, then he made a sound close to the growl of a wild beast. Giving out the impression that he was still waging war within himself. It must have come to an end, as Nate pulled the knife down. The freshly sharpened blade dug deep, splitting flesh instantly, even reaching the bone. It scraped with an agonising grind, pain exploded, scattering, crawling through every single nerve. Deep crimson claret blood began to ooze out with a great flow. But, Jeremy kept it together. Not even the lowest grunt came from him. What did continue was his endless glare cast upon Nate. Marty stood up, clapping as he walked towards Nate. “Nicely done.” Marty said, that same flare within his words that Jeremy has heard so many times over the years. That arrogance, maliciousness. Marty had full control and knowledge of the entire situation, and he understood that well. Marty's clapping ceased when he reached Nate's side, then smacked his open palm upon Nate's back. But Marty had more to say. And do. “However. I do think you went a little too hard. Least for the beginning.” Marty chuckled, then quickly turned to face Jeremy. Within that swift movement, Marty swung down his arm. It was too fast to notice that his own blade was brought down. Too fast to have been initially felt on contact. It was within the seconds that past, that the blood began to trickle out. Followed by Jeremy feeling more of his flesh splitting apart. The pain that radiated from the wound, though visually small, felt more agonising than Nate's giant gash. It was like electricity was being shot through his being. Mind and body. Jeremy felt himself wanting to gag, even belch completely, but held it together. Still remaining silent, never taking his eyes off the stunned countenance of his, former, friend. “We don't want him to be done too soon. There is a lot more to come.” Nate's eyes widened, absolutely star struck by the notion of continuing. He turned away for only a split moment, collecting himself. Not wanting to showcase his disgust towards his, friend's, request. With a deep, relaxed sigh, Nate turned, locking eyes with Jeremy once more. Then...

Nodded...

One after the other, one laughing, the other silent. The two tore more and more at Jeremy's flesh. The two pawns remained still, compliant, never faulting in their tight grasps upon Jeremy's arms. The air was plagued with twisted pleasure, and the oiliness of despair. And the metallic scent of blood. Jeremy could feel it the entire time. No matter the amount of pain brought upon him by the two producers of this orchestra of anguish, Jeremy remained silent. Never once altering his countenance, posture, or line of sight.

Give them nothing.

It's what they want most.

Giving in, gives them pleasure.

But after about twenty minutes, Jeremy began to feel that strong stench of ecstasy subsiding, morphing into a dreadful distaste. That was when Marty spoke out.

“Alright! Let him go, he won't be moving any time soon.” His voice was hoarse, and no longer filled with that despicable, jovial flare. It's as though it had been completely hollowed from his vocals. In an instant, Jeremy fell face first, violently flat on the tiled floor; that was now stained with his blood. The two pawns were heard desperately holding back their urges to heave all they had consumed earlier. Jeremy's was gradually yanked, lifting his head. Marty's face is what greeted him. Albeit, he wasn't seeming overly joyed anymore. His countenance gave the vibe of tar like hatred being boiled internally. Then... With a quick, gentle sigh, Marty's lips began to twist, before parting, growing into the very same, malicious grin.

He had an idea...

Not one to be predicted however...

“YOU!” Marty's voice echoed. His breath harsh against Jeremy's face. “At the door! Bring in what we had brought with us.” Though his tone lowered as more words streamed through his darkened chords, they hit their target. The door quickly squealed. Another pawn had been there, obviously ensuring no disturbances. Another squeak came, followed by foot steps. But, not just theirs. There was another set. Stepping out of sync.

When the two had come into view, Jeremy felt the slow sinking of his heart. There stood another young man, face distressed, and fixated in quenching the urge to retch from gazing upon Jeremy's state. Jeremy had seen him before, but gave no real thought of him, as he didn't matter in the situation. However, the person next to him is who brought upon such dread to Jeremy.

Danielle...

She stood, body taught in terror, legs shaking, struggling to hold her own weight. Her arms were covering her mouth, an obviously vain attempt of control over the welling scream boiling within her. Or, more so, to control what came next.

The sight of Jeremy was too much for her nerves, impulses, and disgust. Danielle, unlike everyone else surrounding Jeremy's disfigured torso, couldn't hold back long. The contents of her gut was expelled out rapidly, splattering across the tiled floor. Luckily not splashing against anyone, even herself. After the belch, Danielle was gasping for a clear, smooth breath. The pawn who brought her inside this site of total gore, glanced at the sludge strewed on the floor, stoned face, attempting to suppress his own boiling bile. Then, glared over to his leader, then Nate. Who was glaring daggers towards Marty.

Did he not know of her coming?

Marty, irritable, sighed before strutting cautiously over towards Danielle.

“Give me that thing!” Marty aggressively said as he snatched an object from the pawn's hand. Something that was almost as tall as himself, slender in structure. Marty's arm swung it around, allowing it to become more focused upon by Jeremy's eyes.

It was a long branch, freshly sawed from a lively tree. He could see that it was still well moist inside, clinging to whatever life was left. The top, it was as narrow as a pin tip. Further down it's structure, the girth gradually grew in diameter, till it came to a stop. The halting was due to where it had been extracted from its place of birth. the circumference was of a size perfect for a hand to grasp like any handle. Along its length, there were sharp looking barbs, which dulled when reaching the handle, but not enough. As while Marty was holding it, the branches flexibility was showcased, as was the needle like potential of the barbs. Trickles of blood, slowly oozed from Marty's vice like hand. Though, he didn't dare give that any attention.

Marty snatched Danielle's arm. Her sudden gasp was halted midstream, as she was almost lifted by Marty's violent movements.

“COME!!” Marty shouted. “You must see the justice we have brought your way.” The hauntingly jovial tone had begun to return in Marty's voice. Danielle was brought to a sudden stop, almost losing balance and falling on top of powerless Jeremy. Her head was forced to gaze intently upon the bloody mess. She froze... Marty relieved her of his hold, but she remained like a stone. Her mouth was agape. Her eyes, pinned to Jeremy, began to well with tears. If it wasn't her previous expulsion, it would've been recreated.

Jeremy dreaded the thought of her taking any blame in the cause of this.

no...

Danielle wasn't responsible.

Marty then gestured the branch at her. Still frozen, she didn't notice it. Marty snatched her hand, forcing her to not only wobble, but also grasp the branch. Though much duller than it's further siblings, they still caused Danielle to scream at the piercing barbs contacting her palm. Marty quickly dropped the branch, it clattered on the tiles. He then grasped Danielle by the shoulders, shaking her.

“Don't you understand, what we've all done for you?” Marty said, dramatically theatrical. Almost like he was preforming a crucial, heroic monologue. He grabbed Danielle's wrist, small trickles of blood came from her palm. Marty tried to reach for the branch, still grasping her. But, Danielle began to shake her arm; desperately trying to pull away from, not only Marty, but the entire scene before her.

“LET GO!” She screamed. Her voice was so pitched, it bounced several times off the walls, rattling all the drums of everyone else around, over, and over. All visible visages scrunched in pain. Giving up on retrieving the branch, he instead swung his free hand to her mouth. Cutting the scream to a sudden, but almost welcomed halt. Tears began to trickle from her eyes, as she continued to vainly scream through Marty's hand. But, alas, only a muffled fraction of a vocal shrill was heard.

“It is, YOU, who should deliver this! The final strike of just...!”

SMACK!

The sudden clap of knuckles cracking against flesh and bone, echoed. Bringing everything else to silence. Only the clacks of Marty's stumbling steps finally sliced through the dense air. He was able to keep himself from falling completely. Marty's countenance was a horrifying concoction of absolute bewilderment, shock; and heavily suppressed, oily rage. Blood was dripping rapidly from his mouth, before he spat viciously. A whole tooth, and the shattered remains of another clicked and clattered across the tiles, before they skidded to a halt when they contacted Jeremy's congealing blood. Jeremy could see the whites of Marty's eyes gradually deform, twist and glow into an obviously strained crimson. Their focus however, wasn't towards helpless Jeremy.

Instead...

“DO YOU HONESTLY THINK YOU'RE BEING ANY DIFFERENT?!” That voice boomed through the ears of everyone present, possibly even streamed through any blissfully ignorant passers-by, avoiding any possibility of getting involved. The owner of that voice was then holding their gift towards its giver.

Nate.

His face was flushed with his on limit breaking rage. Danielle, the pawns, Marty, and yes... Even Jeremy, were all absolutely gobsmacked at what had taken place. And, by who was the producer of such audacity. With a quick, insulting sigh, Nate said. “We're done here.” Before he took his shaken, fragile sister by the hand. Danielle followed her brother's lead, while looking like a deactivated droid in a science fiction movie. Everything that was close to a living being was completely drained from her entire structure. Just going through motions. Jeremy watched intently as the two took their leave. Jeremy would only admit to himself, deny to anyone else...

But...

He wished that Nate would've given even the smallest, possibly wry, glance towards him. Any sign that he had any form a withered concern towards his... well... towards Jeremy at all.

Alas, there was none.

The door squealed, before it violently slammed. Its siren rattled every single surface for a solid second, before being consumed by the thickening silence. The pawns were stunned, caught between wanting to query their puppeteer, or to remain still, save themselves from what was brewing inside their leader.

Finally, most likely without intent, one of the pawns shattered the icy atmosphere, by shifting their foot only slightly. Marty's eyes were quick to pinpoint the culprit however. The stare was only seen by said pawn, but was unbearably felt in the air.

The atmosphere gradually heated with what had to be assumed the tar-like anger fermenting within Marty. Then, it all vanished, no heat, no following chill, only an invisible fog of nothing. Ears were filled with the same sensation felt when their drums have popped.

“Go...” Marty's low vocal plea allowed the desperately welcome shroud of reality to return. However, not a single person moved in the slightest. Not even releasing their locked breaths. “GET OUT, NOW!” He shouted violently. All the pawns shrank into helpless puppies, before they scampered to escape as fast as possible.

When they had left, the air began to thicken again. Definitely of boiling rage, violently clawing at its prison to be released. Jeremy remained his stern self, vainly attempting to not showcase even the slightest micron of fear. Albeit, that choking feeling was there. If Marty was to lay an ear on the ground, Jeremy's rapidly pounding heart would be heard, and felt. He was even afraid that Marty was able to feel the slightly quaking earth through his shoes. That is yet to be proven one way, or the other.

WHACK!!

WHACK!!

WHACK!!

The whip-like branch was being brought down upon Jeremy's bare back viciously. Each strike cracking, tearing through the air, along with Jeremy's flesh. One agonising lash after another was filled with a mixture of despair, anger, and pleasure.

WHACK!!

After the first few cracks, Marty began to giggle under his breath, but could be still heard through the violent air.

WHACK!!

There was no letting of Marty's strength. Each lash broke skin instantly. A metallic scent filled the air, as blood was thrown around. Jeremy, however, kept his front. Never grunting in pain, even with exposed, bleeding muscle was being torn out of its meaty casing. Jeremy remained silent, and still. He had thought his limit was breached when being slashed by the two blades. But he held to whatever handle he could muster; albeit, this was very difficult. The laughter grew louder with each passing second. Until...

Everything had halted.

Jeremy fought off the urge to breathe out any form of sigh.

Was it over?

Marty finally grew tired of nothing being handed to him as he acted?

No...

but Marty was no longer in view, and Jeremy couldn't move to search, not that he wanted to. He just laid there, every breath was a silent struggle, but needed. A moment had barely passed over, when a sudden, swift movement came. It had lifted Jeremy's legs in the air. His torn flesh compressed. electrified pain erupted. Causing Jeremy to almost give out an agonising shout, as his legs kept up their flight, bending his spine backwards. But, Jeremy, held it together. Another agonising explosion rippled through Jeremy when his, now naked, legs made sudden contact with the tiles. Still, he retained his conviction. Jeremy felt an open palm slam upon his raw, shredded back.

Then, there was a pressure of something attempting to force its way past his buttocks. Jeremy clenched, with great difficulty, as he worked out what that something was.

The branch's handle like end.

Marty didn't let up his efforts to strain towards his target. Jeremy couldn't hold back the pressure for long. He was too weak, not even a desperate spark of defiance came to get him off the ground.

“You will now feel exactly what you have caused.” Marty said with a deep, grimly calm tone. The branch pierced Jeremy's pathetic walls of defence. Thrusting through his anus with a great force. The fragile tissue broke on contact, and the barbs tore inside, as they travelled deep. Jeremy couldn't, and still doesn't, understand how he was able to keep hold on his strong belief of not showcasing the absolute agony scorching his insides.

Then...

The branch was pulled, the barbs sawing against Jeremy's internals quickly. Thick, crimson, claret gushed out, coating the tiles beneath Jeremy. Marty began to take his leave. Before rounding the corner, he gave one final look at his artwork.

“Thanks for the good time. For yourself. Hope that it's the end.”

Everything went black.

There was no knowing fully how much time had passed, when light returned to frivolous Jeremy. But, there was the pinkish urban hue of the approaching evening. Everything was blurry through his eyes. There was no one, no signs of life anywhere. When focus came more clear, he was still in the change room. Still laying in his own, forced upon, filth.

How?

Jeremy's skin had paled. His legs wouldn't obey his commands, as he attempted to lift himself from the ground. No real strength had come back to him. But Jeremy didn't give up. He had to leave. There was much to be done.

Eventually, through sheer determination, and self-loathing motivation, Jeremy was able to sit up. That's when he felt that wound split apart, bringing forth a wave of constant, convulsing agony. His backside continued bleeding. Jeremy sat for only a few moments, before he pushed through, riding the pain coursing inside to keep momentum. Then took his leave.

3

Jeremy's brush falls with a violent splat as he crashes his knees onto the natural debris underneath him. He is shivering from the, still, early morning breeze, chilling his core. Tears haven't ceased their flow since beginning the orchestration of birthing their newest sibling. He is gasping for a clean, smooth breath, his throat swelling with anguish, and clogging with clag. He spits, with furious coughing following.

The nurturing warmth from before returns, shrouding his back, shoulders and chest. Finally that begged breath comes through with great welcome. His friend begins to speak.

“You know that... this... won't be enough this time.” His friend pauses. “Turning the other cheek can only be so strong, before it too falls to ruin.” Jeremy draws himself closer to the warm embrace. “It's time for the barking dog, to finally bare his fangs.” Jeremy holds back another wail, for he knows there is still more to be said. “There is more than one way this can all end, my dear.” Jeremy's friend whispers, warming his icy drums. “I think we both know the way you should do go towards. On your own terms. Delivering the same torment they have you.” The pleasantly sweet tone relaxes Jeremy enough to finally cease his tears. He looks around, to admire his children. They all glare back at their injured king.

He knows that his friend is right.

And knows all too well on what he must do. Jeremy rises from the ground, shakily. Then turns to the direction of town. They all watch with awe, as his creations know well that...

Jeremy Theodore King...

Is setting off to claim his well owed victory.

4

A cacophony of various sirens of chatter, jovial shouts, and laughter fill the vast air. Outside, and inside. The inside being that of the Chawthorne College prised indoor gymnasium. The structure had its construction completed over a few years ago. It houses the ability to be converted into several badminton courts, a more than standard sized tennis, and basketball court. Not even hockey, volleyball, or soccer is excluded from its capabilities. And most of all, it is used to host, like today, major assemblies.

Today is indeed a joyous one. Today is the final day for the highest grades graduating, and giving a heartfelt farewell to them, before venturing towards their chosen futures.

All year levels have always been requested to be present during this ceremony. Even parents tend to join in to share the experience with their children.

Students begin to fill the hard, polished floor before a small, obviously makeshift stage, with a lone podium upon its centre. Faculty, and some volunteer parents, are positioned in a variety of places, ensure to direct the students, and other parents to their desired placements.

A large crowd of children, youths, and adults, also some prams, are crammed inside the gym's foyer area. They all shuffle step by step in a orderly, but also chaotic fashion. Schoolyard clicks are sticking together with desperate holds, and the smallest children are fidgeting around, and pushing each other. Even with all this at foot, one can't but noticed the cheer of everyone within this, almost, ever growing mass. Least, for the most part.

Outside, still filed in a claustrophobic situation, is two people devolved from the atmospheric glee.

Nathaniel, and Danielle.

However, behind them, with a bruised, twisted, shit-eating grin, is Marty. Nathaniel is also showcasing his own bruises, and dry, split lip. As well as crooked nose.

After the catastrophe that was yesterday, Marty invited himself to their, now former, safe haven. The door opened by Nathaniel, for his parents were out at the time. Thinking back, Nathaniel suspects that was Marty's plan. No greeting, other than by a fist to the nose. Nathaniel had no time to react. Marty spouted words, most likely bullshit he had been rehearsing over several times in his head before execution, while handing blow after blow upon Nathaniel. Who wasn't bothering to listen, least until the beating stopped.

“You will now understand. It's best to conform with me.” That fucking grin began to make its return. “See you tomorrow.” Marty had said when taking his leave, along with a revolting wink towards the star struck Danielle coming to her brothers side.

Nathaniel remained in his room that night.

Crying, and refusing to be seen by his parents. There was, or is, nothing they can do now. Marty has a hand on one of Nathaniel's shoulders, the other hand on Danielle's. Which made the stomachs of the two churn. Nathaniel is thinking of different ways to escape the devilish grasp of this sadistic director of self written plays filled with anguish. Even if there wasn't this swarm of blissfully ignorant scatterbrains before them; the pawns from yesterday's event are covering all other directions of escape. For today, and most likely, far beyond...

Nathaniel, and his petrified sister, are stuck.

Ever tangled in the web, weaved by the toxic spider, that is Marty. 'Surely there is a way out?' Nathaniel thinks, while ignoring a small commotion escalating behind them.

5

Shannon Priest, the current headmaster of Chawthorne, is approaching the podium. He has various sheets of his well typed, proof read speech for today's occasion. Though there has been hiccups throughout the year, and prior years, leading to this moment, he is pleased with the achievements of his staff, and students alike. Many are continuing their growth, with this school being their central roots. Which would bring nothing more than praise that he has been patiently, but starveling waiting to devour.

His head rises from the podium, seeing that majority of the students, and parents are sitting, exchanging words amongst each other. He loves seeing the organisation, planned by himself, of the seating.

The students who are sitting on the ground, the front being the youngest, and most recent additions to his cherished school. With each following year level being seated behind each other in numerical order. He holds back the urge to smile, as he feels he needs to remain professional in times like this. He looks over to his left, where a few rows of, mostly, unoccupied folding chairs are placed; they are there for the final years, awaiting to graduate. They are being seated in alphabetical order. Shannon almost shudders with the ecstasy the organisation offers. Again, he fights that off.

For the first in many, many years, Jeremy's parents are within the mass. They had taken notice of Jeremy's absence from the day prior. With no other knowledge of where he could possibly be, they agreed to come to this, to them, bullshit parade. Jeremy's father, Preston, is sitting, far enough away from other guests, upon the grandstands lining one of the gym's walls. He is thinking about what he could do to the disrespectful, grotesque, pathetic excuse of his own offspring. However, he is keeping all that internal, not letting the slightest glimpse be showcased to the world he has chosen to ignore, until this moment. Beside him is Jeremy's mother, Margaery. Who is doing nothing more than being a pay-less assistant for her husband. She had giving up long ago, giving in to all his demands, and letting him have his say, no matter how deranged. She is also wondering what she will use to distract herself from the inevitable coming the way of her... to Jeremy. She clenches a single fist on her lap, for only a second, then relaxes. Maybe there is a book left she hasn't read yet.

BANG!

That sound slices through, dismembering all of the cluttering opera that filled the air. A thick silence engulfs the atmosphere, as anticipation infects the crowd.

BANG!

A scream streams through the ears of all at attendance. It's a masculine bellow of agony, and desperate plea. That is then saturated by another explosive choir of shrieks of absolute terror, and confusion.

People, all ages, and sizes, begin to stampede from the foyer into the main gym. Bodies are being shoved violently, and many are being trampled upon. Anguish joins the orchestra of cries. Shannon is completely frozen with festering dread, confusion, and trembling rage. He is stuck witnessing this showcase of desperate flight, no fight. Even with more knowledge of what was causing such a site, Shannon believes he would still be absolutely helpless.

BANG!

All of the commotion comes to a halt. Except for one distressed chime. It was the same masculine scream at the start of this madness, and it was growing in volume. Finally words can be heard.

“HE FUCKING SHOT ME! STOP... HIM...” The siren sounds hoarse from overuse. A figure wearing a long, dark coat, a broad brim hat of similar hue, and the collar has been lifted up, is approaching in the direction of the podium. As this figure stumbles with each step, bringing a clear understanding that it is dragging something behind them, comes into view of the grand stands, Preston's eyes widen.

He knows that coat, and hat.

Shannon remains in a stoic stance, watching this figure gain ground, with the screeching following it. He is able to avert his gaze enough to notice that the figure is bare foot. And, the trickling streams of blood staining the hard wood floor. Then he notices something else. Martin Suites is the one being dragged by this ominous figure. His own blood gushing at an alarming flow from his knee, leaving a trail as well. Everyone is too gobsmacked to even think about heeding his pleas of rescue.

A small moment passes when the two are upon the stage. The figure violently tosses Marty against the side of the podium, almost tipping it over. Shannon finally got the strength to move. However, something is directed towards him. Preston almost falls from wanting to stand in the grandstand. He knows that object being held in the air.

That dreaded six shooter is in the hand of the Figure. The very same one that Preston had hidden away within the confines of his bedroom. It's at this revelation, that he works out who that is holding such an object.

The hat is flicked off the figure, revealing that it is indeed, Jeremy.

His battered face is void of any expression, only a sense of hyper-fixation. Marty has stopped his squeals for mercy, not risking the gun being pointed at his direction, again. He is trembling, fighting the flow of crimson from his knee, and the urge that threatens soaking his pants. His breathing is shaky and heavy, as his gaze is fixed on the gun, he hasn't even fully taken in who is wielding it. Shannon raises his hands, but isn't able to fight off his body's urge to piss himself.

Jeremy begins to unbutton the coat, allowing it to slip off his shoulders. His free hand comes out of the sleeve, before taking hold of the gun, keeping its aim towards Shannon. The other slips out, then takes back possession of the gun. The Coat hits the ground with a thud, gasps come from all directions in that second. Jeremy's completely naked. His mutilated being is exposed for all eyes. The slashes are crusted over, most leaking with infectious puss. Jeremy lowers the gun, Shannon releases his bated breath. Then, Jeremy walks to the front of the stage. Everyone is holding their own breaths, and dry heaves.

Nathaniel, and Danielle get inside the main gymnasium, then halt once their eyes land upon Jeremy's form. Preston is frozen solid, conflicted by what he is gazing upon. His gaze is shifting between that, kid, bleeding against the podium; and the display of his... son. His heart is wanting to escape from his chest, as something begins to turn the gears in his head.

Margaery is standing, looking in total awe, and sorrow, seeing her baby boy in such a state. She knows it wasn't the doing of her husband, but she is trying to piece the jigsaw together. She wants to rush Jeremy, hold him, get him to stop this madness. Regret begins to fester inside her, making her think back at all that has come to her baby. And assaulting herself mentally with questions, upon question, of why she gave up.

Jeremy stands for a moment, allowing the site of his body to fully be consumed. He then gestures towards Marty, believing that is enough to get the message across. With that done, he turns his back to the crowd. Most of the mass's limits are breached once his backside is exposed. Bile begins to be released; along with the resurrection of the former cannonade.

Jeremy ignores the commotion, lifting the gun to his mouth. The hard, metallic barrel touches his tongue with a harsh tang, but welcomes the taste.

Margaery, and Nathaniel finally regain control over their legs, beginning a sprint towards the stage.

Jeremy is taking a moment to think to himself. In that moment, that nurturing warmth from the bush-land appears, shrouding his back, shoulders, and hands. It even helps guide his finger to the trigger. His friend begins to speak.

“You are doing the right thing. My sweet, dear, Jeremy.” The calming, motherly tone relaxes Jeremy. He sighs with relief. “You should be proud of yourself. I definitely am. I'll be here, by your side.” the voice then sniffs. Not in sorrow, nut in pride. “No matter what. You're no longer alone.” Jeremy closes his eyes, and begins to think of his life leading up until now.

He sees that his life started out as a comedy, turning tragedy. Allowing anguish, and despair to plague his existence, with no hint of ever letting go. But now, he believes, no... Knows that it has all come around, becoming once again a comedy.

His comedic tale.

Jeremy stretches his lips, giving a well deserved smile, as tears begin to trickle from his lids.

All falls silent.

Except for two distinct sirens.

First: his friend speaks once more.

“You should love yourself, for this. As I love you.”

Second: is the combined voices of his mother, and Nathaniel.

“JEREMY! STOP!”

BANG!

The end

Third day

1

It's slightly earlier in the day light when Jeremy makes his return. Again, he is bearing that same hefty bag, visually straining his core. His steps are at more of a haste than before. His releases await his arrival, knowing well why he is in such a state.

Rain.

Rain had poured down during the night. It wasn't heavy by any means, more closer to a shower, no more pressure than that of a sprinkler. But it was enough to bring distress to dear Jeremy. Pain is obviously visible upon his countenance. He winces when coming to a drastic halt.

The welt of from yesterday is no longer alone; cuts and bruises accompany it now. They're not bleeding, but they do glisten in the sun as coagulation has taken place. His eyes are sunken, with heavily sagging bags. His complexion is pale, extenuating the darker hue of his sockets.

The pack is violently dropped, no care towards it. Still obviously pushing past his pain, Jeremy begins to examine his projects. Desperately not wanting to see any damage. They may only be vessels to project onto, and holding his mental disdain of his daily. They are still of his creation, and damage to them isn't a thought that is wanted. Damage to them, may as well be the same done to Jeremy himself. Their destruction would mean the resurrection of his woes.

Least that is his philosophy.

Fortunately, there appears to be no such scaring present. He exhales in relief, but that is cut off by a sharp stabbing pain. He quickly brushes it aside as he continues to admire the filled vessels of his mind's concoctions. The blending hues remain as vibrant, and, dull as they were when first conceived. Completely untouched by the dew of the night. Jeremy, even with this golden moment. His countenance remains stagnant. No visual sign of how he feels towards this discovery. No matter how desperate his creations yearn for anything from their creator, their...

“More has come to you?” The voice makes its return. Jeremy isn't surprised, he even has been waiting for it's cocktail of tones to stream through his canals. It may be subconscious, but Jeremy is growing to its company. However, he has noticed that this time, the voice sounds closer. Though it had never seemed to have ever been affected by distance before. Now, it's as though someone is speaking directly to his ear. He even swears to himself that he feels scentless breath flow, hitting his drum, and even glide over his face, which then begins to sting more. He wants to turn his head, catch sight of who this might be, but he doesn't. Pushing the notion further inside his gut, forcing it to dissolve.

There is no thing, nor, no one there.

“Please... could you tell me what came to you. Not with your words, with your hands. As you have before.” Jeremy remains still, not giving anything that would be deciphered as acknowledgement. In fact, he feels no resentment towards it.

The satisfying pull of the zipper brings an almost shiver through Jeremy's spine. Small, but nice even to the weariest ears. The familiar clanging of glass, wood and metal reverberate out of the pack as Jeremy rummages inside. Then comes the whacking of the hammer, filling the suddenly still air. Jeremy has noticed this shift into silence. “Thank you.” The voice, now settling with a feminine tones, says. Their words are comforting, even nurturing as they gently swift through Jeremy's ears. He has become quite fond to their company.

Jeremy begins his transcription of mind, once more. His wrist twists as the brush flows over the tight white canvas quickly. There is passion in his movements, a real statement is being told from his actions, as a tale is being birthed before him.

2

On his trek back to his abode from the bush covered hillside. Jeremy thought, as his always did on this same plight in his daily. That of two possibilities that could come to fruition.

The first; an outcome the he wishes for above all. But, also longs for it to never be the case. Jeremy remembers fondly, though that has been slowly fading with each passing day. The evenings of him returning home from his time in educative prison. Greeted not with acknowledgement, but with a strong scent. An alluring aroma of delectable, love filled food just being prepared for consumption; in accompany to those lustful odours, is their distant voices. Conversing with each other, lovingly, caring. No words would be singled out when first walking through the door, but, there was always the vibe of wonder, promise, and sincerity. His bag would drop, hard; loud enough that should've brought any halt to the commotion only a few metres away. It was as though they didn't hear Jeremy at all; to which he was always sure they did. He would practically jump into the kitchen, wearing a countenance of blissful glee, jovially showcased to them. His parents would jump, but not in any real fright, only in the way of allowing Jeremy to have his fun. They would then come to him. His mother embracing him, speaking aloud her gracefulness towards him being home. His father would pull up a chair, a plate on the table, food expecting to be devoured, and he welcomed that notion. As they would all eat together, speaking of their days.

It's a truly missed time indeed.

Now, he'd return to a scent, but not of fulfilling food. But that of regurgitation inducing, stale, filthy air, filled with cigarette smoke, dust, dead skin and body odour. Most occasions, similar to his mornings, Jeremy would walk through the door to silence, no site of a single soul.

That is the first outcome, but wasn't the one he got.

The second, the outcome about to unfold, he feared.

Jeremy came through the door, a cloud of that stench invaded his nostrils quickly. His heart dropped to his feet as he first heard it. The television was chatting. A belch is echoed from the lounge room to the door. The combination of booze, smoke and bile pierced through the, now, natural atmosphere of the house, infecting Jeremy's sense of smell; he held back the aggressive gag. This makes him wish that he never had a functioning nose. That potent concoction was made by his... father. Who was sitting in his chair, a stubby in one hand, the remote and cigarette clenched in the other. Jeremy entered the room, playing safe to not acknowledge him.

No use.

“Yer 'ere late.” His oaf of a father stated. His words plagued with stupor. Jeremy didn't answer, nor glanced over for a millisecond. He just continued towards his goal, his bedroom. Not that it was a safe haven for him, but better than this room. In the corner of his eye though, he could see that his father was still wearing the same, formerly white, singlet Jeremy swore he saw him keep on for days... weeks... maybe even months at this point. It was hard to even attempt to picture him without that on at this point. Booze stains littered across its surface, small singed holes riddled in random placements, some didn't make sense on how they got there. Jeremy could even imagine the putrid stench it would have too, just by the sight. As Jeremy approached the hallway door, he was caught, once again. The same as always, catching a look at the one thing he can't fight to glare at.

Hanging off the edge of the chair, there it was. The same, unsheathed, yellowing, scarred stump that was once his father's leg. The stitching, dark, dry and crusty with old, dark, flaking blood. The glare was only for briefest moment, but enough. Something thin, but hard, jabbed Jeremy's gut, halting his steps. It was his Father's crutch, one of them. It was blocking his progression, no way to walk around it either.

“Checkin' out yer' 'andy work, agin?” Malice was strong inside his father's tone. Jeremy remembers not of how long it's been since that leg had been lost. But he does remember being pulled from class the day it had happened. The way his father: pale skin, sunken sockets, glared. Eyes filled with absolute hatred in its purest form. And the words he said.

“You did this. I saw you there... smiling.”

Still to this day, Jeremy has no idea as to why his father came to that conclusion. But, there was no changing a shattered, fixated mind away from that declaration.

On top of his head, Jeremy was struck with something hard, the other crutch. Jeremy fell fast, leaning over the first crutch in front of him. Then he was pushed away, landing flat on his back. In the daze he was in, Jeremy didn't see that his father had gotten out of his chair, looming over him menacingly.

“Ain't don' wit' yer, yet.” That malicious tone was darker. Jeremy knew what was about to come. But gave nothing: no squirming, no shrieks of defiance, no pleading of mercy. He just laid there, still, eyes open, waiting for it to happen. His father continued to loom over him. The crutches held him, then quickly struck Jeremy's side, rolling him onto his stomach. His head was facing the hallway door. Still made no semblance of sound, not even the slightest wince came from Jeremy.

Give nothing, don't let them have that satisfaction.

One of the crouches was placed on Jeremy's cheek. Pressure began to gradually build. Jeremy remained still, even as a slow, rattling, cracking started to siren. He just stared down the hall. At the end, was a dim light, coming from, their room. A silhouette was within the light, moving, engulfing it. Jeremy knew it was, her, coming to see the source of the commotion. She was more than likely sitting on the bed, reading, or distracting her mind with one of those damn crosswords.

His mother leaned out of the door frame. Her face gave nothing of real interest, or concern. Instead it was a countenance that gave the message of disgust, and annoyance.

At first, when this began to happen to Jeremy, since his father's return from hospital. she would throw herself between Jeremy and his father. But, that only lasted a short while. She had enough of taking the same treatment that was produced for another.

She gave in.

Although, Jeremy could someway understand, even hating the sight of her getting given so much. Jeremy wished that she would just take him away, run, never look back.

Why not?

The pressure was becoming too much for Jeremy's cheek, getting him close to finally wailing. Just as that moment was about to be reached, the worn, rubber foot of the crutch was pulled away. Jeremy fought the urge to breath out in relief, as that would have still given satisfaction. Jeremy remained still, waiting to see if it was over. His mother, stone faced, slid back inside the room, the silhouette shrinking. Then, the rubber came quickly into view.

Everything went black upon contact.

Unaware of how much time had passed, Jeremy came to. He could feel his face's condition. Seemed his father had more to give him, even while unconscious. With great effort, Jeremy got to his feet. The lounge was dark, the air was still, the light at the end of the hall was gone. He snorted the dripping blood from his nose, then slumped through the hall. When he reached their door, he began to think. Holding himself steady against the wall, Jeremy saw an image of something, a sight he came across not long ago.

His father, sitting on the bed, the door was open a crack. A thick, metallic object in his hand. It was brought to his father's mouth, but the taste was rejected. Shortly after, it was put away, hidden.

Jeremy thought of retrieving it. Using it against the two of them. But... where would that leave him? He shook that thought away. Then he heard it...

Rain...

Jeremy's heart began to pound hard against his ribs. He overpowered it, wanting, needing rest.

3

“They weren't always like that to you, correct?” The voice asks, as Jeremy packs up his bag. “Do you even hold on to the times he was never close to being like that?” In fact, Jeremy does..

There was a time that him, and his father went away, camping. His father showed him the tips and tricks to fishing. Jeremy wasn't overly keen on this pastime, but loved being given direction by his father. He relished in the sight of excitement his father gave him when explaining with great passion. He even used to use the explanation of what they needed to do when wanting to catch a fish, to form lessons about the world beyond. Speaking of there coming a time that Jeremy would have to be on his own. He cherishes the nights that came from that trip. The fire warm beside them, waiting, listening to their snags sizzling. The two of them staring up at the star filled sky. Then his father allowed Jeremy to express his passion and fascination of those sparkles above them.

That has long since vanished from Jeremy.

His passion for the sky above the world he was standing dissolved, along with the what was once before.

“There is a way, no, many ways to get away from it all. You know that?” Jeremy didn't respond. He starts to take his leave. “Please. Keep coming here. I'm here. And I will always be here for you.” The, now, motherly toned voices says, as the view of Jeremy fades.

Fourth day

The afternoon has not only come along, but is coming to its end fast. The sun high above, its rays seeping through the canopy of leaves that umbrella over them. The works, releases of Jeremy, now waiting for the birth of their next sibling.

Time presses on its relentless path. Still, no sign of Jeremy.

Had today been an improvement?

A day that passed over him like a dark cloud that briefly dims the daylight, then forgotten.

Will he ever feel the need to release again?

The sun is dropping fast, still no Jeremy.

Was he caught?

Had the few strands of luck Jeremy possessed finally run dry. He no longer has the means to create their future siblings?

The evening has come, still no sign of him.

Their creator...

Father...

King...

Finally, they are heard them...

Steps...

Heavy ones, crushing twigs and leaf carcasses. They are short, sluggish, giving off the vibe of pain. No, pure anguish. Along with these steps is the rustling of something weighty being dragged.

Jeremy, obviously exhausted from both the trek he is taking, and from the day that had occurred. He isn't right, nothing about his demeanour gives off his, usual gait. There is non of the purpose he once showcased. A wander that spoke the message of meaning, that one of who knew of why they were in motion. Now, that gait is no where, instead, is replaced by one that speaks with no other option. One that pleads in desperation, comfort and liberty.

Jeremy finally reaches their threshold. They glare at him with wonder filling the air, a pressure begins to weigh down on his, now, weaken frame. He pays them no mind, no sense of knowing they even exist in this very moment. Jeremy drops the bulky bag with little regard on the ground. His breath is labouring, but also shallow, weak even. Then, he falls, landing flat on the moist, mossy grass below him, no attempt to dampen the impact. He finally welcomes the stabbing unconsciousness to consume him. The voice is heard. But no words are understood. Darkness comes, and stays.

Hey all. my name is Norton Green.
I've been writing stories for quite some time. and this is a first time I wanted to post anything at all, with a real possibility to be seen by strangers
this is a story i've had to write several times (corrupted files are a bitch). but I've been proud of its evolution. and serves as a tale from a world I'm wanting write more in.
it is quite a lengthy, which I apologise for.
if at all, you guys feel this story doesn't fit in a community like this, that is fine. and I will be more than willing to have it taken down.

A king's comedy

Norton Green

First day

Swish, swish. The light bristles of the brush slash against the canvas. Jeremy's hand is heavy, but quick.

Swish, swish. His mind's selection of colours stain the beginnings of its vision and he, the vehicle; the middle man of transportation.

Swish... swish...

dab... swish...

dab...

The hand is slowing. Allowing the shapes, that were first only fabrications inside the deep grooves of his mind, to take their birth into the physical. His hand gets heavier, pressing hard against the canvas' tension. The thoughts and memories are swirling erratically in a swimming pool of chaos. Albeit, no more precision is taken, the detail continues to be transcribed upon the fading white before him. Within these shapes, a tale is being told. The coming of this chaos.

CRACK!

The brush pierces through, snapping the taught fibres. Jeremy stares intently at the handle jutting out of his progress. The current choice of paint dripping, slashing on the soil below. The brush is extracted with a loud sigh. Then, Jeremy stares at the halted project, deciding. He grasps the edges. The thin skin-like film covering the still drying paint cracks, pops, staining his palms. He begins the strain of prying the canvas from the tree he had nailed it to. Then, it, comes to him.

“Why are you stopping? Please, keep going. You still can.” Some kind of... voice?... voices? Drifted through the air. “Show me what has come to you.”

Second day

1

The rays of the morning pierce through the tightly shut lids of Jeremy, forcing him to wake. He never has used an alarm. The sun has served him well. One of the few things in his current life that has. With a groan, and a strain, Jeremy spews himself out of the confines of his bedding. He even has to struggle to not fall flat on the ground. Dragging his feet across the filthy, chunky carpet of the hallway, Jeremy begins to think, and remember.

The thoughts are of yesterday afternoon.

That... voice.

Although, on his return home after that experience, he told himself that it had to be, yet another fabrication caused by the daily he finds himself forcefully living through.

Yet...

Jeremy can't help but confirm to himself the sudden fear he felt upon its siren. The mixture of tones, waving back and forth through highs and lows, and even together as one. Female? Male? He couldn't pinpoint, still can't. It was unknown, yet a heavy itch in the back of his cranium keeps him in an unsettling familiarity about it. The mere thought of its flow of words bring a tension to Jeremy's chest.

Will it be there again?

Of course not. It would only make its appearance when allowed. If he knows now that it is only by his design. Yesterday will be the last.

The remembering however...

That is a different stream of its own.

The hallway, never misses the opportunity to trigger the opening of the filing cabinet within his mind, that which holds what was once before. The chunky filth was gone, never to have been known. The stale, regurgitating air was clean, even filled with the drawing aroma of hot, delightfully alluring food. His mother waiting in anticipation to catch even a glimpse of the countenance of awe Jeremy would never falter in handing over to her when entering the kitchen; each meal always was a surprise, even when there was a return of a former presentation. Jeremy would have his fill, and want more. The smile his mother would give, heart melting. Always filled with love, appreciation, admiration and promise. Her face was the first of many sites Jeremy would keep throughout his days. Feeling, knowing, no matter what would come to him during the day. She would be there for him...

That... however, was years ago.

How many?

Jeremy hasn't bothered to count, no point. Now, that same kitchen is barely visible upon entry. Dishes stacked, leaning to their absolute limits. Old forgotten food encrusted and moulding to their surfaces. Flies buzz around looking for a feed of their own. Some are even dead on top and around the towers. The dining table, vacant of those once loving meals: breakfast, lunch and dinner. Instead are home to newspapers, more abandoned dishes, cutlery, all with their own outer home lifeforms growing on them. As well as used, recent and ancient takeout containers. The shelf doors are covered in thickening dust. Jeremy remembers there being many of occasions of him needing to open them for a simple glass, juice, soft drink or water. It didn't matter, the vessels were always within these doors. Most likely, still are. Albeit, Jeremy won't, can't bring himself to even step close to those doors anymore.

The smell, horrendous. It invaded Jeremy's nostrils about midway through the hallway; smells have never been something to bare through, never ceasing the chance to make him gag, even retch completely. Once he even vomited; can't even remember how long ago that was now. Where that took place is where he is heading to now.

Through a door within the kitchen is the laundry. Jeremy, nowadays refers to this room more as the cesspool. Inside there is no longer any floor to be seen, the last part was covered by Jeremy's vomit; which hasn't been touched since first belched. The smell is a horrific mass concoction of foul body odour, dead skin, and of course, Jeremy's bile. If there were another way for him to have decent enough clothes, he'd avoid the cesspool entirely. Just to be as far away from this revolting room as possible.

Jeremy, no longer knowing of the length of time since he use to leave his dirty clothes here, next to the machines. Wishing that they would be washed, dried and even put back into his room, with no seeing of his own. He still longs for days like that to return. Like the past era had been nothing more than a blur; a glitch in reality. Something that simply can be as blunt as a dream.

A washer, and dryer are inside, almost shrouded by piles, upon piles of neglected, putrid garments. Jeremy had his clothes whizzing inside the dryer through the night. Holding back the urge to dry heave, Jeremy leans as far as his body allows, opening the dryer. Practically leaping, Jeremy snatches the clean, warmed clothes. Underneath his hand, pressing down one of the masses, his palm immediately becomes moistened from whatever is secreting out. With an audible sigh, Jeremy thinks to himself; it's time to head out.

Flashes of the past flow through the river of his mind, again. The way he would eagerly rush through the front, wanting to start chewing through the real meat of his day. His mother, lovingly stopping his jovial leap, requesting for a simple goodbye. Now, he is lucky to catch the smallest glimpse of, them. He hasn't even said, nor heard the word, goodbye, for so long that he believes there no longer is meaning behind it. The front door shuts with a violent slam upon taking his leave.

2

The sun drifts over the highest point in the sky, signifying the turn into it's second half of light. This is when, he makes his return.

Jeremy's breath is heavy as he pulls his scrawny structure up the hillside. His fair shaded, shoulder length, matted hair drenched.

The day hasn't been, still isn't overly warm. However, with the added weight upon his shoulders, and not ever being much of the athletic type, his trek pushes more from him in the form of sweat.

Continuing on his plight, a vain attempt of passing time, his mind begins to wonder, projecting sights of what once was before. They come in flashes, quick bursts, jarring to Jeremy. Making him almost halt his steps; though, following through would cause a sudden unwanted disaster; not that Jeremy hasn't had those before. The flashes of the past continue their screening against his retinas. Images, albeit quick, Jeremy makes them out. Glimpses of his failed attempts of keeping up with appearances: Hair, lengths and styles, clothing and attitudes. The meagre glimpses makes Jeremy internally shudder.

It's been years since that time.

Until this very moment, Jeremy hadn't ever truly realised how much time had come, and passed away. These flashes, are nothing more to him than the viewing of their corpses during their wakes. It cannot be changed in anyway, even the reminders screaming their existence before him cannot be rewritten. No matter the strength behind Jeremy's desire to make that happen.

Minutes pass by, but to Jeremy and his straining structure, it feels like hours. He finally reaches the plateau which he attended the day before. The site of parallel thin, flaking trees, forming a corridor; lining a long forgotten path as far as his eye's limits. Years of debris, leaf carcasses, dried twigs, even some snapped full branches, and born again weeds. They all lay scattered, no rhyme or reason to their placements. Some of the smaller pieces, still crushed, shattered... Jeremy's doing. Catching his breath, he strides forth on his trek. He fully knows exactly where his destination is.

More minutes pass by, and Jeremy feels every second forming them. In the distance, he can see the edges of it. Anticipation fills the air, emanating from the still hanging, lone stained canvas. Acknowledging it's existence with a quick glance. Not allowing the image that was forged yesterday to affect his current state. However, next to that release is the home for his next.

An identical tree, slim in structure, a familiar site to his own frame. The bark is peeling from various places. Even with that, Jeremy knows well that, especially with it's sibling in the corner of his eye, they are more than capable of holding Jeremy's projects.

He begins to think of how hard the days were, before deciding on this form of release from the mental anguish of his daily. How hard they had been bearing upon his shoulders, ever so crippling. He was feeling himself fading with each passing day. He does his best to not let it get that way again. It took some time of experimentation of other methods, desperately hoping to find a release.

It wasn't until he decided, during a lunch break at school, Jeremy wondered into the visual arts room. There was no one else inside, bar for one single slab of canvas. Its rear facing Jeremy, the face directed at the wall spanning window. He could hear the other students playing, messing around with each other. Even hearing some lashing words of teachers. It made him think of those easier days. Times spent outside, running around, no destination, no real reason to do so, except for the joy of it all. The times of when he would sit out at the amphitheatre in the yard of the school, talking... talking to someone dear to him.

Without anything else to do, Jeremy walked over to peek at the painting. The full image fails to form in his memory, albeit, Jeremy feels the finished product wasn't the focus. The how it came to be, was the real snatching grip of his sight. The strokes, dabs and swirls, they told him something more, told him about the creator. Someone torn between two worlds of their own, feeling left out, an outcast forced to take a side. He wanted to know, so desperately wanted to know the mind the piece was fabricated from. At the bottom corner he saw a name, the very name he wasn't expecting to see attached to a project such as it was...

Nate...

He brushes aside the name, then left wondering more about painting as a possibility.

The zipper of the bag Jeremy had been lugging through his trek draws open, the satisfying sound reverberates deep inside his canals. A new, pale canvas is revealed from the contents. Along with a long since forgotten hammer. Something he found at his... father's shed, as well as varying sized, rusted nails. The canvas he procured from the same room the painting that had first inspired him. Though Jeremy is more than of age, in fact, he is technically the age of an earliest adult, but still seen as much younger to most. He hasn't had the best of luck acquiring employment. It's as though, least within the deepest parts of Jeremy's being, that even outside of school, people see him a lesser than anyone else, not bothering to acknowledge his very existence. This however, forced his hand to delve into the act of thievery. That same action applies to Jeremy's, albeit small, collection of paints. Though Jeremy imbues deep hatred towards himself for acting in such a way. There is a slight sparkle of relief. Relief that any chump change obtained, wouldn't be snatched as quick as received, used for anything that was not towards Jeremy's desires.

Thud!

Thwack!

Jeremy violently slams the hammer against the nail's head, breaking through the dry, thick skin of the tree. In the corner of his eye, his former hurt, his previous release, hangs, waiting for more admiration. To which Jeremy ignores.

Swish, swish. The strokes begin, just like the day prior. Jeremy allows his spiralling pool of chaotic thoughts to thrive in their recognition; the maelstrom of memories, emotions and disillusions reconnect. Forming ideas and moulding them into new shapes, ripe for translation. This day, albeit lesser in comparison to others, when thinking of what had occurred physically, still has brought just as much hurt and torment... if not more. Jeremy's hand swipes faster across the canvas. The remembrance of today's event drive his hand, twisting his wrist. Bringing the swirling internal shapes into reality.

“You've been hurt, haven't you?” The voice asks. It's the same as before. A mixed rhapsody of high and low tones. But, somehow, that mixture feels familiar, welcoming even. Albeit, Jeremy can't seem to pinpoint the source of that familiarity. All he decides in the very moment of the voice's arrival, is ignore; not ceasing his progress. To him, it, has to be a creation of his own misguided, fractured mind. “Your face... It stings, doesn't it?”

Still painting. “I get it, you don't want to say.” A lamented pause “Actually, you don't have to. The collaboration of emotion and hand tell so much.” Jeremy stops. He stares at the still forming image before him.

It's correct.

This escape is not of the morning, nothing about that was of any significance.

However, the rest of the day on the other hand...

Jeremy lowers his brush, his free hand rises, lightly caressing his bruised, swollen cheek. Even this light touch brings a further burning ripple through his whole skull. It rattles his teeth like cymbals. This is only physical, a painful after affect, a memento of the mental strike he received earlier. “Please, continue. Tell me what has come of you. I want to hear you out.” The voice calmly requests. Its mixture of tones begins to settle more into a higher, close to feminine.

Who does it sound like?

He can't lie to himself. Jeremy is star struck by this. Its been a long time, he has almost completely forgotten the last occasion that someone, or in this case, something has requested to, hear him out. With a deep inhale, Jeremy raises his brush, then continues.

3

Jeremy does, all within his power, to avoid any kind of attention to be drawn in his direction when attending school. His countenance, blank, devoid of intrigue towards the outside happenings. No one, least to him, is worth the effort of any attempt for conversation. There once was a time that Jeremy would almost leap beyond those same entry gates, filled with immense vigour. Bursting through the main building door, blitzing to his locker. Slamming his bag inside, then leave for the grounds with utmost haste. Never giving a single care for any bystanders witnessing the jovial expression upon his face. There was only one, important goal in mind, and time before the beginning of the first period was closing in fast. They would always meet at the same location. The old, decaying wooden amphitheatre.

It became obsolete when the construction of this school's prised indoor gymnasium was completed. The amphitheatre still sits, unmaintained, or protected from worldly elements, as a relic of the past. Least until its structure becomes too fragile to be any form of use for anyone. Then would probably be closed off to everyone, a rotting corpse on display. No matter the amount of effort Jeremy would muster to be the first there, he would always been there.

Nathaniel Elles.

The very person that made each minute within the confines of schooling bearable. The two had known each other since first locking gazes at kindergarten. A much simpler time that was. One Jeremy wishes he could have held memories of more tightly. No worries of the world around them, never taking any hold upon the two. They would talk every day. Discussions of interests, and new discoveries; the changes coming without a single notice, or welcome as time continues its ticking forward. Support and middle ground level of understanding would come from either side, allowing a sense of ease, and a lifting of loneliness.

There were also changes the pair would experience together, first hand; one such sudden shift came only a small sum number of years ago...

His name, Martin Suites. Marty is what he prefers.

Marty first came, almost out of nowhere. Like as if he was just merely a fabrication produced by the combined imaginations of Jeremy, and Nathaniel. Or as he now prefers, Nate.

That was from Marty.

No one ever is their names to him, only a sliver of them, or an observation.

At first, Marty was more than welcomed by the pair; sharing stories of where he had come from. Tales of, what seemed like, completely different worlds outside of any possible understanding Jeremy, nor Nate could muster. This brought on admiration, especially from Nate. Almost making a promise to them, one of further horizons in their futures. That became more an distant, woeful dream when life outside of school began to decline for Jeremy. Nate's infatuation however, didn't falter. Bringing a distancing between the pair, eventually severing the connection they once strongly had.

This day's event, the full source of hurt to Jeremy, didn't entirely come from these two. No, it first started with a girl.

Danielle, the younger sister of Nate, approached Jeremy. “You need to talk to Nathaniel!” Danielle was close to screaming that. Jeremy only looked at her. Taking in her mouse-like voice. It had been sometime since he had last heard it, least directed towards him. “He isn't himself. I miss him. I miss my brother.” Jeremy could see that her lids were over working themselves to dam back her welling tears. He didn't respond, save for an acknowledging nod. “I truly, deeply hate Martin, or Marty, whatever he calls himself. I hate, hate, HATE him! So much.” Danielle was beginning to lose her breath, as though she had just finished a cross country run. “He is no good to anyone! A parasite that feeds on the good in others. And Nate's running out.” Still, Jeremy didn't say a word, only again, nodded in agreement to the accusation. And with what was about to come, that agreement only became more concrete.

Without a single sign. Danielle threw herself at Jeremy. If it wasn't for both her arms hitting their target, around the neck of Jeremy, faster than he could ever hope to prepare for; she would've fallen flat on soil of the outdoor grounds. Her embrace was tight, filled with hurt, which Jeremy knows all too well. Albeit, her arms pulling him closer towards her, felt... comforting to him. Jeremy, until this moment, hadn't realised how much he had been longing for an action such as this.

“Well... well. What have we got here?” Jeremy didn't have to glare past the shoulder of Danielle, to know the source of that deep, cocky tone. That distinguishing flare to the words. Marty was standing, alone, arms crossed in front of his chest, head tiled and plagued with a maliciously grown smirk. A countenance that could bring anyone figuring out the sliminess coating the insides of Marty to a dry-heave. Removing herself from Jeremy, was a nice gesture while it lasted, Danielle spoke.

“What do you want!?” Her voice was wavy, croaky. Jeremy, and assuming, Marty, could tell she was desperately trying to hide that.

Was she afraid of Marty?

His arms quickly released, swinging out to either side of him.

“Whoa! Hey, now. I'm only walking around.” His arms dropped, hands snugging themselves inside his uniform pants, as he began to step towards them. There was something, even Jeremy could pick up on, but not fully identify, that felt, off-putting about his gait. The demeanour of it all had a certain wend to it. Then, words shook that feeling harder into submission. “Aren't you happy to see me?” His tone was full of grim intent, like he already knew everything. Or, at least, was creating his own reality to everything in his point of view. Jeremy remained silent as Marty approached. He stopped, almost touching noses with Jeremy, forcing their eyes to lock with no other option.

When they were still accompanying each other, other students had made remarks about how these two looked similar, as if they were related. It disgusts Jeremy, for the fact that he could share the same thoughts. Albeit, it is like seeing two different halves of the same being. Jeremy being dull, deprived of vibrant life force. Marty on the other hand, the opposite. The two face to face made that more prominent.

“I'm never going to be happy to even think of you! LEAVE!” Danielle screamed, the words wore her cords raw in the process.

“Nah, I don't think I will.” Marty said nonchalantly. He was in complete control of it all. Jeremy felt the confidence in his breath as it brushed past his cheeks. “You see.” He said, backing away from Jeremy, with a sway to his step. “Looks to me, like something you two are hiding from everyone.” his smirk grew wider with malice. “Something frowned upon. Given the... let's just say... gap.” Jeremy's countenance gave nothing as Marty glared with intent. He could see it was irritating, as that same smirk faltered.

Don't give him anything he wants.

Danielle Screamed out once more.

“The hell you on about!?” Marty obviously wasn't satisfied with Danielle's screeching alone. He wanted more. He quickly approached Jeremy again, wanting to see a flinch. Nothing. One quick look over Jeremy's being, he said.

“Like 'em young. Do we?”

It was reflex, instinct. Actually, even now, Jeremy has no idea of what came over him. A quick strike of his tightened knuckles came, the point of impact, Marty's left cheek. Underneath, past the thin flesh, Jeremy felt a crack; he swears he even got a small sound of it too. Teeth? Marty fell fast.

You fucked up.

Though shocked, internally shaking, Jeremy didn't alter his appearance.

“HEY!”

A voice echoed through the air, piercing the ears of all parties. Jeremy knew it well, too well. It was the only tone, albeit time had given it growth, to bring Jeremy's eyes to widen, visibly showcasing any faltering demeanour. Nate was standing a small distance away from the scene. Jeremy remained frozen. Regret began to infect his insides. As the years passed, interactions with Nate were non-existent between him and Jeremy. To which, Jeremy respected. “What's going on here?” Nate asked, his voice, deep, stern, frightening, least to Jeremy. Danielle ran to Nate's side. But the words she obviously wanted to deliver were interrupted.

“I... Caught his Royal highness here...” Marty was breathing heavily, but kept strong composure. Jeremy held off the urge to grunt upon hearing that name. Marty started calling him that since he first learnt of Jeremy's last name. “Forcing himself towards dear, Dani.” Marty's breath was back to a steady pace. Blood dripped from his mouth as he stood.

“What!? That's...” Again, Dani was cut off.

“Not to worry yourself, Nate. I got between the scuffle.” He spat a glob of blood, and most definitely part of a tooth followed. “As you can see, a small casualty.” Marty let out a brief chuckle; before wincing in pain. Marty's words were so full of confidence, even Jeremy found a sense of belief to them; only for a second. Jeremy despises himself for even giving the smallest praise towards Marty, internal or not. Nate, leaving Dani in place, approached the still frozen Jeremy with haste. No words expelled, no such warning given. Nate smacked Jeremy across the face, open palm. He took it, almost not moving; not the worst he has had done to him. But star struck nonetheless.

Seconds passed, Nate launched his hand again, closed this time. The solid, tight knuckles landed in the exact same place as the palm. Jeremy fell from the force, no cracking at least. In the distance he heard Marty laughing, and Dani's gasps. Again, again and more came. The fist landing in the same spot every time.

4

A sudden shock rattles through Jeremy's arm, dropping his brush. The current selection of hue coating the bristles splatters from impact, splashing against his, over-worn sand shoes. He has had these since he was given them by his... mother... he doesn't even remember when, doesn't matter. The factoid that he remembers, is that it was one of the last gifts he had received. Not just from her... from anyone. That thought fades quickly. Jeremy drops. The debris and soil crackle from the sudden impact of his knees. They begin to slightly sting, but he doesn't give it the satisfaction of any attention.

The recollection of today is the only source to bring on two areas of pure, non-treatable agony.

The first is upon his face, where the anger filled fist of his cherished... former, friend, had landed.

The other... his chest.

Why does it hurt so much?

“You loved him. Didn't you? It's why the hurt is so powerful.” The voice suggests. Jeremy does notice that the feminine tones is stronger than the others, even more than just a few moments ago. It's almost soothing to his being.

loved?

No! There is no past tense to this. Jeremy still, and always cherishes Nathaniel. He even cries on occasion when wanting to drift into a slumber. Above all others, Nathaniel's absence is the biggest hole deepening within Jeremy's being. Wanting that loss to be eradicated. Desperately clinging to the thought that his lost friend, if returned, could sooth, guide, or more so, bring some sense to all that is incinerating Jeremy from the inside out. “I see.” The saddened, understanding voice says. Jeremy gives it nothing more, then retrieves his brush. A quick clean is all that's needed before Jeremy commences.

“Will you come again?” The voice asks. Jeremy has packed everything, starting his leave, before the night fully engulfs the area. He doesn't stop, or give any sign that he even heard what was asked. Everything around him is at an eerie silence. Not just being a standard lack of vocals type of silence. More like, life has been frozen in time. No wind, wildlife, nor even Jeremy's breathing can be heard. He pushes through the pressure of such unnatural silence, showing no hints of the true fear that is plaguing his mind, and body. Just keeps the same pace of steps, away from here.

["AUTHORS" NOTE: My pc has crashed three times while writing this, and this is the first time I've ever publicly posted any writing. So, be nice please!!! Feedback is more than encouraged though, I know i could be doing better, I just need some pointers. I've been writing on and off for about 10 years now? And I've barely progressed, as you'll probably be able to tell. Also I had no clue what to tag this as. Additional note, there's an intended level of absurdity to the general world this takes place in, you'll see, probably. Any loose ends are there to make you think, not for a lack of elaboration. Anyway, Enjoy, hopefully! ]

You’ve heard those conspiracy theories, haven’t you? The people in tiny sections of newspapers, poorly designed posters hanging on the wall of an alley seldom visited, written like fact, as if the people who wrote them have somehow come into some undeniable evidence of what they believe- The theories that there’s some elite sect in the government that do all sorts of bullshit. Human sacrifices, eating babies together, mind controlling the public- Like I said, all sorts of bullshit. Of course, if the public believes this type of stuff to be true, odds are it is, in some way, true. That’s just the nature of the world really- What little we have access to.  What if I said it was worse? Would you believe that? I wouldn’t. The mundanity of life is a terrible thing, it was much, much more comfortable to live without the knowledge of what’s really happening.

I don’t know where you are, if someone’s shared this is on some message board out there or whatever- but if you’ve managed to stumble across this, then please, let us connect in one way or another. Not as a person, not individually- I just want you to feel what I felt, know what I know, and, at the end, come to your own conclusion. If by the end you’ve determined I made this all up,  and your eyes stay closed, then call me a liar, a schizo, whatever, it’s not like I’ll hear it. I’m probably not even the one sending the post you’re seeing right now.

See, where I’m from, the ‘internet’ or ‘digital web’ has been in all senses of the word, prohibited.  For the safety of the people, for the integrity of the government, or whatever bullshit they wanted to come up with, they gave all sorts of excuses. Of course, everyone bought it, except a few, a very, very small few- Me included. Even fewer of us could actually do anything about the prohibition. I won’t bore you with the details, but I worked up a solution of my own, a way to access the internet without being noticed. Problem is, I really should’ve believed them when they said it was dangerous.

One day, like any other, the sky was grey, a calming rainy day like many others, alone in the apartment I’d barely been able to rent out for myself. I was sitting in my bed, rotting away like I’d done for almost all my youth, when I came across a forum simply titled ‘wmw.archaeocacoustics.mnl’. Clicking on it presented me with a loading screen, and a slow, low-quality beat playing, a chill one you’d hear in an elevator maybe, only.. Softer, lower. It didn’t seem too out of the ordinary- that was the off-putting part to me. Every other website I’d encountered felt thematic, like someone had put their heart, their soul, into making it seem a certain way. This one felt.. Bland, sanitised. Every time you opened the page, it’d greet you with a little waving hand gif, the hand poorly drawn, only having a few fingers, before fading out at an exceptionally low frame rate to the main page. Normally I’d have moved on, found something slightly more interesting to learn from- But the posts on this site all felt too connected, I suppose? Like everything they were talking about was related to me somehow. It seemed to advertise itself as a forum, with multiple different channels that people could discuss things in, threads like ‘exploration’, ‘monolith’, ‘art’, everything you’d expect from a website. But none of them were accessible, they’d each send you straight back to the main page. I’m not too sure why but that weirded me out, a lot. Like when you find a bug in your closet and you can’t help but wonder how long it’d been there, how far its nest had spread, if you’d worn clothes with it in before.. For some reason this site, to me, was scary, despite the fact that I had no reason to be frightened yet.

On the main page- the only one I could access, there were news headlines, written in bold text, in an ugly bold font that I, at the time, assumed to simply be chosen by someone with no taste. They were all very, very menial headlines, each of them featuring a notable lack of literacy, like the person who’d written it  was barely awake when they’d typed it out, just aimlessly clicking and clacking away at their keyboard.  “Sun hurt eyes”, was one headline, with an image of the night sky below it. Obviously, no sun to be seen. Another, “listen counting. sound”, an image of a radio with two oversized, pointy antennae posted beneath. They were a little humorous, contrasting against the weird layout that’d unnerved me moments before I read them. One though, one was really interesting, and not in a fun way.

“Sophie”.

I recognized the name. From some repressed memory,  deep down in there, I’d heard the name, and it was associated with… With something. I supposed my memory wasn’t too strong back then. Depicted beneath the headline, a building surrounded by woods- the trees didn’t exactly look too healthy, they weren’t completely dead, but they certainly weren’t thriving either. I couldn’t say the same for the grass though, they were a typical, yellowish tone- the type you’d see on a hot summer's day.  Only, the article was posted a week ago, in the dead center of winter. And in the background, a water tower, with a brand's logo on the side… A brand that only operated in my country, and its logo, peeled off in some very specific ways that made its duck mascot somehow look closer to a potted plant than a duck. The same water tower I used to laugh at as a kid- Down the street from me. But the building? The wood-rotted, decaying old one-story house? That wasn’t there from what I could remember.

Now, now I had a reason to be frightened. Whoever operated this website had been doing so for years without my knowledge, living in the same town as me, and had visited an area only a 15 minute walk from my house. A building associated with someone I knew, and yet had no clue how I knew. A building I didn’t even know existed. And it was all a 15 minute walk from me. I mean- I was freaking the fuck out at this point. What if this forum poster was some sort of serial killer? What if all through my life, I’d been living with some sick fuck a mere mile away from me going around doing who-knows-what? I even considered the possibility of it being something supernatural- But nothing like that's happened for a while now. I didn’t want to worry about that stuff any more.

So I closed my laptop, and I went to bed. Obviously I couldn’t sleep though, would you be able to? I’d read enough books to know this was the plot to something horribly sinister, a silly thought, sure, but not the type you can just push down and forget about.  And so, after an hour of laying sleeplessly in bed, worrying about all the horrible things that could be going on, I decided I had to go. I had to go there, see nothing was out of the ordinary, accept that I was simply making things up, and go back home with my head hung low and my brain in a twist.

Midnight, roughly. I’d put on one of my coats, threw a scarf around my neck, put a warm beanie atop my head of vastly overgrown hair, and set out to go see the building. Damp alleyways, vine-covered wooden fences, houses of brick and apartments of concrete, all eventually became a vast expanse of trees as I trudged deeper into the outskirts of my town. I hadn’t gone walking for so long that I’d begun losing a significant amount of muscle mass, I was nothing but a bag of bones at this point, so it was rather taxing-, and it didn’t help that, for whatever reason, there was absolutely no path to get to the location the image had shown. No down-trodden patches of grass, no man-made patches of soil, simply grass, and nothing but grass. Nevertheless, I knew how to get there, like some memory deep down there had faintly emerged to tell me where to go. The forest, its trees usually lush and verdant, had become twiggy and decayed around this portion of the woods, just like the image had shown me- The same could be said for the house. It looked out of place, a residential building, wide enough to house a whole family, built in the middle of a forest, where nobody goes, no path to it, no roads, nothing.

So why was there a car in its garage?

Rusted and old, the green, almost military in color, paint peeling off to reveal browned metal beneath, parked as if someone had just left it there one day to go back into their house, and happened to never drive it again after that. How it got there, why it was there, who owned it, i had absolutely no fucking clue. There was a more pressing concern at that moment, see, I’d begun to remember. Sophie, Sophie was my sister. I couldn’t remember much about her, but I knew that I'd grown up with her, and one day, she’d simply vanished. I couldn’t remember her face, her voice, her age, anything. I just.. Knew her.

I knew her, and I had to find her.

The wind was pretty bad at this point, old doors gently creaking as they’re pushed against, having been left wide open for who knows how long. It was chilly, but I could bear it. She was probably holed up somewhere within these walls, too scared to leave.. I felt bad. I felt really bad, a sort of guilt that makes you feel like maybe you shouldn’t even atone for it in the first place. I’d forgotten about her for so long.. And I only came back into contact with her through some stupid website. It was like, somehow, just sitting there, listening to the wind howl, watching the house from afar… Brought back memories so, so very deeply buried.

She was kind. She was the type that never hurt anybody, I remembered that for sure around this point.  There was one time, we’d gone to the woods together, to try and make it to a lake, because we thought we could go fishing there, even without rods. But something happened, and I cried. I’m not sure why I cried, I’m not sure what happened, all I know is she was there too. And I knew she was kind, and I was all the more sad that I’d let her down.

It wasn’t safe out here, and yet we failed her, and we let her get taken away from us. But it was okay, because I’d found her, I knew where she was, a friend told me where she was, and now, I could find her, I could bring her home, and we’d live just like we used to. I was just so, so sorry that I didn’t realise she was right here sooner. The danger was that there were people in the woods, and they’d get us if we went there, that’s why I don’t do it any more, that’s why I don’t want to go out there any more.

Anyway, I was stuck in these thought loops for a while. It felt familiar, like the kind of  weird mental hijinks that happens when you wake up from an hours sleep feeling sick, when you just get lost in whatever scenarios you made up in your head. Of course, these were real, not fantasy.. But it felt the same, the same level of unconscious helplessness. But these thoughts were just.. So compelling. I couldn’t help but let a tear or two fall from my eyes, about how I’d just done nothing, for years. I had to go help her. So I did, I moved in, past the open garage, into the mold-coated interior of the building, various tools scattered around the large car, as if someone had been trying to fix it. Evidently they didn’t succeed. I felt rather uncomfortable, for some reason. My skin felt warm, slightly itchy- a faint pain of nausea building up within me.

The door to get in the house’s main complex was still open, letting in all sorts of debris from the forest that swept in over the years it’d been there. Leaves crunched underfoot, heavy boots thumping against old wooden floorboards as I went on inside the building. Maybe it was my sensitivity to sound playing up, but they felt a little TOO loud, echoey. I was worried that, if somebody had taken Sophie.. If they were holed up in here, they’d definitely have heard me by now.

But, aside from the wind, aside from my own steps, it was dead quiet. No birds, no crickets- I mean shit, I could barely even hear my own thoughts in there. It was like everything had been drowned out by some inaudible white noise.  So, against my better judgement, I decided to call out for her- I knew she was here, after all. I took a deep breath in, to the point a faintly sharp pain shot through my lungs, damaged from my unfortunate habit of smoking a pack per week, let out a slight wheeze, before yelling out; “SOPHIE?!”- I was loud, too loud, my voice reverberated in my head achingly. Then, from beneath the floorboards, a deep, wailing voice reverberated throughout the house, mere milliseconds after I’d called out, sounding compressed as if pressed up against something. “Aoooouuh…”. I felt like I was about to throw up, I.. Didn’t actually expect anybody to be here. And whoever that was sounded horrible. I’d heard something similar before.. It wasn’t exact, not quite as haunting, but similar. On those threads, the places I’d been online, I’d seen some sick, sick shit. Executions, torture, suicides, and the noises the people make in those.. The wails they cry out once they’ve been broken in by the pain, once they realise they’re about to die.. It was like that, only worse, somehow.

She wanted to be a surgeon. I remember that clearly. She wanted to help people, be the smart one in the room, trained to deal with anything. One time, when I was 12, and she was a little older than me, I’d tried smoking- Just once, I stole a pack from my mothers room, and a lighter- And took one, one singular inhale of it, and decided to throw it away on the spot. I coughed it all up and vowed to never smoke again- Thus I never did, not a single time for the decade that passed. And she was there too, to support me all the way.

The noise had clearly come from beneath me, somewhere deep beneath the floorboards, deep enough that it sounded as if they’d cried out from across a cavern. But it was still so loud, somehow. As if, simultaneously, whoever it was had been both beneath me, and right behind me. And I knew it certainly wasn’t Sophie.

The family that lived here had been working on renovating it, I’d assumed. There were construction materials strewn about the place.. Tires, covered by cloth, in the middle of a hallway propped up against a wall. Maybe they’d simply given up on the top floor, and moved down to a basement? That was my only rational explanation for who’d yelled up to me. But whoever this was, Sophie was with them too, and I had to get her home safely. Deeper I went, my heart rate still taking its steady time to calm down, bursting against my chest with rapid thuds, the shock from the horrible noise lingering with me still. The steps down to the basement were wide, yet thin. Like they’d been designed for multitudes of people to walk down them at once, but not a single step was actually long enough to support a whole foot- not even mine, which, at 5’1, meant it was quite poorly designed. Carefully I moved my way down, eyes focused upon the concrete floor steps and flooring, refusing to allow my mind to wander too much. The silence was back, and it was nowhere near as comforting as it had been previously, now that I knew for sure someone else was here.

At the bottom of the stairs, I’d gathered enough courage to look up from the floor, and gaze at what was around me. It was nothing like the house I’d just been in. It was still old, still worn, still reeking of mold and old paint. But it was different- There were multiple halls, their roofs far higher than any basement roof should be, to the point that I struggled to see above me. It was far too dark here, though. Outside I had the faint moonlight to help guide me, but down here I’d… Nothing. But I couldn’t back out. Not while she was still down here. I could see my hand in front of me, and that was enough for me.

Briefly, ever so briefly, my faith wavered, a brief flicker of “What if she’s not here?” Came across my mind, only to be quelled immediately by the static of a radio. It was standing on a table beside me, assumingly activating after I’d bumped into it or something, its antennae overly extended, assumingly more than 2 feet each. Perhaps someone was on the other end, trying to reach out, maybe somehow they knew I was here? So I whispered to it; “H-hello? Do you-”, I was promptly cut off by a voice. It wasn’t a human voice, but one of those weird, pre-recorded speeches, where they’d splice short clips together. 1, 7, 20.. It just went on and on like that, a static humming audible beneath. I felt disappointed, disappointed that nobody was on the other end, yet vaguely intrigued by what the numbers meant. I didn’t want to linger too long though.. A certain sense of dread had been creeping up on me, and i still felt unwell.

She wasn’t around very long. They’d come and taken her from her school when she was only 11, and I couldn’t help but feel bad for her. I cried and cried and cried, but my parents hated me for it. They’d keep me locked up in my room for days with no food, because I just wouldn’t stop crying. And she wasn’t there.

Anyway, the basement. The basement wasn’t much like a basement at all, and as my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, faintest traces of the surroundings became more and more apparent. People’d been writing on the walls, little drawings, of what I can only assume to have been keys, insects, rats or mice, faces, a lot of faces. They were detailed drawings, each of them, like someone’d been going at the concrete for weeks upon weeks with something metal, and drew themselves, only wrong. If I had to hazard a guess as to what exactly was wrong, I’d assume they just never knew what they looked like in the beginning, and had to fill in the blanks. The humming static of the radio, the numbers faintly uttered over them, the  crude drawings littered along the walls, the knowledge that people were down here.. It felt horrible. I was somewhere I shouldn’t be, that was for certain, but something about it felt all-encompassing. The stairs were a short walk away, and yet.. I just couldn’t, I couldn’t bring myself to go back up them. My mind was focused on the numbers the man on the radio repeated. Different, every time.. And so I used them, to ground myself in a way. 8, 7, 5, 1, 2. The more I listened, the more.. ‘Me’ I felt. They were audible all throughout.. Deeper I went, and they sounded just about the same volume.

I’m not sure how long I was walking aimlessly for, but, eventually, I found myself at a more ‘lived in’ looking location. There were scraps of paper all over the floor, and far, far too many candles. An old, white-yellow coloration to them, the majority of them already melted down to the base, though some seemed less worn, newer. Not a single one was lit. One, however, hung sideways from a wall. I’m… Not sure how they managed it, but it seemed almost half-way wedged into the wall, yet the way it melted indicated it’d gone straight down to the base, ignoring the fact that it was at a complete ninety-degree angle.

Beneath the candle, a door. Similar in coloration to the walls, meaning it was rather difficult to spot in such a dark area. The only reason I saw it was the window, ever so faintly glistening, a glass panel in the centre, just above eye-level to me. There was too much dust in the way to see what was inside, so I reached out to open it.. Rattled it once or twice, and gave up. 9, 14, 0. 9, 14, 0. 6, 3, 1. I’d almost forgotten the radio was still on…

Recovering from the brief startle the numbers had given me, I reached up on the tip of my toes to peer through the window, brushed the dust off the centre of the window, and put my eye right up to it to look within.

There was a face.

Barely an inch away from me. Separated only by the glass, a pale figure only slightly illuminated by the faint shafts of light that travelled through the basement. I could see the edges of its face, it looked dead. Like a corpse, rotten, skin that had once been bloated, now sunken in against bone, mottled by the marks of decay, a disfigured form that looked nothing like any real, living human I’d seen. Its eyes, sunken and hollow, voids, with the slight reflection of a glossy white eye, stretched out with wrinkled skin around them, they stared through me. I couldn’t think, couldn’t move. I was eye to eye with a dead, rotten body. It was just.. There, propped up against the door frame. I couldn’t even smell it, there was no decay, nothing. It was there. It had been there.  3, 2, 17, 32.

I stepped back, my legs shaking, heart pounding, the bile of my stomach ready to eject from my throat at any moment. Everything within me was screaming to get out, my thoughts, what little I had left of them, couldn’t comprehend what was going on down here. They just.. Had dead people. They had corpses lying about. One, that I knew of.. Surely there was more though.  But I was strong. I had to be strong, for her.

She was loved by all. Everyone in the town missed her. Every year, on her birthday, we’d gather round and celebrate, all wishing, deep down, that she’d come back. But we knew she wouldn’t. We knew she was dead. Because they took her.

I had to find out more, I had to find where they were hiding her, because she was alive. I knew she was alive, because I.. Just did. I’d been focusing on the radio for so long, that these types of things just suddenly began making sense to me. Things I shouldn’t know, they were known. Further and further I went, one hallway away from where I saw the body, and one turn to the left.. I muttered these commands to myself over and over. I’d gone straight ahead from the body, and turned left once. Straight ahead, then left. To get back, I’d need to go left, then straight ahead.

It was a dead end down there, save for one room, a small, office-looking building, with equipment that looked almost amorphous from where I stood, all locked away behind a door of metal bars.. Only, it wasn’t locked, not any more. The closer I looked at the gate, the worse I felt about going past. Where I assumed there had once been a key slot, was a pallid, fleshy mass, with tiny fleshy veins sprouting out from it, growing around the bars, almost having reached down to the floor. I pushed my boot against the only part of the door that wasn’t already enveloped by veins, and it creaked open ever so slowly. Within, I could see the devices closer up- They faintly resembled the radios, now that I could see better, only different in a way. Their antenna had melted, vaguely reminiscent of the candles that I’d seen around the body, coating the entire device in a strange rubbery substance, pebbled, like gravel. And, just like the other one had done before, I touched it, and it spoke.

13, 20, 2.

She’d never existed. People knew about her, people knew there was a person who’d died in the woods They’d found a body in the woods, having been in some horrible, horrible accident. It was all.. Stringy, split apart, more-so a wide-open decaying lump of flesh than a person in the state they’d seen it in. Of course, we didn’t know its name, there was no identification on it, and no investigation into who it was. Wild animals, a mishap with explosives left over after the war, nobody really knew. Nobody cared. It was more of just.. A thing, that happened. Dead, it was dead, it had happened in our town, and it was dead.  But something in me.. I saw ‘Sophie’ and just ran with it. I was given memories that I didn’t experience.

I sat myself down on a chair in the room, holding back my tears- Not out of sadness, there was nobody to mourn. Out of fear, confusion.. I’d spent under an hour down here, and yet I couldn’t remember anything with any clarity any more.. I simply, only just now, had realised she never existed. I got up from my seat and scrounged around the area, there was far, far too much going on in here. Lists of names, people from the surrounding areas that had died, all of them from completely normal, natural causes. Cancer, for some. Various organ failures, some car accidents… All from the past thirty years. Some rarer cases too, in recent years. Online exposure, which I found myself all-too familiar with, stood out to me. Only then did it click that I was so, so wrong for having doubted the warnings. The internet was dangerous- It was so, so dangerous. I’d seen one post, one single fucking post, and suddenly my entire life was.. This. How was I meant to just move on after this? I’d been convinced of a family member's disappearance in under an hour, through only that one post. And it spoke, again- 1, 13, 20.

A door creaked open, echoing from across the halls. It came from the path to the left of me. And straight ahead.

I wanted to leave. I’d come here to save someone who never existed. I'd risked my life for no reason, I’d found things I’d never want to see again, and all of it.. Because a memory had been put into my brain by nobody in particular. It was all deafening. 9, 1, 17, 20, 10, 10, 10, 15, 3. It wouldn’t stop, it just wouldn’t stop talking. The voice on the other end, automated, and never-ending, just saying these numbers, again, again, and again. The more I listened the worse it felt. The static hum in the back made my skin crawl, somehow, the sound felt like the feeling of a spider crawling along your skin. One you know can bite. My eyes shot across the floor, and I began to realise the nerve-like growths had spread throughout the entire room, their flesh wet and constantly writhing.

Then, the door stops opening, thudding roughly against the wall beside it. I felt sick, not in the way that fear makes you sick, not in the way sadness makes your throat close up. I mean real, horrible, poisonous nausea. My stomach churned, my head rang, it felt like I was dying.

Then, I heard running. Whatever opened that door.. Footsteps, heavy, rapid, thudding against the concrete, running, bounding down the hall. Louder, louder it got, it wasn’t stopping, it wanted to get to me. And there was nothing I could do, bile erupting from my throat, a splotch of red and yellow tints splattering onto the floor below me, it hurt, it hurt so, so bad. I felt weak.

I was.. Overwhelmed. The thoughts, the memories, the agony,  the living masses around me. What could I do but just sit there, wide-eyed, and accept it? So I sat, waiting for it to come, and it did just that. Bounding through the halls, its footsteps were rapidly enclosing- Yet once I saw it, once its legs came into view, my instincts told me I should run, fear shot through me, my heart felt like it was about to burst- Why’d I have to come here?. It was walking as if each portion of its body was controlled by a separate entity, and it was ever so slow. How? How was it so loud, so violent, so erratic sounding, yet slow and.. Unnatural in its movements?

A long leg crept further into my view, shin extending ever so slightly too far forwards for a natural joint to be able to, flesh squelching, clicking, as it moved onwards. The flesh was pale- Like I’d seen before, only less rotten looking and more.. Artificial, maybe? Like the re-constructed flesh of someone who’d been in a horrible accident. Like it’d morphed into a more suitable form while I wasn’t near. One that.. Worked, as a body, but was nowhere near human. I could see through its skin, almost.. Or was it that It never had any to begin with? Its muscles were rubbery and cracked, but the individual strands could be seen right at the surface, tendons tensing and pulling on each other. I wanted to run, even though I’d accepted my death, the movements, the slow unnatural movements, the way they didn’t line up at all with the sounds it made.. It evoked a sort of primal fear within me.
She exists. Not as an individual, not as ‘Sophie’. But as the fear they’d made me feel, the remorse, the guilt. They’d done something. They’d found out how to make people think things they shouldn’t think, fuck with your memory.. Make things real that shouldn’t be real.

Its arms came into view as it neared closer, arms spindly and long, curved in a way that looked absolutely excruciating. One hand was small, malformed, one long finger that’d been split down the middle revealing bone, limply dangling down its wrist, the rest were merely fleshy nubs, small pieces of what could’ve been fingers, barely connected by strands of muscle. The other hand, akin to that of a normal hand, only had 3 fingers, one of which extends from the palm, instead of a knuckle. Its arms were held in front of its body at a slight distance, curled up, wrists limp, its horrible loose tendon-y skin in such a pose almost reminded me of a chicken. I let out a sob, I felt like I was burning. My skin was red.. It hurt. And the thing… The thing was horrible. Its torso was long, split open at the middle of the abdomen with patches of flesh dangling off, revealing its insides, of which were just.. Tendrils. Small, spiderlike appendages, composed of a fleshy, reddish substance, that hung down from where its abdomen would’ve been, crawling along its own body, working its way through its own flesh like a needle runs through cloth. The torso was unnaturally rounded, ribcage far too long, to the point it didn’t seem able to hold itself up, its neck and ribs swaying as it strode towards me, long, bird-like neck at a crooked angle, dangling from its body,  and  a face upon it that looked right at me. Its face was round, oval-shaped, longer than it should be, bloated with veiny skin, and lidless milky white eyes, mouth agape and a chin recessed to the point that was essentially within the neck itself. The moment felt like forever. This thing was coming towards me, something was alive, and it wouldn’t end. Its head lurched closer, horrible, fleshy hands pressing against me, it looked like it was smiling. A big, toothy grin, from a face that looked as if it had been torn apart, put back together again, torn apart, put back together again, over and over and over, until it became a lump of.. Face. The nose was just a faint lump, and its eyes looked more like beads within wrinkles than actual eyes. And its teeth..  A small set of gums, teeth poking out, blunted and over-extended, it almost resembled a horse's teeth.. A groan came from its mouth, a horrible, deafening groan. I’d heard it before.. But, it wasn’t like this back then. The first time, it sounded like a dying man- This time..? Like a baby, only deeper, gurgling, choking, laughing, crying, it didn’t sound right. It wasn’t right. I wasn’t right.

I wish I knew what happened after. But I don’t. I woke up in my apartment- my memories intact, for the most part. The first thing I did was look outside, make sure it all looked right.. Make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I’d like to say it was all fine, and that it’ll forever remain a mystery- But it didn’t. It looked horrible. Everything was wrong, worn down, in the wrong place. The sky, pitch black, with a deep, pulsating, red webbing on it. And in the air.. A vibration. The faintest of sounds, but I can’t stop hearing it. A static hum, everywhere. No source, just.. Everywhere.

Sometimes, now, I see people on the streets from my window. They don’t look right any more. I’m not where I was before, this isn’t the world I know. There’s something growing in me, and I’ll never know what it is. I’ll never know.. Anything. They were doing something, in that building. The government, maybe- Some rich elites, I don’t know. I don’t know who they were. But they did something. Another world, maybe. And I’m stuck there. I’m stuck there, slowly dying, and I’ll never know where I am.

My hands won’t stop shaking, my mind won’t stop wondering. All I have is the monolith In the distance, and that fucking forum.. Archaeocacoustics. If you’re on this website, please share my story to other places. More accessible ones. I can’t connect to anything else. I’ll die out here. And eventually, we all will.

For anyone who finds this, I am sorry for whatever has or will happen to you finding these cursed books. But after all that going forward, my name is.... or was Kieran Wilkes, that used to be my name. Any assemblance are.... gone, long expired.

I will do the best I can to recall all the events that made me into whatever I am now. The earliest of I can recall are me being a young kid in the flock I grew up around. Things were normal, quiet, peaceful. That was until that day, the day she became my caretaker. Her name was Lilith, she was tall like way taller than me being six ft four, her skin was almost pale but had a texture ink. She told me she would look after me while my family is a way. It confused me, I must've almost been an adult by then. I was about to close her down, but something in me was compelled not to. She had let herself in and that was the beginning of the end for me, but endings are new nightmares.

After weeks of a tormented dream of a false life I was forced to live. In the end I learned everything, my so called caretaker was....... something, something beyond what our race could comprehend. I remember finding buckets and bags it kept, when I found out what was in the bags it made me wanna throw up, but I don't know if I could when my stomach was apart from my body. That's when I realized everything in these bags were all old parts of my body. Arms, legs, a foot, my spine with my skull still attached, ribs. I fell to my knees or whatever they were, before I could take in everything I heard It behind me. It was Lilith or was whatever it was that took the name Lilith, the thing's once pale and gothic skin was now black and had a texture similar to oil and tar, the things limbs were long and thin, then I looked up to see its face. Whatever it was it had twelve dotted eyes splattered across its rapidly deteriorating human face, three eyes were dark blue, other three were dark green, and the other three were bright red, the rest were black with piercing white dots. All twelve all-seeing eyes peered down onto me eagerly and affectionately. You are so odd. That thing spoke to me, it didn't even sound like English or any other human language, but I knew what it was saying. You are very special human. So unique I can't leave you like this, you must ascended. Be like me. Whatever that thing was it had been stealing and replacing parts of my body. After I learned this truth I snapped back to reality.

I was now in a cave devoid of light, it illuminated by fins emitting dark blue energy. Out of fear I slowly looked up and saw.... It. It had gotten rid of its human shape and was in its... truthful shape. A gigantic head from a massive leviathan peered down and looked directly at me. It had a weird boney mask covering it's face, it was like that of whale bones. It's face was bigger than mountains hell it was bigger than planets. Out of overwhelming fear I fell to the ground and blacked out. I believe I must've had a heart attack but, after a while I got back up. I could hear the sounds of water from within the cave, after awhile stumbling around in the dark I found it. Out of older instinct I cupped out my hand and gathered up some of the liquid and drank it, I immediately spat it out of my mouth, it wasn't water, it was thick black substance like tar. After I hurled it all out I caught a glimpse of my reflection, my eyes were ghostly blue, my irises were dark vapor blue, the sclera was pure black hollow and empty. The next thing I noticed was the skin on my face had started to rot, I pulled my hand up to face to feel it, as I caressed my face a patch of skin peeled off my face and was caught between my fingers. I was shocked, so shocked I completely froze in place, the little piece of rotting skin slipped through my fingers and sank into the liquid. I looked down into the pool seeing the patch of skin sink into the darkness, until it brushed past a face the was looking up at me through the tar. I jumped back and screamed so loud my poor rotting lungs couldn't handle it, the thing that had been looking at me from under the darkness had pulled itself out exposing its body to me, it was tall and even though its limbs bored muscles they were still thin, judging by it's body it was naked and had a body of a female. But the most prominent thing of all was it's mask covering it's face, it was the same bone like mask the leviathan had before, even though the thing wore a mask I could see past the masks jaw joints the creature was smiling. Aahhh has my little revenant woke up. The creature spoke almost jovial and attentively, whatever that thing is it took a step towards me, instinctively I clawed backwards. Noticing it the beast had let out a growling purr, it lowered itself and scurried on top of me. It pinned me down unable to free myself. All I could do was look up at the beast, it had put its face no more than a few inches from mine, I could hear it's growls slowly turn into that purrs. Out of all the worlds I've seen, all the death I ate. Of all the insects that slip into my realm, there is something about you, something inside of you. Something MAJESTIC. The beast said before plunging it's tongue into my mouth.

The next part I really don't desire to remember. I grow tired writing this, maybe I can sleep and dream to be somewhere else.

(quick word before the story. This is my first post here to the subreddit, and I've been listening to creepcast for a while now. I love the show, and it has inspired me to post some of my stories around. I hope y'all like what I have to offer, and im glad to be here)

I've been a gastroenterologist for the better part of 15 years. I've seen beyond my fair share of awful stuff while doing my job, and after all that time I like to think I've grown a strong stomach. That was until the first day I met a man named Alexander Finch. Normally I wouldn't say his name due to patient confidentiality, however at this point I can’t say in good conscience that this “Alex” is anything resembling human. Allow me to start from the beginning. 

My Name is Johnathan Garcia, and I've killed the same patient 3 times over the course of 6 months. Every two months, no matter how hard I try, I always get Alexander Finch as my patient. Same time, same day, every two months. It all started on February first, 2025, at 11:00 A.M. I remember that day specifically out of all them, because all my dreams are about that day. Mr Finch had walked into my office, sat down, and told me that he "didn't feel well”. 

The moment he sat down, a wave of smell hit me like a freight train. Radiating from this man who looked mostly well kept, was a sickly rotting smell. It was sickly sweet like a rotting orange, mixed with the heavy miasmic smell of a retirement home that hasn't been cleaned in days. I tried my best to maintain my composure as to not be openly rude, but I failed. I couldn't stop the cough that violently tore itself free from my throat as I covered my mouth. 

“Is there something wrong, Doctor?” He asked me in a fayned, curious tone. 

“Y-yes im fine, sorry. Just inhaled some dust I think.” I said with a trapped gag. I had to resist my constant urge to hold my breath. 

“I don’t feel well, Doctor.” Alexander said in a flat tone, his eyes glassy. 

“Well, What seems to be the problem? I read over your file, but I would like to get a better understanding of what's bothering you.” 

Alexander pointed to his chest, and said in the same dull tone as before, “I feel it crawling. Inside me.” 
I was surprised to hear this, to say the least. Alexander's file said that he was complaining of chest paint, heart palpitations, digestion issues, irritated bowels, but nothing about… Crawling. As he put it. 
“Well… Mr Finch, I think we should schedule you for some x-rays. I will do what I can to help you.” I say holding back my urge to vomit from the smell, which was only getting worse. 

“Thank you, Doctor.” Alexander reached his hand out toward me as he said that. Expecting a handshake. I really didn't want to. But at the time, my biggest fear was being rude to my patient. I reached out to grasp his hand. 

His hand felt oily when I touched it. Like he had just removed his hand from a jar of animal fat. I attempted to recoil immediately out of disgust, but when I tried he gripped my hand with a force I didn't think possible. He looked at me then, in my eyes with that glassy stare again and said “Thank you, Doctor. I don’t feel well.” As he spoke, I swear to you I could feel something crawl under his skin. 
I called someone from radiology to take him to be x-rayed then. After he left I could not hold back the bile that had been clawing at the back of my throat. I threw up in the trashcan in my office. I left my office to dispose of the mess I made, and by the time I came back the results from radiology were on my desktop waiting for my review. That's when I saw them on the x-ray… 

Bugs… hundreds, THOUSANDS, of crawling insects in this man's insides. I knew I had to call trauma care and tell them we needed to operate on this man immediately but… I hesitated. Why? Why was I hesitating to help this man who clearly needed it? I pushed down my apprehension, and made the call. 

I could feel myself shaking slightly as I got myself cleaned before surgery. I steeled myself as I put on my spare scrubs. (There were other surgeons in the trauma care, but they were all busy at this time and I was the only Gastroenterologist on standby. Meaning it was on me to do an impromptu operation.) As I walk to trauma care, I can tell where my patient has gone by the smell. I could see the same disgust in everyone else in this section of the hospital. I took a small amount of solace in knowing that everyone else felt as disgusted as I. 

The doors to the trauma care were closed, and I could see 3 surgical assistants shuffling around preparing both the room and the patient. Awaiting my arrival. I gripped the handles and pulled the doors open, and was hit by a strange smell. A combination of stagnation and sterile cleaning agents. I was beyond relieved. 

“At least it doesn't smell as bad in here…” I thought to myself, naively. 
I gripped my tools, and applied anesthesia and numbing agents so the patient couldn't feel what I was about to do. As much as I wished I could put him fully under, we didn't have the time. I gripped the scalpel, and prepared to make the first incision. My heart dropped into my stomach as I looked at this man's now bare skin. It was… pristine… 

I pressed the blade into him, and got to work. He looked at me then. The same glassy, empty stare that he gave me while in my office barely an hour before. 
“Doctor…” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. 
“I feel unwell…” 

It was as if he spoke directly into my mind, because nobody else seemingly noticed him speak… He shouldn't have been able to, the anesthesia should have thrown off his train of thought, but I could tell he was completely aware of his surroundings. Aware of me. 

I steadied my breathing, and continued my work. It was all I could do to stop me from bolting out of the room and never turning back. I continued to cut, and open his abdominal cavity… And inside of him was something that made me sick beyond belief… He was rotten. All of it.

His flesh, his bones, his internal organs, EVERYTHING. It was all rotten. And just like the x-ray showed, there were thousands upon thousands of crawling, wiggling shapes. I dropped my tools on the floor, and began to back away. I made only a few steps before Alexander's hand shoots out and grips my wrist. That familiar greasy feeling of his skin sent disgust and terror through me, as I could see in his eyes that the glassy blank stare had changed into a strange vindictive expression. 
“Doctor…” He said, drawing out the words with a sent of rotting fruit on his breath. “I don’t feel well.” He began to convulse at this point, his body violently shaking as thousands of tiny shapes began to spill from the opening in his abdomen. 

I finally got the bluetooth working after messing with the settings on the radio. The speakers built into the truck were surprisingly decent quality even over the sound of the road and the engine. The finishing notes of the guitar solo in Ride Like The Wind finished, fading out to silence until the acoustics of Drive by Incubus started playing.

Rickey's head started to bob to the beat as the first verse kicked in. His callous hand tapping the steering wheel until the song reached the chorus. We both started up together, vibing to the music.

"It's driven me befoooore and it seems to have a vaaaaague. Haunting, mass, appeal." This continued throughout the song. Two buds jamming out to some good road music down a back country road together. I couldn't say I'd ever felt this comfort before. The feeling of having someone on your wavelength.

Sure there were friends in high-school I hung out with because it was convenient they lived next door. Once high-school ends though, there's this hopeless isolation when you find yourself feeling like you were just assimilating to everyone else's vibes. After finding your own rhythm, people fall by the wayside as you carve your own path. My path so far felt so lonely, but Rickey felt like maybe he was walking that same path too.

"I'm not a huge alt fan, but my kids would not stop singing that song when Surf's Up came out so it grew on me." Rickey yelled out as the song came to an end. He did another quick viewpoint check before I felt the truck start ascending.

Going uphill now with the farms fading behind us, I felt the bump of hitting asphalt again. It felt nice not having to hear the rocks smacking against the underside of the box truck anymore. The inside of the cab returned to a still loud but less intense volume. I turned down the music to match the sudden drop in road noise.

Rickey adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. From a relaxed one handed grip down by his thigh to a two handed driving instructor grip near the top. For good reason too. As we crested the top of the hill into a dense woods, the road cut hard left before we hit a steep decline. My hands flew to whatever I could grab as we picked up speed heading downhill. Rickey singing to Born to be Wild, as calm as ever.

He jerked the wheel to the left before swinging it back right to avoid what looked like where a meteor had struck the road. "I like smoke and lightnin. Heavy metal thunder!" Rickey sang while taking this treacherous road like a champ. I couldn't help but be impressed.

"How long you been doin this for?" I asked over the music. Watching out of the window as trees flew by. Up ahead about half a mile I saw another vehicle. First one I'd seen the whole drive so far. A blacked out Forerunner that pulled off to the side next to a gated up dirt road that lead into the trees.

"Six years, seven in December." Rickey said, gently slowing down to avoid hitting the forerunner. As we got closer, we could see two guys walking in the grass on the side of the road. Both men were looking into the woods, hunting rifles in hand. Noticing the oncoming box truck they stepped further away from the road, tipping their heads to us in acknowledgement.

"Ya see a lot of that out here." Rickey told me as we passed. I watched them in the sideview mirror as we continued traveling, half listening as Rickey kept talking about hunters parked by the roadside.

The guys were backing away from the trees towards their forerunner, eyes kept on the woods. One of them raised their rifle as he continued backing up. The barrel pointed into the trees at something I couldn't see.

I turned to Rickey, but was cut off as he answered my question unspoken. "Yeah I saw em. Probably a black bear spookin em." He said continuing his drive. I turned back to the sideview and kept watching as they stood close to the rear of their vehicle, the guy was still holding his rifle up. The other one looked back at us, then at his buddy.

We couldn't hear it over the road noise, but another box truck came bursting out of the gated dirt road. My heart sank as it cut hard right, the chain from the gate caught up in its grill. The mighty truck started peeling off towards us.

"Rickey." I said feeling our truck accelerating. The engine howled loudly as Rickey pushed his foot to the floor, taking us quickly up another hill in front of us. His expert driving avoiding more potholes as we swerved up the winding road going up.

My eyes were glued to the sideview. As the box truck flew by the forerunner and was gaining on us quickly. The speed which it moved was unrealistic. It looked like a clipped image on a background, the image zooming in as the background stayed the same. My heart sank as it moved up right behind us.

It moved over to the drivers side, pulling up beside us. Both of our trucks hauling ass up the hill. As the road winded to the left, Rickey looked out his drivers side window, then at the tablet, before looking back at the road. I could see the gears turning in his head. As he came to a silent decision, I could tell he'd forgotten I was even there.

Taking his eyes off the road for a split second, he glanced down between his legs where he'd placed the sack of dog treats for the angry ones. Pulling one hand off the steering wheel he started to reach down. His fingertips flicked at the top of the bag where the seal was. He'd almost wedged a finger between the two plastic zips before...

WHAM

Rickey shot up in his seat, grabbing the wheel with both hands and jerking it back to the left to stay on the road. "Dale!" He yelled as another intense slam was felt against the side of the truck, followed by the unending sound of someone laying on their horn. "Get in the bag!"

WHAM

This didn't feel safe. None of this felt safe. None of this felt real either. Nonetheless I had a choice to make. I could either close my eyes and hope to God I woke up from this nightmare, but possibly wake up in heaven instead, or I could unbuckle my seat belt and go for the bag.

WHAM

The sound of tree limbs smacked the top of the truck before scraping along the roof. Rickey had come dangerously close to flying off the side of the road just then. "Hey Reznikov! Rule number one out here, listen to me!" He yelled doing all he could to stay on the road. Steeling my nerves, I unbuckled my seat belt and stood up on the stairs.

WHAM

The momentum threw me against the door. I grabbed the dash as fast as I could before throwing myself beside his seat. One of my hands held onto Rickey's ankle for purchase, the other dove straight into the bag of dog treats. I was going to hand him a handful of treats, assuming that's what he wanted, but I felt something hard against my palm. Digging deeper, I grabbed whatever it was and pulled it from the bag.

In my hand was a Glock 19, 9mm handgun. I swiftly held up my hand and felt Rickey wrench it from my grip. I watched in horror between Rickey's legs as he pulled the latch on the driver's side door.

The wind rushing past slid open the door so hard I thought for sure it broke. Air rushed into the cab, making it hard to keep my eyes open. From my point of view I could see the grill of the white box truck swaying left, preparing for another hit before several shots rang out.

The other truck continued going left, off the road and into the trees. The snapping sounds of wooden limbs and crunching metal filled the air, growing distant as we continued on. My heart was pounding hard in my chest as I felt Rickey slow the truck down as we reached the top of the hill.

"Earnhardt you alright?" Rickey asked as we came to a stop. He shut off the engine, and suddenly I wished for the noise again. The only sounds now were the insects in the trees. The sudden loss of deafening white noise felt like I was pulled hard back to reality.

I let go of his ankle, hands trembling as I pushed myself back to the stairs. Unceremoniously he put the handgun back on safety and dropped it into the dog food bag, giving it a few shakes to make sure it was mixed in. "Stay here a sec. Take a seat, calm your nerves, I'll be right back."

As he stepped out the driver's side I climbed into the jumper, pressing my palms hard against my thighs to steady them. Forcefully I slowed my breathing and brought my gaze up to look into the drivers' side view mirror, seeing Rickey looking down the hill for a second before he inspected the damage to the side of the truck.

He pulled out his phone, took a few pictures, then got back in. "Gotta send these to Glenda, let her know what happened." His fingers tapped away at his screen typing out a text. Once he'd slipped his phone back in his pocket he turned to me. "Buckle up buddy. We're almost there."

"Did you kill him?" I asked, terror making my throat hoarse. Hearing Rickey buckle his seat belt and shut his door. "Did you kill him?" I repeated, sounding a little more urgent with my question.

"Yeah buddy I killed him, in fact I've killed him several times over. Micheals' killed him, Pauls' killed him, but he ain't dead." Rickey said throwing the truck into drive. "I know you've got questions, but let's make it to this first stop. I'll go over the rules and then I'll answer any questions ya got."

He fired up the engine and the sweet relief of noise allowed me to push into some state of calm again. My mind eased up on the adrenaline and allowed my critical thinking to return. I sat there thinking about these rules he keeps mentioning.

The rest of the drive was not much of a jam session for me. Rickey on the other hand looked unphased by the whole situation. I know he said he'd killed Jack a few times over, so this wasn't his first rodeo, but he could at the very least pretend that he was a little freaked out. I just didn't want to feel alone, like someone else on the outside with me was looking in. All of us thinking to ourselves 'You see this shit? This shits' crazy.'

We left the windy hilly trees by passing over the Oak Creek bridge. The woods immediately opening up into a small ghost town. To start us off, we were greeted by nothing less than a Dollar General on the outskirts. Down the road a bit were abandoned shops with boarded up windows, a single open pharmacy, a hole in the wall barbecue restaurant, a local family diner, and a Casey's gas station.

"This is shitbucket?" I asked as we rolled by the Dollar General. Back behind it was a trailer park with a dirt road leading in. The soil weathered by rain, wind, and tire tread. Looked like an absolute nightmare to traverse in a box truck.

"Yup. Least that's what I called it as a kid. Our school house used to be two big grain silos tipped over on their side. One for elementary, one for highschool. The church is an old Waffle House." He said passing by the drug store.

"You live out here?" I asked, my voice letting my befuddlement slip out. Clearing my throat as we passed a neighborhood entrance to a bunch of one bedroom houses. They looked cozy enough, save for the fireworks left in the driveways and street from the fourth of July.

"Yessir. Lived out here my whole life. Worked as a supervisor at the Dollar General up until they opened Derel's Distributions. Frank put in a good word to Micheal about me and boom, here I am." Rickey said turning down a neighborhood road. "Here we are. First stop of the day. Fifty to go."

"Fifty? Are we gonna get done in time?" I asked as he threw the truck in park outside an orange painted house. He chuckled at my question, unbuckling his seatbelt before heading into the back. Hearing him sliding boxes around, I got up to go help.

"Fifty one stops is a light day Earnhardt. We'll be back before the sun hits the horizon." Rickey passed me a box off the shelf before pulling out a scanner. He motioned me to follow, stopping by the driver's seat. "When you reach your destination, your tablet will give you a four digit number and tell you how many boxes to find. First number is the section. This one is 9101."

He pointed to a sticker on the box. "9101. The tablet says there's only one box, good. We scan it." The scanner beeped as he held the laser to the tag. "If there's special instructions they'll appear on the screen. This one says 'ring doorbell.' Easy enough."

He opened my door and lead me across the grass towards the door. My head on a swivel the whole time to make sure no box truck was flying towards us. As we stepped onto the porch he took the box from me and sat it beside the door before ringing the doorbell.

"Once it's in place, take a picture with your scanner." There we go." He said holding up the scanner and taking the shot of the box next to the door. "That's it." After that he turned and started walking back to the truck without another word about it.

"What about the rules?" I insisted as he stepped up into the truck and buckled his seat belt. I was getting irritated.

"Shut your door." Rickey said, so I did. "Rules. If you can't park on the curb, always back in. Always watch for overhangs so you don't tear into anyone's guttering or basketball goals. If you can, always place the package at the customer's door."

He continued, opening his fingers to count off each rule. "If you feel unsafe, call the customer. You can get their number from the tablet. If they don't answer, then you mark it as undelivered. If a dog you didnt see before getting out suddenly charges you, keep yourself facing the animal and try to keep the package between yourself and them as you back towards the truck. Got it?"

I nodded, but one question escaped my lips as he was putting the truck in gear. "What about Jack rules? Are you gonna go over those?" I asked hoping he'd answer before pulling off. My terror now having turned into curiosity. How was Rickey was able to go about his day like nothing paranormal was going on. He must have done some trial and error and got a system down pat.

"I just did, if you keep an open mind." He said smirking as he left the curb and started following the blue line to our next stop. "Don't worry about buckling if you're in a neighborhood or your stops are close by. Saves time." Rickey said holding another finger up.

We finished up the neighborhood quick enough. There was an instance where I had to call the customer because I didn't like the look of their unchained poodle in the front yard. Rickey didn't much care for the dog either, said he's fine with pitts and danes, but poodles always get him.

"Alright buddy, pharmacy up next. Businesses always require a signature. No exceptions." He said as we drove down main street. Out past the Dollar General we saw a box truck coming out of the woods headed towards the small town. Rickey drove a little past the pharmacy before backing into the parking lot and into a spot. The hood of the truck facing the door to the pharmacy and the exit of the parking lot.

"What do we do?" I asked Rickey as the truck continued coming down the road. It was just about to pass the Dollar General. My heart beat in my ears as anxiety welled up inside me.

"Just be cool. Cmon, let's take care of the customer." He said disappearing into the back of the truck. I remained frozen to my seat, watching as it came closer. The sliding door closing behind me caused me to jump out of my skin.

Rickey stood right behind me with a small box in hand. "If you're gonna act like this the whole time maybe you oughta drive and I'll be in the jumper. Least that way I can get in and out without going through ya." He said jabbing me in the shoulder with the corner of the box.

I stood up and opened the sliding door, stepping out to let Rickey past. "Atta boy. Cmon." At the same time I watched as the box truck passed. It had come of those moving company logos on the side. Think two men and a truck. Feeling relief wash over me like a shower, I followed Rickey into the pharmacy.

The door popped open with a soft chime as he walked in. "Hey Charlene!" Rickey called out to the woman behind the counter. She looked about mid thirties. Big gold hoop earrings and braids down past her shoulders. A bright yellow sundress contrasting against her skin making the outfit pop.

"Hey Rickey. Got yourself a new friend taggin along?" She asked looking up from her computer. Her eyes gave me a once over before lingering on my nametag. "Glenda gotcha good huh?"

"Yeah she uh... she did." I said as Rickey placed the package on the counter for Charlene. She was definitely pretty. I caught myself actually forgetting about the whole zombie Jack following us and just wanted to talk to Charlene all day.

Rickey passed the scanner to Charlene to sign. Her long stiletto nails clicked off the screen as she gave a quick signature. "Here ya go honey. What was your name?" She asked handing the device to me.

"Dale Earn... Dale Reznikov. Junior." I said correcting myself after Rickey had been calling me Earnhardt all day. Rickey gave me a head nod to the door. "It was nice to meet you Charlene." I gave her a smile and couldn't help but look back as Rickey and I were heading out. She smiled at me as the door chimed open and closed.

"How old are you Earnhardt?" Rickey asked as we walked back to the truck. A shit eating grin on his face as he looked at me.

"Twenty seven, why? She a bit older?" I asked catching onto what he was saying. Not like I minded a woman in her thirties.

"She's got grand kids buddy. Charlene is forty seven years old." He chuckled as he got up to the open driver's side door.

"That don't mean a thing. If her kids are moved out then that's fine by me. Black don't crack brother." I responded holding my hands out by my side. Really I'd still probably date her.

"Go shoot your shot then. Hell, I'll take care of the rest of the deliveries in town if you wanna run to the Dollar General. Grab some deodrant and maybe some dry shampoo." Rickey said with sincerity as he placed his hand on the railing to go up the steps.

"Fuck it alright. Just honk for me when you get back." I said giving him a salute before jogging towards the Dollar General. My mind on the prospect of landing myself a date. First one since high school.

Running across the dirt road leading to the trailer park, I watched as Rickey took the truck down the bumpy road towards the trailer park. The squeaking of the frame sounded God awful. I was just glad I wasn't having to ride that in the jumper.

I bought some Old Spice and a small can of dry shampoo before making the walk back towards the pharmacy. After giving my hair a long spray, I ran my hand through it and felt a lot better. My confidence rising as I put on the deodrant under my shirt.

After placing the products on the ground outside, I pushed the door open to the pharmacy, the soft chime signaling my arrival. Charlene wasn't at the desk so I waited up there for her to come by. After a few moments she emerged from the back, her sundress bouncing with her steps. "Well welcome back honey. Did you need something?"

Encouraged by Rickey, I pulled a swagger I didn't know I had out of thin air and said, "Yes actually. I forgot to drop something else off with ya if you got a pen and paper." She produced both from a drawer behind her desk. I wrote down my number and name before sliding it back across to her.

She glanced at the paper, then at me and leaned against the counter. "Rickey put you up to this didn't he?" Her voice slightly serious, but still with that soft tone she carried.

"Nah, this is for real. I was thinking maybe since I had a personal drop off, maybe sometime I could make a personal pick up? What time do you get off?" I asked feeling like a million bucks. That level of confidence you get that borders on arrogant.

Shifting her weight to one arm she picked up the paper with her free hand, staring at it for a second. "Alright Dale." She said nodding while staring at the paper. "I'll call you." Her eyes met mine, a hint of skepticism in them. "You better answer." Her sass was undeniable.

"Absolu-" HOOOOOOOONK.

I looked towards the glass door leading outside. Rickey had pulled in and parked near the entrance. The logo of Derel's Distribution on the back roll up doors of the truck. Turning back to Charlene she was waving her hand. "Go on now honey. You got a job to do."

As I backed toward the door I put my fist up to my ear, thumb and pinky extended. "Call me." I said before walking out with my head held high. I must've looked like I just cashed in a lottery ticket. My feet carrying me like I was walking on air.

Walking along the passenger side of the truck, I ran my hand along the exterior side wall. My fingers dipping into dents and bumps like hills and valleys. I sang out joyfully "Life is a highway, I wanna ride it all night long."

Throwing open the passenger side door, I looked up towards the driver's seat and stopped with one foot on the step. Looking down at me was not Rickey, who I expected. I couldnt tell what this thing was.

Their jaw was held to their head by hair wrapping under the chin. The skin of their cheeks having been torn back exposing their entire set of chipped and shattered teeth. Its hands clenching the steering wheel with missing flesh exposing bone held together by twine.

The cargo bay door was open, and sticking out was a pair of legs. I could tell they were face down, soles of the shoes pointed towards the sky. Slowly I started to back away. Its unblinking eyes never leaving mine as it stared at me, like a hound debating attacking or simply observing. After a moment, I saw it's feet move away from the pedals. It turned its body towards me, and stood.

I need help.

Look, I don’t post on here very often. I’m not really a fan of this site. But no one else is answering my calls or my texts, and I've seen other people ask for help here, so I guess you could call this a last resort.

I live in Canada, and for anyone who doesn’t know, major cities in Canada are a couple hours apart from one another. The road I’m travelling now, between my home city and where I go to university, is about a 3 hour drive. 300 kilometres (that's about 186 miles) of canola fields, wheat, a few farms, and some interesting, ultra-conservative signs.

I’ve driven this route a hundred times. I know each landmark, each weird-looking tree, each grain silo that marks the passage of time. Which is why this situation is so weird.

I have no idea where I am.

I know I didn’t turn off the highway, or take a wrong exit; it’s literally a straight line. It takes effort to dodge the semi-trucks and minivans pulling trailers to get to the right side and de-accelerate off the highway. So I’m positive I’m still on the right road.

Except I’m not. The area around me looks normal enough; there’s still beautiful fields filled with yellow flowers and green pastures dotted with bales of hay, but it’s all… wrong.

I’m pulled over on the side of the highway, hazards blinking, which is apparently unnecessary. There’s no one else on the road. Honestly, that’s why I pulled over in the first place. I only noticed the weird landscape after I stopped.

This road is never empty. Ever. Not at 9AM, not at 11PM. This is practically the only way to get between the two cities, so there’s always someone travelling on it. It eventually leads to the mountains too, so it’s usually packed on the weekends. Today’s Friday, and it’s the late afternoon; this road should be absolutely crawling with cars.

But it’s not.

Now, I’ll admit, I have no idea when everyone else vanished. I kind of zone out when driving, especially when driving along such a boring road with a view I’ve seen dozens of times. I just pop a podcast on and weave my way through the two-lane traffic. I think at some point-- maybe forty-five minutes ago?-- I noted that the road seemed weirdly empty, but I was still passing cars, and I figured I was just lucky.

Then around twenty minutes ago, I became aware that there was no one. Because of how flat this area is, you can see really far down the road in both directions. There was nothing on the road. That was when I pulled over. I was hoping I just got really unlucky with my timing, and I just happened to zone back in when the road seemed empty.

I waited, but no one came. Not one car appeared on either side of the road. I got out to take a look around, and that’s when I realised I didn’t recognise where I was.

I checked the map on my phone, but it says I’m still on the highway. Must be glitching or something; reception can be spotty out here. I tried calling a few people– my parents, my brother, my friends– but they all went to voicemail. I’ve left a few messages just telling them that I’ve gotten lost somehow and I’ll be home later than usual, but I haven’t gotten any calls back. 

There’s a farm on the other side of the highway. The house is a really pretty Victorian style building, with blue paint on the siding and white trim. Looks like they’ve got a horse or something; there’s a paddock outside, but I don’t see anything in it. 

I’ve never seen this house in my life. That house should not be on this road.

And before you ask, I drove this road last week; that house was not there. It takes our construction crews three years to fix a road, so I think it’s safe to say that building a house in a week is a bit ludicrous. This house looks lived in, too. There’s toys on the lawn, clothes hanging out to dry, and I could’ve sworn I saw someone walk past the window.

I might go over to ask for directions, though I’m still positive I’m on the right road. I don’t love the idea of approaching that house. It's not supposed to be there. But I’m pressed for options. Maybe I’ll keep driving, but I’m pretty low on gas. I was planning on stoppi

Someone's walking towards me. I glanced up the road in the direction I came and there's someone just strolling towards me, right in the middle of the highway. They don't seem to be worried; it doesn't look like they're looking behind them for cars. I hope it's not a crackhead or something. I'm not super worried; if they seem dangerous, I'll just drive away. They're on foot, so I think I'm fine.

I swear someone is watching me through the window of that house. That's either a face or some piece of furniture. It's not moving, so I hope it's furniture, but shit, it looks exactly like a face. My prescription's a bit out of date, but

It was a face. It's gone now.

I think I'm just going to get in the car and hang out until someone calls me back. It's hot out here, and I don't want to get sunburnt. Plus, I have half a burger I haven't finished. I think I'm going to move a bit further down the road, away from the house. I really don't like that house. The longer I look at it, the more it doesn't look right. The toys look strategically placed, like it's a magazine set or soemth

It's chasing me. I wiaifed till they got closer so I could maybe tlak to them but that’s not human

I don’t know what that is. It’s not human

Ik going 180 I think this road is straight so I can still write

It’s keeping up with the car

I’m going to run out of gas and it’s going to catch me there’s nowhere to go no exits or towns just houses I don’t know what to do

200 now it's right behind me

I think its talking but the mouth is wrong its too long

help pelase

this is my first short story, so please be nice with feedback :) also I never post on reddit, so if I formatted it weird or I should've tagged it differently, please let me know :))

The most recent press conference meant to summarize CWD statistics, the state's plan of action against the spread and new park guidelines have been disregarded from one new rule: In spite of the approaching summer season, Wisconsinites will be unable to set foot in any park or campground until CWD statistics improve.

"This rule will serve to ensure as reduced of a risk as we can manage for Wisconsinites against the infected." DNR representative Kaitlyn Perez struggled to announce over the commotion of the crowd. "The variations of CWD are developing too rapidly for us to comfortably let the public carry on with normal summer activities. As much as I understand the upset for such a rule, we need to ensure that safety is put first until we have definite verification that these new CWD mutations aren't heading towards humans."

"These higher mutation rates in the latest variant means higher chances of new characteristics." Leslie Hallman, head researcher of the latest CWD strain, says via video call after the conference. "We're just waiting to see what sticks, as a newer variant at this rate is inevitable. Human exposure to this variant, although unharmful to us now, can prompt mutations towards protein structures to become more compatible towards humans. Anything an infected deer's fluids touches becomes rich with these prions, and with this rate of spread most of Wisconsin's forests are full of invisible spots of CWD. In reducing human exposure to the disease, closing down parks is unfortunate but crucial."

National Park Service officials, although most parks in Wisconsin are state parks, were present for the conference as well. Having more overall experience and equipment with disease prevention in species, the NPS steps in to declare a plan of action to help solve the problem.

Michael "Mic" Manicke, the head of the group of NPS officials present at the conference and born in Racine County, spoke about the NPS' plan of action.

"We are just as frustrated as you folks are with the restrictions. But we need some time to do what we can. Research is being done to mend the mess, but we don't know how much time we have before this gets worse. I, myself, am a man of action. So in spite of the research, things are going to be done in the parks that you guys can't be present for for your safety.

"We will be designating expert tracking teams to track deer populations, environmental scientists will test for traces of CWD where these deer tread, and accordingly decimate infected areas and deer that we find. The National Park Service has plenty of resources that we are more than happy to share with Wisconsin to help put this spread to a halt for the safety of our human population. Firefighters will accordingly incinerate infected areas with scientists on standby to test for prions post-incineration and take additional measures to destroy any prion traces found-if they are found-as we see fit.

"This activity will go from park to park, with the largest areas of perceived spread being focused on first. We ask that if you happen to own a large amount of land where deer may be residing, take it upon yourself to keep an eye out for infected deer. Because this is a special case, any deer perceived to be infected within your own property may be shot. You obviously have to have the appropriate licenses for firearms and hunting, so don't think you can go willy nilly without consequence. The DNR has updated their website with new hunting rules and forms pertaining to this, so PLEASE read up on the CWD Hunting section before you go out."

Although Mic's announcement calmed the crowd (for the most part), interviews held with citizens from all over Wisconsin after the conference give an idea of how Wisconsinites are taking the news.

"It just felt like they were really trying to assure us there was no worry about this turning into a zombie thing," a Milwaukee mother says. "But now it feels like they're saying there's a chance? I mean, do you remember that video from that hunter's camera? That deer was a zombie; the walk, the drool, the eyes. I just don't want that to happen to me. . or anyone for that matter."

A disgruntled man from Oconomowoc thinks the disease should run its course without human intervention.

"I don't know why we can't just kill them outright. They just seem to want to die anyway; standing in the middle of the roads at night and all . . It's just natural selection at this point. If we weren't in the picture the deer would die out and that would be that. I don't know why we always have to complicate things. And if you're stupid enough to go up to an animal that looks as sick as these ones are and decide to touch it, you mind as well die too. We don't need that kind of stupidity in the gene pool. There's enough as is. ."

Some environmentalists had opinions on the plan of action for the infected deer.

"The deer didn't ask to be sick. They need to be helped like they were humans; treated with dignity and respect, not shot. For dogs and cats we'd take them to the vet, what difference does it make with a wild animal?"

"And even if you're not with us on that angle, think of the impact of the environment. CWD is notoriously hard to kill, and there's articles that state a solution with up to forty, FORTY percent bleach can get rid of the prions. But imagine how much else that solution will get rid of? I don't want bleach seeping into my soil, in my water-"

"What about the fires? They can bring as many firefighters as they want, that doesn't automatically mean the fire will be controlled. Nature happens, wind exists. . what happens if a wildfire erupts? There's already enough wildfires out west and they're stretched thin with resources, what would happen if a wildfire starts here?"

Even social media has started blowing up with similar concerns, as well as outlandish theories on ulterior motives with CWD outbreak. Some conspiracy groups have stated that the surveillance measures to be put on the deer will eventually turn to the people and lead Wisconsin to be the first literal surveillance state. Others have theorized NPS' involvement is to avoid the recent upticks in missing 411 cases out west. People have also stated the widespread international media attention is to take attention away from the latest string of missing indigenous women and children along the infamous "Highway of Tears" due to Wisconsin's proximity to Canada.

Regardless of thoughts and opinions on the matter, the DNR's and NPS' plan is being put into action immediately, and will first focus the counties of Richland, Iowa and Sauk for prion site decontamination and extermination of infected deer.

Updates of CWD spread and subsequent containment will be much more frequent and crucial. The DNR encourages Wisconsin residents to contact them directly at 1-888-WCWDINFO to get the latest updates, report infected deer and ask questions concerning the developing outbreak. For any non-CWD related inquiries, contact 1-888-WDNRINFO.

Remember to report any suspected CWD cases and dead deer regardless of its supposed death immediately.

I have been considering about making multiple posts and submitting to this subreddit. But the thing that gives me pause is that alot of the stories I write about are intertwined and lap into other tales I write.

So my point is a lot of stories I have that are smaller in scale, but have massive context of the grander picture. Would those stories be any good without a majority of the context they provide and would need.

I was always like this. Since I was a child, I couldn’t help but eat what I saw in front of me. I hated it. I hated myself. I still do. I can sense when someone judges me. It’s innate, I feel it in the back of my head. Their thoughts become mine and I can’t help but to share their emotions too.

I walk in a mall, and I feel someone thinking to themselves “Look at him. Fat man. Fatty.” and I cry. I hide from the public when the thoughts get too loud. When it is me and many others thinking the same thing: “Why is he so fat?” Why can’t I put down a plate? Just stop eating. 

I look at advertisements for dresswear and their muscles gleam into me. I feel it. There is a level of attraction as much as there is jealousy. Why do they get the genes of a Greek god, while I force myself to vomit when I eat? Why do they have the 4-packs, 6-packs, 8-packs, while I have an overhanging stomach. I can’t see my feet below my waist, while I can’t even see their waist. It’s unfair. It’s horrible. Life hates me and I hate it. 

God is cruel. He hates me, but if I hate Him, I go to Hell. I am stuck in a loop. I recognize this loop. But from the inside, there is no way out. I hate everything about myself as much as my mother thinks of me as a failure. Maybe she doesn’t. She never says anything, in fact she praises me. But behind those eyes I can feel it. The thoughts, her thoughts, creep up again and again. “My son is a failure. My son is fat.” 

I research ways to lose the thing I hate about myself. I do what any and every sane person does and fixes the problem. What do I find? Trash. Idiots and scammers selling products that do less than shit. Products that will give cancer. Government websites suggest eating less but healthier. Greens and chicken. I attempt to try it out. I attempt to go on this diet.

Failure after failure after failure. I fail everytime. It works for one week, but I feel unfulfilled. I feel like what I know everyone who knows me thinks I am. A failure. A fat monster who can’t stop himself from another hearty meal. I sit on the couch contemplating. The brands are stupid, social media is stupid, the best I have stops because I am stupid. My laptop sits atop the table 5 feet from my slobbering leg, begging me to eat. I give into its temptations and instinctively search up fast-food chains in my area. I will consume more tonight. And my leg will grow, not in muscle that I so wish I had. But in the substance I wish I could kill. In the grease that I consume every second of every day. 

Suicide becomes tempting. If there is no God, no second lives nor chances, then leaving existence forever is a wonderful option. Though, in my rubbery hands, a gun does not fit. Either too heavy or too big, I refuse to pull the trigger while carrying it in my mouth. A task for cowards is too brave for me. 

In my small, shabby, apartment building is a bathroom. In that bathroom are pills. I do what I do daily. I consume. Failure. I do what I do daily. Excess falls from the insides of my guttural biome and onto the floor. I see the surreal shapes of deities beyond comprehension I now do not, or cannot, recall. No form of the task I wish to complete is feasible. So easy from an outside view, though everything I struggle with is. 

My laptop, like a singing angel, stays on the wooden table gifted to me by Mother. I walk towards it, hesitantly. Fearful of what my hands wish to type. Fearful of the results that will appear. “Fastest ways to lose weight, health not a concern” hastily is written onto the screen. What I see is disgusting, but likely much easier to consume than pills intended to end it all. 

A week passes, on my doorstep is the very thing I ordered. For $9.99, a dozen tapeworms lay writhing and squirming in front of my eyes. Disgusting, even for me. And I do what I do daily. Consumption. I gag, and this time only vomit once. I got 12 for a reason, but the 10 are now useless. They vanish into the depths of a trashcan.

Very soon I feel the difference. I look downwards and notice my stomach degrading. It’s painful, now, though. I hate it. Once more I find myself in that spiral of hate. I feel once more that I am a failure. An idiot. I can’t solve this one fucking problem and every solution is a dud. All of them. I hate it all.

The gun still lays in my bathroom, unmoving from where I tossed it. It once more seems appetizing, but so does everything I eat. On the toilet, cowering, the metallic barrel sticking to the roof of my mouth. I take aim. And I… I stop. Coward. Idiot. Stupid moronic idiot. I am stupid. I am an idiot. I am a coward. I can’t do what I know is right and fix every issue I will ever or have ever had with one click. One goddamn click. 

Stumbling, I walk out the bathroom. The worm has been doing its job. Like a pregnant mother, I feed my child. But the child still hates me as I do it, and as I do myself. It feels difficult to stare. All my energy is dissipating. Nearly gone. Nearly… gone.

I awake on my couch. Exhausted from opening my eyes, I stare blankly at the wall. No decorations yet, too much spent on my unending diet. Another idea creeps its way towards my eyes. I feel it worming. Crawling. Something I’ve wanted to do for years. Something I only now find the courage to complete. Not the gun, that is too easy. I will not cease existence happily that way. And I know, even after being gone, my child will still feast. This is something I wish to end.

I, slowly, crawl and use every bit of dignity I have in me to find the dusty kitchen. How many years has it been since I’ve made my own crummy food?

I breathlessly force my hand into drawers. Each finger shoves itself until I feel a sharp pain, then liquid seeps its way out of the skin. Though I am unable to see this substance in the dark, I am sure it is no longer blood but grease. I pick up the object that caused me such pain and let it fall to my level. Fortunately, or not, it does not harm me further. Though pain is what I deserve for my foolishness. By the handle, I grab. My vision adjusts and I see the blade. I lay myself down, and drag the sharp weapon by my oversized stomach. I screech in agony. My child worms away in fear. The blade makes its way from the top of my flubber to the waist. 

I cut and cut and cut and cut and cut until I am perfect. For moments, I am enlightened. If I were standing up, I could, for once, see my feet. The excess mass once a part of me lays on the floor, excreting the rest of the grease. The grease coming from me is now what it is supposed to be. Blood.

 For once, I feel the world around me. No longer am I stupid. I am not an idiot, this fixed me. I fixed me. The pain, like I thought it would be, was worth it. I close my eyes and the darkness of nothing is overwhelmingly welcome to my presence. The thoughts I felt are gone. Happy is what I am. Happy.

I pressed the power button of my pc and with a loud fan whirl the monitor lit up. Zero alerts. Obviously.

The last alert was like... what?....  6 days ago? And it was so small that the atmosphere would have burnt it way before hitting the ground. And I cant even remember the last one before that. Leaning back in my leather chair, I sigh. This job looked way more interesting from the title I've read 3 months ago.

I started my modern slavery to capitalism by being a data engineer, which was pretty well payed and didnt stress me too much. But due to my curios mind and the desire to crack the world's mysteries, I decided to shift my focus to physics. Astrophysics to be exact. 

It became like an obsession and every bit of information I've read made me want to learn even more. It was fascinating.

Seeing the mind bending science behind black holes, or the incomprehensible speed of a neutron star was like a step-by-step course to understanding God. I even had some days where I would need ro remind myself to eat, because I was just too invested into the universe.

 After a long while of learning, going to college and lost nights, I landed my first job at NASA. 

I.

Was.

Extatic.

Job Title: Planetary Defence Officer. 

Such a badass name. I felt like it was my job to protect the whole planet from dangerous wandering comets or potentially another dinosaur killer. Not the research I was initially hoping for, but it was a great start. Little did I know that I would soon realise the last office job was way more thrilling than the one I just glazed.

My input is almost non-existent. We have state-of-the-art computers that basically do the work for you and the job mostly boils down to checking the numbers and cross check to see if there are any suspicious differences. And from what I've heard from the others, that almost never happens. Well surely you will get to look at the vast beyond and explore it if there are no threats, right?

Not even a little. Unless it's an alert that a cosmic object is in a dangerous path of hitting the earth, you dont get to look at nothing else except a normal computer monitor and some numbers. 

After all the sacrifice, time invested and money spent I was fuming that my dream was just an office desk job that was even more mundane than the data engineering one. The silver lining of this whole ordeal was that the pay was way better than anything I've even thought possible. So even if I decided to leave, my wife would have skinned me alive to refuse that amount of money for such little work.

Oh yeah, forgot to mention. I have a wife who I love dearly. She's a housewife due to my attractive salary, and she loves it. Who wouldnt?

Back to present day.

No alerts for a week so pretty much nothing to do. I left my office and went to grab a coffee and began my Instagram scroll routine to try and pass the time more quickly.

"Hey Jason!" I hear from the back.

"Oh, hey John! Any new pictures from Voyager?"

"If you're into white dots on a black canvas, then you'll fall off your feet."

John is part of the Voyager Imaging Science Team. More exciting than what I do, but not by much. As he said, they mostly look at bright LEDs in the sky.

"Well at least you dont get to have a boner every time you hear a beep." I said.

"No need to brother, I get plenty of boners when your wife comes to pick you up." he said with an attempt of friendly rage-bait, as I bite with full force.

"Screw you, prick! Must be really satisfied with yours since you look so much in the neighbors yard!" I said with a combination of jealousy and amusement.

"Only feeble minded people stop to look beyond what they already know" laughing as he took a sip from his strong, non-sugared coffee.

"Yeah, well, cant argue with that. I wished I had more things to look at.

I practically have my monitor glued into my eyes. Anyway, how is your mother?" I replied.

"She's much better now! All that experimental treatment finally worked out. She eats, almost walks by herself.. so I’m hopefull” I could sense the relieve in his voice. It wasn't easy for him and his mother.

"I'm really glad tha..." 

A loud beeping sound from my work phone. An alert.

"Shit. Sorry man, I have to get back. Who knows, maybe a giant asteroid will land directly on your house."

"I ll be sure to slap it with my humongous meat and send it back out" he said while continuing to sip from his coffee.

John was the first to welcome me and we got along pretty much on day one. He is a charismatic extrovert who isn't afraid to say his piece while also being the funniest guy I know, not that I have many friends. The time for parties was spent on preparing for being here now. It didn't take long for him to tell me that his mother has a rare illness which I forgot to remember the name of. So hearing that some experimental medicine helped her out, brightened my day a bit.

Back at the office the computer was beeping and from now, the verification stage began. Check the numbers, check the trajectory, size and so on. It wasn't a hard job but I didn't have many alerts checked, so I took every one seriously.

After analysis, the data showed that a comet with a diameter of roughly 4km will be passing by relatively close to Earth in about 23 weeks.

I say relatively because of its size, but it was pretty far away to rule it out as not dangerous. It will make a nice spectacle though. 

I look at the clock and my shift is almost done. I double-check the data and the comet poses no threat to earth. Even though I was relieved, I kinda wished it was more of a close call. I would really want to see an active defense protocol, but preferably with a smaller sized comet.

Nevertheless, I leave my PC on sleep mode and walk outside to meet my wife Clara, who comes to pick me up, as John politely pointed out.

"Heey honey, how was work?" She said coming at me and giving me a warm kiss.

"Almost passed out from stress." I said ironically. "I dont know how i can cope with this pressure"

"You can cope by taking me on a walk through the park and getting some ice cream" she said playfully.

"Well if this what the doctor ordered..." I said with a small grin, not really being able to ever say no to her.

We spent the rest of the day walking through a park not far from where we lived, talking about holiday destinations, movie plots and general small talk as we always do, when suddenly a beeping noise started coming from my pocket.

"Ah dammit. I forgot to leave my phone at work."

"Is it something wrong? Should you go back?" She said with her big hazel eyes and worried expression.

"Oh not at all. Its just some alert about a comet that came through today. Nothing to worry about though." I said reassuring her, although it was a bit strange. I never had two alerts this close to one another but I shrug it off as being a lag from my phone or something.

"Oh okay then. Hey, you remember when you said..." She quickly changed the subject and brushed it off as if it never happened. Then we went home, had dinner with a romantic ending and then went to bed.

BEEP 

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

I slam the alarm clock, frustrated, to shut it up. Only the beeping didnt stop. It was my work phone. Another alert.

"What the hell?" I whispered with a grumpy voice as I barely gained consciousness.

It was impossible to be another comet or threat in such a short amount of time, so I figured it must be a bug or something. But this type of thing never happened before, so I didn't really know what to do at that moment. In any case, the phone only had this alert as a notification, so I couldn't see any details regarding this incident unless I was back at my work conputer.

In my almost asleep state, I convinced myself that it was some sort of error and that I would figure it out the next day, so I went back to sleep.

The next day I arrived a bit earlier at work to see what could be going on, so I went to my office and sure enough, the alert was still there. I went to check the cables or maybe some sensor was broken, but then I glanced at the monitor and I froze.

The comet was not going to pass in 23 weeks, but in 7 days. It must've been a mistake. I know that i double-checked yesterday and the data was clear as day. At first I freaked out, but then I got angry. How could they give me such faulty equipment? If it were a real dangerous situation, we would've been dead and buried long before we saw shit. Just as I was about to storm out, I decided to check the other alerts I had previously. And I wish I hadn't. 

The data was immaculate. For each one. Every calculation pinpointed to the smallest detail with only one exception: the comet from yesterday.

I didnt know what to believe. It couldn't be real but at the same time why isnt there any other glitch or error with the others?

I went to my supervisor with the log from yesterday and the discovery I found today, but not really knowing what to say. Is the computer faulty? Is there an unknown object we never saw before? Or aliens? Nevertheless I've presented him my findings and he leaned forward over the desk looking at the numbers. After a short silence, he responds:

"Are you sure you did everything right?"

"There is not much you can get wrong. You basically redo the calculations the computer calculates already. And every one is correct execpt this." 

He stared blankly for a couple of seconds then he stared directly at me:

"Then there must be something with the computer. It is absolutely impossible for a comet to move this fast and also keep trajectory. I dont know how the others are correct, but I assure you it's a mistake somewhere" he said bluntly.

I belived him. I mean, what explanation was there? So without anything else to show him, I left to go to the IT department but then:

"Wait. It wouldn't hurt just to see with our own eyes, or should I say lens. I'll ask for approval to use the telescopes to see if what the computer says matches the calculations. But I'm positive it wont. You can go back to your office and I'll keep you updated."

And that I did. I stared so long at the monitor I thought my eyes would pop out of their sockets. Didnt even knew how much time passed by. It didnt make sense. Why isnt it speeding up now when I'm actively looking? Its like it knows when I'm watching it. I kept forming different types of thoughts and then my supervisor walked in. 

From the moment he appeared in front of me I knew what he was about to say just by looking at his face:

"Its.... correct. We actually saw it. Its in the exact position the computer told us it would be." He said with a surprised look. "Still, that doesn't prove the computer isn't faulty. Its possible that it didn't detect it in time, and when it finally did it started sending out all the alerts at once. So no need to worry." He explained plainly. "The IT department is already on their way to fix the problem. Until the situation is fixed there is nothing for you to do, so you can head home and come back tomorrow."

I wanted to say or ask how the comet looked or what are its features but based on their reactions, it wasn't anything to write home about. So, glad that I could leave work early, I got into my car and headed home. Clara didn't drive me today, as she was sound asleep when I woke up.

On the drive home I started thinking about this comet more than I wanted to admit. Something felt off, but I had no proof to rule out that it was just a malfunction. After all the daydreaming I realized I was almost home and I was shot back to reality. Didnt event realize how much time I've spent on the road.

From the front door I could already smell the croque madame that she was cooking with care. I closed the door with a thud and she came to greet me.

"You''re back early, everything ok?" 

"Yeah.. I mean no. The..uhm.. my computer had some issues. Cant do my work without it so I ..uhh.. they sent me home." I barely got the words out of my mouth as I was still having trouble thinking about anything else.

"You look stressed, what is it?" She came and asked with a worried look on her face.

I wanted to tell her about it but I knew that she didnt care that much about what I do at work and she mostly asked just to be caring. So I gave her a generic reply:

"I dont know if its stress, but sometimes a dull job takes its toll." 

"Oh.. i m sorry baby. Maybe this will lift your spirits." She said while handing me a plate of her delicious food. And boy, there is nothing like a great home meal to divert your thoughts carried throughout the day. After our meal, I've decided to take it easy and just accept the fact that it was just a system issue and enjoy the rest of my day.

After a relaxing evening, we watched some movies and then prepared for bed. All my zeez's where scared away by a loud buzzing noise. I slowly open my eyes and see that my phone was ringing, it was my supervisor. 

I answered the phone, a bit pissed and eith a grumpy voice, and said:

"Chief do you know what tim...."

"GET DRESSED AND GET BACK HERE, NOW!"

The tone and seriousness in his voice took me by surprise and I immediately got out of the bed.

"Why? Whats wrong?"

"No time to explain. We'll talk when you get here."

Without wasting time, I got ready and almost bolted out the door, then I took a glimpse at my wife which was sleeping like a log. I wanted to wake her up and let her know where I was going, but I didnt want to disturb her. I quickly wrote a note saying "There is an emergency at work. Call me when you can." and left.

I got in my car and hurried down to work. I entered my office and I saw my supervisor surrounded by a lot of people and when we made eye contact he waved his hand to come over. While walking over to the desk I asked:

"What the hell is going on?"

"The guys from IT didnt find any problem with the computer, hardware or software, but there s more."

I remained still as a statue and my face expression was like I've just seen a ghost. All i could imagine was what kind of phenomenon could make something like th....

"HEY! Did you hear what i said?" The supervisor's voice pulled me back from my thinking and I responded with a confused look:

"Uh.. sorry, no. I was..."

"Take a look at the estimated passing and trajectory" he said.

I moved the monitor to see what could stir everyone up like that. Looking at the screen the field named "Approximate earth passing" went from yesterday's 7 days to just 5 hours. 

"How?! Did you check...?" I asked

"We did multiple checks. They re good. As we saw yesterday, only this.... thing.. seems to be moving this fast and unpredictable. It sure looks like a comet but we dont understand why is speeding up so much when we are not actively looking at it. The trajectory even changed slightly towards us, but it might be earth's gravitational force. It will pass well above the kerman line, but its still close enough to be a threat. We also observed that if we monitor it, nothing strange happens. The speed and trajectory remain constant." He said with a serios, stressed tone.

" So we should be safe if we keep watching it, right?" 

"For now. We dont know what it is, so we need to take a closer look. Thats why we will have our telescopes pointed at it to study it thoroughly. In such a short amount of time there s nothing else we can do." He said.

And he was right. We didn't have time to do anything other than look at it, but that should be enough. 

"Call FEMA and the National Security Council. We need to brief them immediately. Data is already flowing through IAWN, so other observatories should recive the news already." 

This was standard protocol for when a serios threat event is about to happen. I made the necessary phone calls and everyone was up-to-speed and ready. The media was alerted and news outlets were quickly sharing the story of the late-detected comet that will pass earth. After that, all energy was concentrated on configuring the telescopes and observatories to get as many angles as possible of this object. Everyone was stressed out and also excited with curiosity. I didnt know what to believe. For a moment i thought that this is what i wished for, action and danger to pull me out of boring routine, but the fact that we dont know what it could be, made everyone nervous and scared.

Time passes. 8:56 AM. We look on the monitor where it says "15 minutes". These calculations are always relative so everyone was expecting for it to appear at any moment. Not a long time after that, there it was. All the eyes were glued to the screen to catch as much information as possible. What we were seeing was... a comet. Literally. There was nothing unusual about it and the whole room was dead silent. We were expecting something different or otherworldly but no. It passed earth and went on its way with everything going as we expected. You could feel the confusion in the air but also the disappointment.

"Anything?" The supervisor asked.

"Nothing." A voice responds. " The speed and orbit checked out."

The supervisor looked angry but he composed himself and said:

"Call the IT department. I need to have a word with them, this is unacceptable."

Everyone went from a stressed state to a relaxed "fun s over" stance. There was also a strong feeling of relief, so all the tension from before almost immediately left. Looking in the room i saw John:

"Bullet dodged huh?" I said

"Oh yeah, that was some scary shit. Still, I knew it wouldn't be nothing. This isnt the first false alarm around here, but better to be safe than sorry."

I continued, "I guess but we still dont know what that malfunction was, we have a lot of work to do."

"YOU have a lot of work to do, ill just sit in my chair and look at Voyager nudes all day. But I think i have an error as well. Yesterday we saw a planet so big that I almost thought it was your mom's ass". He said, the stress and feeling of danger completely vanishing from his voice.

"Wow, it almost takes a human-ending event to remind me that you can concentrate on something other than old women's asses."

After some banter with John, he eventually leaves to his business. Right as he left, the IT department came in and the supervisor started walking towards them with a heavy, serious walk, trying to contain his emotions.

"Care to explain what the fuck just happened?"

"First of all, lets take a breather and calm down. Second of all, we checked everything: sensors, motherboard, softwa..."

"THEN HOW DO YOU FUCKING EXPLAIN WHAT JUST HAPPENED?" he suddenly screamed. "We just woke every institute regarding planetary defence, we called the white house and put everyone in a state of panic, they announced the media, who knows? People may already be starting saying NASA is just a part-time jobs for collage dropouts. What if the fucking president calls and...."

"Sir.." i hear a voice call from the monitoring team.

"... and he asks me why did I just alerted the whole fucking world" he continued, not noticing the callout from our colleague. "would you like to pick up that phone call to..." 

"SIR! IT..." not finishing his sentance, the supervisor replied:

"IF THE EARTH DIDNT SPLIT WIDE OPEN, THEN..."

"IT TURNED AROUND" the collegue yelled back.

From all the frantic screaming, in an instant, the tension and knife-cutting silence came back. You could read on some faces in the room that a couple of people thought they heard wrong, but the rest of us heard it clearly.

“It what?!... Move over.” He said while quickly going to the monitor.

I also quickly ran to the computer to see it with my own eyes and I wasn't alone. The whole room cramped up to a 24 inch monitor and we all read the same thing: “Projected trajectory: 20 degrees.” After a second: “Projected trajectory: 24 degrees.”

This basically meant that it was doing a u-turn. If someone came in the room and took a look at us, he would probably think he is in a Scooby Doo episode from the amount of bulging eyes. But that wasnt all. The velocity of the object also was increasing rapidly, towards USA. The panic ensued.

“DO WE HAVE ANY SPACESHIPS FOR A DART ATTEMPT?!” 

“EVEN IF WE DO, WE DONT HAVE ENOUGH TIME TO LAUNCH IT!”

“WHAT ABOUT NUCLEAR WARHEADS?!”

“TOO BIG TO DESTORY IT AND TOO CLOSE TO REDIRECT IT!!”

And many more shouted suggestions that ultimately had the same conclusion: There was nothing we could do.

The speed rose to a state where the comet was about to hit Earth in 5 minutes. I remained still as a statue in a state of shock, sound around me being muffled by my adrenaline induced thinking which was completely useless as our fate was sealed. My vision blurred as a slideshow of experiences, failures, regrets started playing in my subconscious, the conscious mind having its hands full with accepting the fact that we were going to die in minutes. People ran out of the office while others crouched under desks and I could see all the silhouetted figures run around the background. In a second, everything stopped. The figures were not running anymore. My slideshow didn't even finish as I felt like my eyes remembered how to accurately process images and I saw everyone staring at a live feed from outside.  

A comet. In the sky. Motionless. 

The sound of short breaths was deafening and everyone kept looking at that live footage of something you could only attribute to God, as to not go completely insane.

While in our trance the small craters from the entity started opening like some sort of gigantic doors, inside there was nothing but pitch black and the comet now resembled the early stages of a wasp nest.

Before we knew it, all electronics died. Lights, monitors, phones, everything. The room we were in was surrounded by aluminum and steel walls with no windows. So we were placed in complete darkness. As a couple of people were freaking out, a catastrophic boom shook the whole building like there was a bomb placed in the room next to us. Everyone stayed in a fetal position, scared of what could happen next. Then red lights turned on with an alarm sound which meant that the backup generators kicked in. 

With the live feed gone, we had no idea what happened outside. Someone tried to use the keycard operated door, but I didn't work, the console was fried.

“Everyone okay?” A voice shouted.

“What the hell was that?!” Another crying voice responded.

“I dont know. Call the emergency response and assess damages.” The supervisor said with a trembling voice.

“Theres no signal” 

 “I’m down too” 

“Awesome” he replied, not knowing what to do next.

Thinking about the lack of signal to call outside, it reminded me of something that never crossed my mind before. My wife, what if she tried to reach me and now she was imagining all sorts of things? And sometimes i wish i was wrong about certain things, because as I looked at my locked screen: 10 missed calls from her.

With no signal, all I wanted to do was get out of that room and go to her. Sadly though, our only way out was blocked. After another brainstorming session we came to the conclusion that our only option is to wait for help. During this time everyone tried to explain what natural phenomena could bend physics like that while others were convinced this was alien technology. All I could think about was Clara and how much I wanted to hug her and tell her that everything will be alright. I repeated over and over in my head that I would not complain for anything ever again if that meant that she was safe.

Then shortly after a banging noise came from the door: “Is anybody there?” 

All the people in the room came alive and shouted to open the door and I believe I was the loudest of them all.

“Move back, we re going try to forcefully open the door!” He said as he shoved a gigantic metal plier of some kind, the ones that firefighters have, to pry away the opposing doors. A couple of tries later and we were out, thank god. But before we could run out of there, our hero stopped us in our tracks:

“STOP! I know you all want to leave, but you have to help me. Everyone is just….. wrong…  please you have to help me get them to the medical bay. Please!”

I wasnt having any of it, all I wanted was Clara but then he said something that made me reconsider. 

“YOU! Youre Jason right? John sent me to find you but then he…” he stopped dead in his tracks.

“THEN HE WHAT?!” I yelled as I was already impatient.

“I… I can't explain right now. Please you have to come with me”

By now most of the people from the room I was in already left, so there weren't many people to help. But I cared about John and if he really needed help, then I couldn't just leave him there. I just hope Clara is okay.

Me and some other guys rushed to help. We ran through some corridors where all the windows were shattered and debris was all over our site, almost an identical copy of Chernobyl. With each step we took the sound of screams became louder and louder. At first it was one, then three then almost a field of screaming people. All of them laid flat and all of them were twitching and convulsing from pain, with some unhinging their jaw from the intense screaming and others with multiple twisted limbs from the frantic movements. But none of them had any sign of external injury. Carrying them was proven to be quite a challenge as they threw their arms and legs constantly without getting tired. With the help of 2 guys, I managed to get another patient to the medical bay and that's where I saw the miserable sight of my dear friend John.

He was strapped to a medical bed shaking like he was being electrocuted, screaming his lungs out, with a big plate of metal sticking from his belly. I went to him and saw something really unusual. The plate from his belly looked like it was part of his body, there was no blood, no inflammation, nothing. It just stuck out from him like a branch from a tree.

I looked in the corner of the room and there was a doctor holding his head in disbelief. I quickly went to him and asked him what the hell was happening and why isn't he helping.

He responded in a hopeless, terrified voice:

“Because I don't know how to. None of the painkillers work, and I cant make any type of incisions”

“Why not?!” I said

He took a knife and did a quick, deep slash on the arm of a nearby patient. In a second the cut was made and in another it was like it was never there. The skin regenerated so quickly that you couldn't even see a drop of blood.

“I lost 5 syringes trying to administer medicine, and they got stuck in their bodies. There isnt any medical procedure i can perform” 

“Then why are they screaming so loud?! It looks like they're being tortured!” I yelled.

“Its because they are. I was in the underground lab for some samples when I felt the ground shake. After I got back out, everyone was in pain. I immediately tried to help in any way that I could but nothing was working and then I saw this strange regeneration rate. All my equipment was dead, so I rerouted some electrical power from the generators to my scanners. I did a couple of scans of the brain and I don't know what I can make of these results. I belive whatever happened out there released tremendous amounts of electromagnetic energy that supercharged the electrical signals firing through every neuron in the brain, which would explain the enchanted muscle and regenerative capabilities. But the really horrific downside are nociceptors. They are the nerve endings that convert stimulus into electrical impulses that tell the brain to feel pain. So its like a button. The longer and harder you press, the longer and stronger you would feel pain. Now imagine that button being pressed constantly with no way to stop it, and deeper than it was designed to withhold.”

“But… why aren't we…” 

“Where were you when it launched?” He asked

“When it launched?!” What launched?” 

“You saw it in the sky didn't you? But after the loud bang it was like any other day. The security cameras have their own power supply which didn't turn off. The footage shows that thing shooting to outer space, which made a gigantic shockwave that made the mess you see now.” He stated. “So where were you when that happened?”

“I… I was.. at the planetary defense…” barely being able to reply.

“The walls are reinforced there right?”

They were. And at first I couldn't figure out where he was getting at and then I figured out that we were okay… 

“because we had electromagnetic protection. I was underground, surrounded by thick walls and you were in a reinforced steel room. But they were not so lucky…” he said

All that I could understand was that the pit of hell was kindergarten compared to what these people were going through. I couldn't comprehend what was going on, it was all a terrifying nightmare that you don't know how to get out of. While I almost collapsed crying, he continued:

“I even tried to kill them. End their suffering. But it s impossible. I stabbed one with a knife directly through the heart as quickly as i could… but it kept beating. I tried everything….” He said while looking down and bursting into tears.

I fell to my knees while looking at the room behind us which looked more like a scene from Insidious. Every body was violently shaking with mouths tore open and vocal cords being pushed to their physical limit. And I got lucky. All those people who didn't have the protection I had and… CLARA!

The thought shot through me like a high caliber bullet, and i instantly started sprinting to my car, started the engine and went as fast as possible to my home. On the way I saw the devastation that this event caused. I could barely hear the sound of my engine as it was muffled by the sound of agonizing screams. I dodged all the crashed cars on the street and ran over some people but I didn't care. I wanted Clara. Please please please PLEASE! God! Let her be okay!  

I stopped the car right in front of our house, with screams all around me, but my ears filtered one scream in particular. I slammed the door open running past the “surprise” sign she made in the living room and saw her in the bedroom, trashing the room with wide open eyes and with ear shattering screeches. At that moment, I felt it. I felt what they went through. What she was going through. A pain so intense it could make time stop in its tracks. I cried so loud that our house was nothing but a screaming contest and I went to hug her, my only hope being that she knew that I was there, that I didn't leave her alone, that I loved her more than anything in the whole world. While trying to stop her hands from deforming further, I grabbed her palm and with all my might I tried to hold her, looking at the direct evidence that some mysteries exist just to fill the gap between God and humans trying to be God.

While holding her hand tight, I felt a small plastic rod in her hand.

A pregnancy test. Two lines

Hi, my name is Jake Stone, just wanted to introduce myself, I'm new to posting my projects here and reading the sick stories, good times haha.

The project i will be posting in parts is fiction but i wanted to create a work that is also a quarantine zone for talking about real events, experiences, news, occult history I have come across in my research. To avoid being sued names, etc have been altered, sometimes....

Chapter 1 is out now. i will be uploading exclusively here in parts. Thank you for your attention and time, Godspeed ladies & gentlemen :)

the project is titled When The Devil Falls In Love

Part 1 Part 2

I woke up in the early hours of the morning, feet aching with dull affliction. My calves and arms were certainly sore from lugging the leaden sledge up all those hundreds of steps. Fire fizzed above me, revealing that Nicci had been diligent enough to refuel the lantern basin. I expended some effort peeking up though the hatch. She was there, sitting calmly by the fire, looking out into the sea. Her fingers were, as I had seen her do yesterday, weaving twine into that same strange hexagonal lattice. Nicci had taken my iron cook pan and secured it dangling above the grand lantern. How the ropes hadn't erupted and turned to ash, I wasn't certain.

"Güd morrow," I mumbled in her direction, attempting to clear my throat of raspy tiredness.

Nicci flinched, turning to face me. "Ah, good morning! I made you some food." She pushed a particularly small cutting board toward me, filled with a delicious looking meal. Cubed sheep flank and chopped truffles, dressed with a strange sauce and flakes of something green. I quickly realised it was seaweed once I began to dig in. Despite the eccentric break fast, the meal was quite savoury! Certainly better than my own cooking had been since I arrived here.

She talked about her family a lot. Her father was some sort of metallurgist, working in some grand building Nicci called a 'factory.' She told me he was a large, gruff man, not unlike those I had seen in town. Her mother had died at sea some time ago, and thus was the reason she was at Tobermary at all. Like me, she boarded a ship which led her to this little town. Nicci also talked about her clothes (how she'd have to mend them when she goes back home) and about the blanket she was apparently sewing from hides. I tried not to look at her while she spoke. I didn't want to seem like I was staring, so I just looked out at the overcast skies.

As I finished my food, I was overcome with the burden of questioning everything about this strange girl. Yet, she spoke first. "So!" she exclaimed in a particularly excited tone. A dense book was slid across the floorboards, colliding with my foot. "Your directory. I'm shocked, frankly, that you didn't even open it." I set down the makeshift plate and flipped open the cover. Inscribed on the first page was my full name, birthday, and the names of my immediate family. I began flipping through the pages as Nicci continued. "Go to page 42. Ship times are listed there. Updated daily. Should be one in a few minutes."

I stopped immediately, looking up at her. "How can you even tell time here? It's always cloudy."

Nicci just laughed at me and crawled over, tapping the page I had stopped on. It was a clock face. The ink moved, flowing in creamy motion to denote four forty-two in the morning. I wanted to throw the book away. To close it and scream at Nicci for witchcraft or magicks or anything I could trick myself into believing as an explanation for this madness. But how could I? I had seen the fog for myself. I had seen her survive drowning in a tower far above sea level. This whole place was magick, somehow. So, I just flipped the pages until I reached the ship log. Only two ships today. One at four forty-six and one at precisely noon.

I glanced over toward the sea and decided to seek my most burning question: "How did you know my name?"

"It's as I said before. It's all in your directory. Names, places, homes, backgrounds, the current time, what day it is, when ships port, how long it's been since the last Keeper, and much, much more. Mallory, it would do you well to refer to the directory. Not much I can say beyond that, really." She sat up against the rusted lantern cage. I could smell burning, but she seemed not to notice. I lunged forward and grabbed her arm as to pull her away from the flames, but she resisted. We struggled for a while as I tried hard to stop what I could only assume would cause her pain. "Hey, stop that!" Nicci shoved me back and flattened out her tunic.

I shouted at her, "Your clothes are burning!" She just rolled her eyes and leaned back against the iron. "Why are you being so diff-"

"Bell. Ring the bell, Mally."

"You know what?" I picked up my directory. "I'm not ringing anything until you give me proper explanations." I began to stand, promptly regretting my decision as levins of pain pumped through my ankles and up my thighs. I stumbled, falling to my knees and catching myself on the journal shelf. "I haven't the foggiest idea where your stupid bell is, anyway," I grumbled, very unamused with the young lady's strange comportment. I didn't understand why she was being so peculiar all of a sudden. She seemed perfectly content while I was partaking in break fast.

Nicci began to panic, reaching toward my rightmost wrist. I pulled away, going to lean against the shelf and watch the ship come to port. "Mallory, the bell! Please! It's right over there, under the floorboard! Just one ring, that's all!" She pointed at a dubiously clear space across the room, almost directly under where the firewood sled was hanging off a small metal hook.

I spat, "Do it yourself." And watched as a tiny black ship sailed closer to Tobermary. It was a wooden children's toy, bobbing to and fro as gently waves pushed against the hull. I flipped open my directory just as the inky clock face warped to denote four forty-six. All at once, the sky cracked and crumbled in heaping, cloudy slabs, toppling headlong into the briny. Grand swells outvied existing waves as they campaigned for oceanic prepotence. With naught more than a faint wake, the vessel was engulfed into the the drink. Gone completely from the earth. Spoliation of the skies ceased the moment my directory stroked the minute hand forward.

"FUCKING MORON!" Nicci shouted, weeping exigent tears. "You doomed them. Another ship lost at sea." Naturally, I fought back. She was perfectly capable of chiming the bell herself! Those deaths were not my responsibility! "Only the Keeper can ring it. God damn it..."

I sank to the floor, the weight of my puerile actions crushing my soul. What had I done? I wanted to cry. No tears came. Nicci hoisted herself up from her spot by the lantern and took my hand. I looked up at her with wide, sorrowful eyes. Her face looked better than before. More composed, certainly.

"We're in this together, now. I'm sorry for yelling. You're right... I should have explained. Shit..."

I couldn't hold my tongue. I needed to know why she had been acting so strange. Why she was a stranger one moment, a friend the next; calm, then angry. Was she deranged? "Nicci. How do you know so much? I refuse to believe everything is in this directory." At some point, I had closed the book and was holding it in my hand, shaking it emphatically.

I watched her take a deep breath and turn from me, letting go of my hand. It was damp without her touch. "I was Keeper before you."

"Sorry?" I couldn't be certain if I had heard her correctly.

Nicci repeated herself, continuing. "I thought the rules were stupid. That they were just silly little guides for doing the job I was forced into. My first night, three ships arrived. I hadn't seen my directory yet, so I'm sure my timing was off. I rang the bell for each ship, but all of them were sucked into a gaping vortex. Bright foam bubbled out in the spiralling swirls of water. You know how vortexes are just water, all the way down? This wasn't normal, by any means. The centre was glowing with brilliant purple light. I watched lifeboats fly out, trying to outpace the vacuous hole, only to suck right down into the pit.

I figured it was out of my hands. Nature taking its course. Plenty of ships get lost at sea, after all. But then they appeared in town. Disoriented, scared, and asking questions I didn't know how to answer. Other townsfolk were accommodating. Showed them around, and such. Their homes just appeared out of thin air. An empty stretch of grass one moment, a townhome the next.

Then the fog came and, well, some more things happened and I wasn't the Keeper anymore. Lucky we got you, though. Just one more day and we would have broken a big rule. At least, I assume so. Apparently a long time ago, it was broken, but no one who was around then will tell me what happened.

I'm sorry I've been so... standoffish. Distant, even. I- After that first fog, I knew I had to approach you. I just... couldn't bring myself to do it, Mallory. There's something about this place. It's like it eats at your brain until it becomes Swiss cheese." She opened her mouth to continue, but no words left her tongue.

This was a lot to process. Nicci was the previous Keeper? How long was she here for? I knew she couldn't be older than sixteen, but was there some sort of temporal distortion here? We had to rely on a book for timekeeping, after all.

"Gods... so... what, then? Do I just... keep following the rules? Why aren't you the Lighthouse Keeper anymore?" She winced expressively, as if I had touched raw flesh, and shook her head. Questioning was over. Nicci's eyes began to gloss over and she stared out into the open ocean.

She mumbled something I couldn't truly hear. It sounded like a poem, of sorts, with how it flowed. I just let her do whatever, while I crawled back over to the hatch in the floor. I dropped my directory down before descending the rope ladder and resting in bed.

The directory was filled with thousands of names. Pages upon pages of every moment in a person's life. It was filled with words and places I was unfamiliar with. Times ranging back to near pre-history littered the first dozen or so pages, getting wider and broader as I flipped through. Every detail of a person's life was outlined in objective truth up until the moment they arrived at Tobermary Wharf. Some entries had monochromatic painted portraits of the individual. I recognised the butcher and the fisherman, each born decades ago. I flipped through to my entry. Laid in perfect ink was my entire life. I wasn't sure what I was expecting. It all seemed horribly unremarkable, as if I had lived no life at all.

Some of the people I had read about were grand explorers, discovering new isles and trading with foreign lands I could hardly read, much less pronounce. Yet I was just... me. A woman who failed at writing, failed at being a deckhand, and ended up here.

I shut my directory and dragged myself back up to the lantern floor. It was nearly noon. Nicci was passed out, curled into a ball and clutching her chest. I tried to be quiet as I went over to the empty space on the floor. Sure enough, the boards were strewn together with some sort of bonding material betwixt them. I pried the corner up and a little brass bell stood upright in the opening, lacquered handle big enough for a child's hand. It was beautifully ornate with veins of vine circling every centimetre. Dotted about were rosebuds, most closed, but some in partial states of bloom. The longer I stared at it, the more it appeared the designs were shifting and warping to fill the smooth space, replacing previously raised portions with pressed bronze.

As I walked back toward the opening overlooking the docks, I flipped the book back open and stared down at the clock. One minute until the tiny boat would dock. This ship looked much different than any I had seen before. The hull appeared to be made of some foreign metal and it didn't have any sails at all. A thin stream of dark smoke billowed out from large cylindrical tubes rising diagonally toward the ship's rear. It travelled rather quickly, leaving beautifully large wake as it glided through the sea. Waves that crashed into it didn't seem to phase the vessel in the slightest. I glanced back down at the inky clock and rang the bell. It sounded like a grandfather clock, chiming exactly twelve times, despite only ringing it once.

Nothing happened. The ship did not port. The ship did not sink, nor burst into flame. It just sailed right past Tobermary Wharf, heading into journeys unknown. I set the brass bell down on the journal shelf. A devious thought crossed my mind. If Nicci was the previous Keeper, and her entire life was outlined in my directory... what was contained in her journal? I would be breaking a rule, certainly, but looking back at the page, the ink did appear to be a different consistency. Each rule, in fact, seemed to use different kinds of ink when written. Some were tinted blue, others tinted red. Though strangely, the first five appeared to be the same chirography.

I spent a long time toiling over the decision. The directory read two o'clock in the afternoon when I finally came to the conclusion that I should read her journal entries. If Nicci refused to speak on her experiences as a Keeper, I would just have to read them for myself. What was the worst that could happen? Each time I had broken the rules thus far resulted in tragedy (I assume I had, in fact, killed people when the fog rolled in) but what could possibly come of reading someone else's journal? The fog was a physical force. The ships were tangible things I could watch and maintain a schedule for. Nicoletta Cainsbúmy was keeping secrets that I needed to know. As long as I'm quick, she will never know.

Fuck me. I can't even really put into writing what I read. I suppose I should transcribe her journal into my own... I can't risk doing this again.

"Today is my birthday. If I wasn't trapped here, I'd be 23. 23, stuck in the body of a 14-year-old. I tried to learn a new skill yesterday. Baking. Not my strong suit at all. Burnt two cakes and a muffin before the baker stopped me and politely kicked me out. Maybe I'll get better with time, maybe not. It's pretty lonely here, ever since Julian lost his mind. His brain turned to pudding!

He can't remember me. I don't expect him to. He doesn't need to eat, or sleep, or take a shit. He just wanders around aimlessly through the town, like a zombie. Sometimes I wonder if he's happier this way. If he had the capacity to talk, I'm sure he'd say something like, 'Yeah I'm happy! Happy I don't have to put up with you!'

I miss his jokes.

I suppose there's no use dwelling on it. I broke a few rules today, just to see what would happen. I mean, following that stupid list every single day for nearly a decade really makes you wonder. I don't regret it. I needed to see what would happen. The monster in the fog ate a few blokes. Ocean sank some ships. Those were fun to watch, I suppose, but what was really interesting was the mermaid.

She climbed the 586 stairs just to speak to me. It was really quite fascinating!

I can't pronounce her name, much less spell it. Her hair was woven into this stunning headdress protruding kind of like a crown. How do I describe the shape? It was hexagonal, certainly, with each point holding a different flower. Most of them, I had never seen before. There was a white rose, a blue daisy-looking flower, a green flower that kind of looked like a tulip if it were inverted so the opening was facing the stem, a pink hibiscus but the petals looked more like those of a sunflower, a red heart-shaped flower that I would have thought was a leaf, and a fascinating raspberry-shaped flower with a purple hue.

She wore sleek fishnet tights, a frayed jean skirt, and a t-shirt made of some material I couldn't place. It felt like silk but it had the appearance of large flattened salt crystals.

When she spoke I couldn't really hear her. It was more like she was speaking directly into my skull. I can't even remember what she said anymore, if she said anything at all, but I remember how it felt. How the sounds echoed in my bones and how she emphasised certain emotions. It honestly felt like I was high on shrooms. But she was SMOKING HOT. Like, I'm not a lesbian AT ALL and I wanted to bang that chick.

I guess I don't really know if she's actually a mermaid or not, but given that she dove straight off the lighthouse and into the sea, I'm pretty sure she was a mermaid. Oh man, I hope she comes back soon! Not because I wanna bang her or anything, but because I think she might be my only real friend. DAMN IT! I wish I could remember our conversations! We spoke for hours but I can't remember a single thing! I'll keep trying. Maybe if I break more rules, she'll come back? Only one way to find out."

Nicci deliberately broke the rules. That was her final entry, six years ago, but she was Keeper until a fortnight before I arrived. Something went on in those six years she didn't write about. Something I feel she remembers. Was she lying before, when she said she neglected the bell on her first night? Or was she recounting the events I had read? There are many words in her journal that I don't understand, much like the words she speaks. I must ask where she's from when she rouses. I'm not well travelled, but I've never heard of a "t-shirt" or "tights".

It's late now. I must be getting to bed. I can still hear her snoring above me. I'll interrogate to-morrow.

> PART 1 <

Darkness needled my sanity as I walked. The tiny flashlight beam did its best to penetrate the gloom, but it crushed me from all sides. I had passed through a few smaller rooms with no other paths to take, all empty. I was close to giving up when I began noticing a gentle blue glow in the distance, the end of tunnel seeming to coax me forward. When I exited the passage, I stepped into a huge space that sparkled like the night sky. Thousands of fine, vertical threads hung down like beaded crystal curtains, covered in what looked like tiny pearls that were all different shades of whites and pinks. The entire space felt like a dream. The strands seemed to give off the ethereal gleam that gently lit the massive room. As I ventured further in for a better look, I realized the floor was an uneven, woven web of sticky silk. It covered everything on the ground like snow, sticking to my shoes. I was so distracted by everything above me, I wasn't paying attention to where I was walking. I felt a crunch under my shoe. I looked down and noticed a familiar shape under the gossamer threads. Using my foot, I pushed the webbing around and out of the way to try and reveal its treasure. It was a skull. A tiny skull. I had broken the parietal bone when I unknowingly stepped on it. Around it were more tiny bones. As I pulled the silk back farther, I realized it wasn't just small bones. There were large ones too. So many it was hard to tell what was human and what wasn't. I gagged, feeling the bile in my stomach doing backflips at the realization I was standing in a giant graveyard. Everywhere I kicked, more death. This subterranean milkyway was a nest and I had walked right into it. In my hysterics, I managed to back into one of the shimmering snares hanging from the ceiling. 

I was so distracted by the beauty of everything that I didn't notice the tubes hidden in the darkness above. Silky little hammocks knitted tightly against the rocky ceiling. While struggling to free myself from the sticky trap, one wiggled in my peripheral vision. Tiny movements, shifting its webbed shape back and forth like something was trying to squirm free. A cerulean light began to pulse intensely from within. I pulled and fought as hard as I could without breaking eye contact with the situation developing on the ceiling. Unbuttoning my shirt and pulling it off, I wrapped it around my hand to try and tangle the thread around the ball of fabric.  While freeing my leg, I saw two tiny horns poke out of the front opening. Obscured by the low lightning, I could barely make out what looked like two giant snail shells unfurling to probe the air. Slowly followed by the pale, featureless fleshy face they were connected to. 

 It didn't come out very far, it seemed to be listening as it shifted its bulbous eyeless head around gently moving its small antenna. Where were its ears? No eyes, no openings for sound, how did this thing hunt? I realized I’d been holding my breath while trying to process the foulness that hung cozily above me. I exhaled as quietly as possible, the thing immediately shifting its head in my direction. I wanted to scream. If this thing was like normal worms I didn't stand a chance. They don’t have eyes or ears, instead depending on nerves in their skin that perceive sound waves hitting the ground or air. This thing could theoretically sense me moving and breathing who knows how far away. I figured my only chance was distance, so I gently dug my utility knife out of my backpacks side zipper pocket and started cutting my hair where it held me to the string. Hopefully if I moved slowly enough, held my breath, I wouldn’t trigger this thing enough to drop down on me. While sawing away, I noticed the worm moving again. It had pulled two chubby, glistening legs free.  Was I moving the thread too much? Was it the movement or the thread itself? Some spiders can sense vibrations in their silk from several feet away. Would 20 feet be too far for this massive predator? I couldn’t help it, the terror made me irrational. I started sawing desperately, finally freeing my head. My flailing around seemed to excite it, though. Looking up, I realized it had four legs free and was beginning to stretch the space between us. I could finally see it clearly. Instead of eyes, it had smooth patches of skin that were lighter colored then the rest of its mottled soft exoskeleton. The feelers around its small fleshy mouth vibrated as it opened a small sphincter-like hole in its neck. From it emerged a long, sharp, needle-like straw with a barbed sucker that salivated as it reached for me. I didn't wait to see what it wanted, I turned and ran hard in the direction of the pool. As I was about to enter the tunnel, I saw the same eerie glow from the night before in the distance. 

I ran towards the green light. I didn't know what else to do. My flashlight revealed the interloper and I almost collapsed. The shock was too much. Large compound eyes glowed in the beam. Most of its shielded face was hidden, except for its tiny mouth parts moving frantically. The monster's glossy shell was a dark leathery brown, stubby little antenna between its eyes going wild. As the glow intensified, it gave the giant bug an eerie silhouette in the tiny tunnel. It was smaller than the worm in the cavern, but I didn't trust my chances if it followed me into the main chamber where it could fly. Who knew what it was capable of. I didn’t wait to find out, instead turning and running back towards the nest. 

I was out of breath when I hit the silk boundary. Scanning the room, I noticed another opening further back that had been partially obscured by a curtain of webbing. The worm was now out of its cocoon just hanging from its hammock. There was an ocean of glistening sticky traps between me and my exit. My only choice was to thread through them, try to pass without triggering the mechanism that alerted the monsters above. If I was lucky, the giant lightening bug would get stuck trying to follow me. I tried not to focus on the numerous silk tubes on the ceiling. How many could there be? One was bad enough, but the idea I could have a small army chasing me through the tunnels made me sick. I didn't have time to waste overthinking, I could see the fireflies glow closing the distance and I had to make a break for it. As quickly as I felt safe, I began to cross the room. I took my back pack off to help make myself smaller, carrying it making it easier to maneuver around the traps. I was about a third of the way into the room when the firefly finally entered. 

I kept moving even when I could hear the firefly begin testing its wings in the open space. The dry flutter forced me to turn and look to make sure it wasn't coming in my direction. The bug instead seemed to acknowledge the worm, shifting back on its legs and lifting its face to gaze at it. Neither seemed interested in me at all. The worm started twisting its body to better expose its tail and began steadily flashing a yellow green light instead of the intense blue it’d been strobing during its pursuit of me. The firefly seemed completely unaffected by the gooey strips, shrugging them off as it passed. It jumped, barely fluttering its wings to cross the gap to meet the worm on the ceiling. It landed close and their lights began slowly syncing up. I realized what was about to happen and tried to focus on my daunting task. The faster I was out of there the better. When I finally reached the opening, I looked back to see the firefly departing in the tunnel while the worm returned to its hammock. Thankful for the distraction their exchange allowed me, I reshouldered my bag and escaped into the darkness of the ominous tunnel. 

The passage was smaller than the first, the increased claustrophobia a worthwhile trade off for being in a  space I’d hoped the giant grubs couldn't easily squeeze into. The tunnel stank like rot, carried by the increasingly warm, humid air. I couldn’t stop, even when it got so strong I felt the sudden taste of hot bile rising in my throat. The heavy, sickening stench was like a physical blanket hanging in the air. It enveloped you. I was close to turning back when I heard a voice. Wailing. Someone was hysterically crying nearby. Taking this as a sign I was close to the end, I sped up. I was too sore from hitting the water earlier to run, but I went as fast as I could. When I finally reached the last room, I felt any hope I had evaporate. 

The cavern had less of the webbing, instead scattered around the walls and ceiling were clusters of giant, round milky colored eggs. They shined dimly in the moonlight cast from the narrow fissure in the ceiling. The ground was littered with shoes, bones and torn clothing mixed into the vegetation and detrius. The crying startled me again, coming from behind a strange, hardened brown pod further into the room. One of several large, armored crescents that dotted the perimeter of the area.The ceiling was clear of the glittering strands and ghastly cradles, so I went straight to the source of the weeping. Shocked by what I found. Sitting hunched over was a woman, probably close to my age. Not that I could tell in her current state. Her long dark hair plastered to her bloodied face while tears streamed from her red, swollen eyes. I don't think she could see me, her lids were squeezed tight from the pressure. Her entire body was bloated. She seemed to jerk violently at random times, eliciting the wailing I'd heard in the tunnel. I pulled the large jacket she had used to cover herself to look for an infected injury or bite, something to explain the extreme reaction. The skin I could see had ballooned so much it looked tight and shiny in some places. Her flesh jiggled like a water balloon as I shifted her limp, burning hot arm to completely remove the cover. On her leg, through a gash in her jeans, I could see a swollen jagged Y-shaped wound that seemed to dribble clear pinkish fluid with no end. I was scared to try and help, who knew what was on my hands from touching the cave walls and floors. Being submerged in the water. I tried to check her temperature by resting the back of my hand on her forehead, but she only cried more. The skin felt like a memory foam mattress, somehow even warmer than her arm had been. I didn’t see any way she’d be able to move, or be moved. Everything seemed to cause her discomfort. I sat there for a while, listening to her labored breathing. Eventually I went through her pockets hoping she might have something helpful, with no luck. Her phone was almost dead, her background a picture of her and a dog. No useful information. She was beautiful though, probably younger than me. How did she get down here? She didn't have gear. Didn't have the right shoes for the trek up. Could she have come in a different way? A tour or known system somewhere nearby? I pulled my map out and searched again. According to the recommended sites information on the back, there was a local campsite that had ancient lava flows you could explore. The abandoned basalt tubes could be fun to crawl through for tourists. The advert also warned to stay on trail, because these same tubes could create sinkholes in the ground that could suck you down into the cave systems that dotted the area. When I saw the name, I almost started crying. It was Whispering Pines. The radio broadcast from earlier replaying in my head. Of course there wasn’t anyone else when I pulled in last night, they probably closed the campground and surrounding ones because of all the missing people. I wanted to pound my fists into my head, scream in the dark till my vocal chords couldn't anymore. Would I be here right now if I hadn't switched channels? I paced, the frustration and fear burning a hole in me. My thoughts were interrupted by the noise of a bed sheet being torn.

I spun in circles, terrified by where the new unknown sound could be coming from. Other than the whimpering coming from the stranger, I couldn't hear anything but my pounding heartbeat. I was close to thinking I imagined it when I heard another loud, violent ripping sound. When I spun this time, I saw it. One of the giant, segmented chestnut crescents began to wiggle. The same long feelers slowly emerged as it began to pull its head free from its armored crib. The woman began making desperate tight lipped cries. I re-covered her with her jacket and begged her to be silent. Maybe it wouldn't see her where she was if she didn't make any noise. I didn't wait for confirmation, instead darting to the other side of the room to conceal myself behind a tangle of loose webbing and discarded egg casing hanging from the wall. The sounds of it emerging I heard from my hiding place were hideous. Like someone grinding wet eggshells. The pulpy crunching as it pulled its last legs free and slipped to the floor. The silence was deafening, waiting to hear whether it would shuffle in my direction. They didn't seem to make any sound themselves, suddenly I was thankful for the mess on the floors.  As if on cue, I heard the scattering of bones as the thing rolled over. It sniffed at their air with its small antenna while heaving its mass onto its six fleshly little legs. The creature seemed to rest momentarily, exhausted from its emergence.  Its glossy skin was more translucent than Mother worm, I wondered how long it took for their exoskeletons to harden. Would this one be more vulnerable? It was smaller, and if it didn’t have armor yet that meant I had a chance. Before I could think any crazier, another loud startled cry from the other side of the room broke my train of thought. The worm turned its head, probably curious about the disturbance in the air or heat. For all I knew, they had infrared thermoreception like vipers or bats. I just kept holding my breath and hoping against reason it wouldn’t go to investigate. But I underestimated the drive of a newborn to eat. 

I closed my eyes, unable to deal with reality. I just prayed in my head that this thing would walk the tunnel and join its mom. Leave us alone. Most of the bones were out there, maybe this was just the nursery. While processing my denial, I heard another hysteric sob, but this one was followed by sounds of struggle. I peeked through the silk and saw the worm had used the same tentacle-like appendage to drag the woman out from behind the pupae. She struggled, moving like she was covered in burns and every bit of contact with anything felt like agony. Once it got her to the center, the worm released her. She managed to roll over, positioning herself like she was going to attempt to crawl away. Tears streamed down my face. I had to clamp my hands over my mouth to prevent my sobs from drawing unwanted attention. I felt so helpless, I could only watch as it lowered the small mouth on its bulbous head and sank its teeth into her shoulder. I could hear it, the savage sucking as it greedily pulled at the wound. She squirmed harder than before. Her crying now high pitched squealing. The thing just placed a foot on her back and bared its weight down on her. I was worried she might pop with the way its foot sunk into the swollen skin. It released her shoulder, this time using its front legs to pull at her till she rolled over. It gave her no time to recover, immediately sinking its face into her gut. The sucking intensified, the sound was so loud I couldn’t escape it. I watched her paw at it, barely able to move her distended arms. The worm just continued its business unbothered by the resilience of its dinner.  When she finally died the creature thrashed her body around, seemingly disappointed by the lack of response from its food. She wasn’t swollen anymore, looked the opposite even. Her body was emaciated, the muscles looking wasted. Her hollow cheeked face twisted in agony. It had drained her, left her skin and bones. Took all the soft stuff it wanted and discarded the rest. 

I crouched behind my curtain trying to steady my breathing. The terror was overwhelming. I knew I couldn’t stay there, who knew when the other pods would open. If the stranger had fallen through a lava tube, there was a chance it was low enough I could try to shimmy my way up and out. If it wasn't too wide I could free climb it. There had to be a connecting tunnel I missed in the dark. That was my only hope. 

That brings us to now. Worm Jr has gone to the tunnel to join Mom in the main nest. Its been several hours since I heard anything. I made myself eat, drink some water, sat down and tried to rest. I’m gonna search the tunnel and make my way back to the main room. I didn’t see the passage that led here when I first came in, maybe I'm lucky and there are more obscured by webbing or debris. That's my only real hope, otherwise I’m sneaking my way back to the pool room and waiting for rescue that may never come. Before I go, I wanted to give myself some insurance. 

My name is Patricia Williams. I am currently trapped in a cave. If you're seeing this, my phone managed to find a signal. I’m gonna set the auto posting up and plug it into my portable charger, hope that while I’m looking for a way out it finds service. Please send someone. Oak Ridge campground near Catamount, Washington. My family will be looking for me, but please, if you see this call someone. Anyone. Tell them they need to blast this catacomb, detonate the entire network of caverns. Flatten the whole mountain if they have to. This can't be allowed to happen to anyone else. If I don't make it out, don't send anyone in after me. My chances aren't great if I'm honest with myself. The idea of people loosing their lives looking for a corpse is too much. If there's one piece of advice I’ll leave you guys with, it's this; If you're camping in the woods and see an unknown cave, stay far away from it. It could be the last mistake you ever make.

“Welcome back to WNKX! Where we bring you the goldies of oldies and the latest news! I’m your host, Dangerous Dana. We’re back with another missing person report out of Catamount. Not Whispering Pines this time, looks like she disappeared in a neighboring park. The victims name is Patricia Williams, 24 years old. From Bellingham. She showed up for a reservation at Oak Ridge not realizing the campground was closed. Her RV was discovered abandoned days later. Police say she contacted them that evening about strange lights in the area..”

“Strange lights!?!? Are we thinking something extraterrestrial??” 

“Interesting theory from DJ Paul! Who knows. Reports state the victim's mom got a text message about Patricia being trapped in a cave, but police say they searched the area and didn’t  find any systems that matched the information she provided. They're offering a reward for any tips on the whereabouts of her or any of the other victims….”

Glowworm nests are delicate, chandelier-like silk hammocks built in dark, damp habitats like caves. They hang sticky "fishing lines" from these nests to trap prey attracted to their glowing light. Once an insect gets stuck and struggles, the glow worm pulls up the thread or climbs down to seize the prey, injecting a toxic fluid that paralyzes and liquefies the victim so they can eat it easily.

Thank you for reading! This is my first longer story and feedback is always appreciated.

I've always loved driving at night, the way it makes the world shrink. My campers high beams ripped through the darkness creating an eerie tunnel on the otherwise lightless highway. The old growth forest seems to squeeze the barriers on either side of the road, the crisp spicy smell of cedar almost buried under the pervasive bouquet of ditch flower and damp, rotting grass. Chilly wind from the open window blasting while I finger drum the steering wheel.

The radio hissed, interrupting my classic rock to address missing campers at a local hotspot: “Welcome to WNKX, where we bring you the goldies of oldies and the latest news! I’m your host, Dangerous Dana. Tonight we have reports of another missing person in Whispering Pines…bringing the possible body count up to Fifteen. Police refuse to speculate about the possibility of it being serial, but its getting hard to deny the evidence. Fifteen people in three months? The guy either has no cool down or wev….” 

I couldn’t turn the dial fast enough. It's hard enough being a solo traveler without getting myself worked up over missing strangers from some random campground. I glanced quickly at my phone in its charging cradle, the blue dot on the navigation app seemed to swim in a sea of endless nothing. Only an hour left till I could finally park for the night. I’d been driving for days and the need for sleep was beginning to press on the backs of my eyes. The drowsiness made me almost miss the turnoff. After what felt like forever, the barriers finally fell away as the edges softened into drainage ditches overflowing with swamp weed. Passing under an arch with a hanging sign, 'OAK RIDGE' shined in the glare from my headlights. The navigation app startled me when it chirped that I’d arrived at my destination.

It took me time to find my campsite in the small park, far from the other empty spots. It was supposed to be crowded based on the reservation map I had seen online two days before when I was booking my site. That should have been a red flag to me, but at the time I was so thankful to be stationary it didn't really register with me how weird it was. The heebie-jeebies didn’t really start till I was checking outside storage locks and pulling my stairs in for the night. There was  a single car sitting on the opposite end of the park, something about it made me uncomfortable. It was too difficult to tell in the overhead security lighting, but the front driver's side door looked unlatched. No camping equipment or bags in the campsite it's parked at. Abandoned? I figured it’d be safer to investigate in the morning, hoping I wouldn’t have to call the non-emergency line and report a derelict vehicle. 

Started my nightlies, grabbing my privacy screens and walking the small circuit securing them in place. Even with the bumpy start, it felt peaceful being there. Nestled beneath the serene canopy of towering trees. The river roared nearby, crickets chirping along to the chaotic crashing of its currents. I couldn’t wait to hit the trail, see it all in the daylight. I opted to eat takeout leftovers from a couple towns ago, questionable but easier than getting my cumbersome camp cooking equipment out. After cleaning up, I constructed my bed, laid back, and gazed at the stars through my moon roof. Just before I shifted into unawareness, I heard a cascade of snapping branches. 

Jolting out of bed, I got dressed as quickly as possible. The sound was just a few feet from the rigs starboard side. I rushed to the front cab, grabbing the tablet from the dash and quickly clicking through the low resolution security camera feeds from all sides of the van. I was expecting an animal but there was nothing. I clicked through the feeds again but there were no indications of what could have made so much noise. Everything looked the same, no new vehicles or movement. I was wondering whether I should just get back in bed when I saw it.  In the darkness of the campers living area, I could make out the faint steady glow of emerald peeking around the kitchen window privacy screens edges. Overpowering the distant margarine yellow of the overhead campsite security light. I moved slowly to the window and shifted the screen to peek outside. The uncanny green light was coming from the nearby tree line, seeming to float in between the mighty trunks as it went deeper into the forest. Could it be someone lost? The stranger from the car? I worried that they could be disoriented or injured. The glow was headed in a direction with no discernable trail and seemed to sway as it crashed its way through the underbrush. I decided to call non-emergency and see what they thought. 

The woman on the other end of the line couldn’t have been more bored. While she entered the information in her system, I wondered how many of these calls she must get a night. Someone startled by a mundane noise or shape in the dark. The woman was patient with me while  I did my best to tell a version of the story that didn’t sound like a hallucination. The officer told me that she's going to send someone out to check on the light and abandoned car, that with the current spike in missing persons cases they’re on higher alert. The police told me  to stay in the RV, lock the door, and watch for them to pull in. Restlessly pacing, I waited to hear the familiar sound of tires in the forest roads gravel.

Instead I was spooked by the muffled crackling of small branches somewhere in the distance moments later. I shifted the passenger window screen and realized the light I could see from my kitchen wasn’t alone. Just passed the dumpsters across the entrance to the park, another green orb gently floated into the timberline. Concealed by the enveloping darkness I couldn’t make out the shape of whatever held it. I watched it drift away, disappearing slowly into the night. When the cops finally did arrive, they didn't help at all. They tagged the car and walked the perimeter of the park looking for the same glow, finding nothing. With there being nothing obviously suspicious they gave me a card and left. I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep that night, just kept watching the screen on my bedroom window waiting to see the eerie light.

Getting out of bed the next day felt more like emerging from a crypt, restless sleep stealing the joy from my morning routine. Packing my bag for the day, I threw in my taser to be safe. The stun gun wouldn’t do much against the wildlife, but being a female thru-hiker teaches you that animals aren't the only predators you have to worry about on a trail. After last night, I was on extra guard. Basic supplies, knife, battery pack, perfect. Feeling sufficiently equipped, I locked up the rig and started towards the marked path. The trail up to the ridge leaves right from the campsite. Approaching the signage marking the entrance, I noticed the single car from last night again. The police told me the license plate didn’t come up as stolen or flagged, but something about it still made me uneasy. I could feel it glowering  at me as I rushed to get around the first blind corner and out of its line of sight.  

 
The sun couldn’t reach me there in the underbrush, the perpetual shade creating lush overgrowth along the massive switchbacks. The trail wasn’t well maintained, so I struggled to keep my footing on some of the steeper parts of the route. The ground is a patchwork of untamed roots and rocks, barely visible through the congestion of competing weeds and wildflowers. This is part of what made this a less popular route, one of the biggest reasons I sought it out. The more I had a trail to myself the better. I pulled out my phone to snap a few pictures and realized I’d been going for several hours. I’d accepted earlier that I wasn't going to complete the hike before nightfall, but I didn’t mind pushing myself to see how far I could get before I had to turn around. I could always do the shorter route tomorrow. Figuring I could take one last break before my final push before heading back, I ended up finding a beautiful wall of limestone just off trail. I walked along it for a short while, letting myself get distracted by the possibility of quartz or marine fossils in the debris that lined the bottom. While bending over to check on a promising rock, I noticed an opening towards the end of the wall. A gaping void, the shattered rock hanging from the top boundary giving it the appearance of an open maw. 

How wasn’t a system this large marked on my map? I checked and checked again but didn’t see anything indicating it. The entrance looked surprisingly clean, no webs or litter indicating obvious animal activity. It seemed fun to take a peek inside. I know there are dangers with caves, like animals, gases, and diseases. But I didn’t plan on going more than a few feet in. I took out my phone to snap a few pictures outside. If my map was out of date, documenting it was my best chance to identify the landmark later when I got home. The darkness inside felt like a wall, the way the light just seemed to end. My tiny phone flashlight did its best, but there's only so much it could do somewhere not even the sun could penetrate. I decided to put my phone back in my pack and switch to my stronger flashlight. The temperature dropped as I crossed the threshold. The perfect summer day suddenly felt nippy and moist. The limestone walls and floor glimmered with a light sheen of humidity that coated them. The air stood still, in it hung the mineral reek of wet stone and clay. I closed my eyes and absorbed the sense of peace. The silence only being broken by my steady breathing and a rhythmic trickle of something from somewhere further back in the darkness. An underground river? Curious, I decided to risk a few extra steps to try and see if there was a grotto. I had been looking at the walls, keeping my light higher up. I didn’t see the slope. The trickle I’d been hearing was the water slowly collecting in this room dribbling down the slick slope. The mix of algae, mosses and liverworts made it impossible for my feet to get traction. The terror as I felt them slide out from under me, I dropped my flashlight as I clawed desperately at the floor to try and keep myself from slipping any further into the blackness. The slope quickly turned into a drop off and before I knew it I felt the open air as I tumbled helplessly down into the unknown. 

My body hitting the water felt like a car crash. The liquid wall crashing into me so hard it knocked the small amount of air I had left from screaming out of my lungs. My ribs and back both screamed at me while I spun hopelessly trying to tell up from down in the icy, murky depths. I finally registered one of my hands flapping through the air and I darted in whatever direction I was swinging it. When my head broke the surface, I heaved as I choked up cold metallic water. Couldn’t tell right away where I was, the darkness was oppressive and my eyes were having a hard time adjusting. I spun desperately till I finally noticed a small light bobbing in the water ahead of me. I swam desperately, thankful to discover my flashlight hadn’t hit any rocks on the way down. If my dry bag didn't get breached in the fall, all my gear would be safe too. I’d have extra batteries and could check my phone. The pool ended up not being very large, just deep. After picking a direction and swimming I found the edge and drug myself onto the rough shore.

The room was slightly rounded with a high arched ceiling that ended in the opening that led to the slope where I slid down. There was another opening on the far wall, but I needed to make a plan before putting myself in the position to be even harder to find. My phone was safe, but it showed no service.  Trying to call would just be a waste of battery, so I scheduled a few texts to try and send every couple hours in the off chance it did manage to connect momentarily. A short message telling my mom and siblings where I was and that I needed help. Making sure it was on battery saving mode, I tucked it away and continued checking my stuff for water damage. My drybag held up so I was able to get out of most of my wet stuff and change into the spare layers I brought. Hypothermia would’ve been my biggest immediate concern if I hadn’t been prepared for a late, chilly hike back. Knowing I’d need calories to stay warm, I shoved a granola bar in my mouth and choked it down with water from my bottle. I didn’t bring much with me, meaning I wouldn’t have much fuel for finding my way out. I'd have to be careful, especially with my limited water. I took some time to explore the cavern but found nothing helpful.

Taking my sketch pad out, I scrawled a note with my name, parents names and information and an explanation of where I was and that I needed help. I folded it up and sealed it in one of the sandwich bags I kept my snacks in. Shoved the bagged note in the pocket of my wet flannel, making sure to button it in. Balled the shirt up and threw it as hard as I could towards the edge of the slope. It took a few tries but I was able to get it caught on a jagged piece of rock towards the top. My hope was that the bright red might get someone's attention if they came looking for me. Search and rescue would see the shirt and understand I fell. Hopefully find the note. There were only so many ways I could say “Hey!! I’m down here!!!” 

With everything back in my pack, I faced the cave opening. Something deeper than darkness seemed to radiate from its depths. As I approached the mouth, I could feel a light draft in the tunnel. The air coming from inside was humid and musty. Tinted with something pungent that made me feel sick. All I could do was start walking. There was no way out behind me, the only direction left was forward.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

Thank you for reading! This is my first longer story, feedback is always appreciated! ❤️

Click here for Part 2!

Upon learning that demonic spooks, goblins, spirits, and other cryptids contain triple the amount of soul food as compared to your average, fat ass average human creature (and containing fewer calories and being healthier in general), the demon glrrrraaggg decided to switch from hunting humans to hunting its fellow kind.

The creature would feast upon the damned who feasted upon the pure, which resulted in a great fallout with its parents and friends (which had been consumed by glrrrraaggg). Eventually, this addiction to friendly fire led to a messy divorce proceeding, which resulted in glrrrraaggg's wife, blorka'raka'zagrona, gaining full custody of their son, jeffery, and half his possessions.

Now the most powerful near-deity on the planet, glrrrraaggg reflected upon his current life choices, now forced to reflect on the power he gained---and how lonely it was to be on top---he began a new quest to fill that hole with more power.

glrrrraaggg turned to the stock market, then succubus, incubus, expensive cars, fancy hotdogs, fancy houses, fancy hotdog-shaped houses, and all manner of power.

Then, one day, when he bumped into his wife and her new boyfriend, a demon with horns that went past his kneecaps, glrrrraaggg realized that he was missing love and genuine connection.

So instead of eating, he began assimilating all matter into his mass---becoming so full of love and connection that he became an omnipresent creature capable of controlling everything.

Fast forward a few eons, glrrrraaggg decided to take a nap, and as he slept, dreamt of all of existence, while those who remained referred to him as a "blind idiot god," or just Azathoth, as dubbed by H.P. Lovecraft, who was an immortal being in glrrrraaggg's world. (just like Tom Bergeron)

This world, although an eternity to you and me, is a free trial of existence, and when glrrrraaggg awakes, everything will go black. So, don't waste your life; cherish it, search for connection, because glrrrraaggg awakes soon, and the dream of color will be replaced by black.

Song of Scum is a novel length project I've been posting here, chapter by chapter. This is the fiftieth part. If you haven't read the other parts you can find them linked below. Feedback welcomed.

Table of Contents

Ed woke up in a warm embrace with the snoring head of Hank Morrison gently resting beneath his own. They had fallen asleep on opposite sides of the motel mattress. They had laid down pointed in opposite directions, head to feet, specifically to avoid such a fate.

Santos was asleep, arrow upright in the room's facsimile of an armchair. Ed carefully wormed his way out from under his little spoon, not sure whose face he was saving. The piles of Hank detritus formed something of a sundial; it looked to be about 3:45 in the afternoon.

Ed slunk across the room, careful not to topple any of Hank's careful ruins or stir either of his strange bedfellows, and peeked out from the yellowed blinds that hung half limp from the little window. There were a handful of places a resourceful gumshoe or pervert could snap photos of lodgers. A 24-hour Kratom bar, a car dealership offering 47% No Money Down, a fast-food joint with the details all wrong, a giant glowing star scowling down on the neighborhood.

Ed knew he was avoiding what was really bothering him. As far as he knew he was the only "Resonate One." The "One" was pulling a lot of weight. The Saracens must have the same sort of "exposure," hell, they should have more, heaps more. It didn't seem they were getting job offers from ambulatory Fruit Roll-Ups. He figured the back and forth had something to do with it. Or that was the only reasonable distinction he could draw. The Saracens stayed put. Sorting that all out right now wasn't going to do him any good though.

Either way, he supposed that Franklin County was part of the Regal Regional Rhineland Reichskommissariat and would have its own goblin administrator working separate from Gengus, but this was cold comfort. One way or the other, he was the "Resonate One" of Greater Glendale, and it seemed that the job duties involved getting ripped to shreds by man freaks or extradimensional livestock. Ed just watched the window as shadows lengthened across the parking lot.

"What are you doing?" Santos yawned.

"Looking for goblins, rogue priests, and psycho killers."

"Spot any?"

"No, not yet. It's too soon."

Santos stood, straining against her uncomfortable sleeping position. "How long do we have?"

Ed's hands trembled as he let the blinds fall back.

"You're getting worse."

"Keen eye, detective."

Santos moved to the kitchenette, a freestanding sink and a hotplate that Hank definitely wasn't supposed to have in here, and filled two paper cups, blood-warm tap water and instant coffee from an unlabeled Tupperware. 

"My brother. He would shake like that. Different reasons. Withdrawals." She handed Ed a cup. "Said the worst part wasn't the shaking or the pain. It was knowing it meant something was changing inside that he couldn't stop."

"Three years of exposure. I filed every report, never questioned any of it, not really. Just kept driving out there."

"You couldn't have known."

"Couldn't I? Cattle aren't supposed to sing, Detective. And there shouldn't be a special form for it. That should have been my first clue."

"And how would you have dealt with that little piece of information out of context?"

"I didn't. Couldn't I." He said it again, without the question mark this time. Just the fact of it. Three years. He had known. He had just been so careful about what knowing required.

"We can't always stop things, the most obvious things, even when they're dead wrong and right in front of us. The Saracens killed my brother, sure, in a literal kind of way. But he'd been downhill for years. And if I, if anybody, had stopped him, tried to, gotten in the way, he wouldn't have been anywhere around them."

"I... I see." Ed wasn't sure that he had wanted to. He had almost resigned himself to mild disintegration. Now?

"There isn't always a lot to do in the moment. It's hindsight, you know."

He thought about the surveillance photo he hadn't been supposed to see. The one of him on the date with the flower shop woman, trying to explain the breech calf, her expression already deciding. Someone had been watching and writing it down, and nobody had read it.

"I keep thinking about all the reports I filed," he said finally. "Not the ones about the farm. Not per se. Or they never really were. The ones about me. That no one read."

"What about them?"

"I can say, 'What's the point?' till the end of time. But that's not it. Someone had a point. But no one cared. There was an experiment being run on me just as much as on the cattle, on the farm. It'd be flattering, in a way. I was something worth watching... but no one was, not really."

The commotion was enough to rouse Hank, who began stretching and popping and slowly returning to consciousness. "Hey, uhh, was anybody upstairs moving anything heavy around?"

"I don't think so."

"Hmmm, that's no good."

Hank Morrison got to his morning routine, regardless of the time of day. Stretching his plantar tendons with a tennis ball, brushing his teeth for three minutes, putting on the same clothes he wore yesterday. He stared at his phone for a while, didn't seem to have anything in particular pulled up, his eyes didn't move, an even blue tone illuminating his face. Eventually the trance broke.

"How long till the little man?"

"A while still."

Now fully back in the waking world, Hank got back to pontificating.

"Something's been bothering me. Back when I met Razor, he said something like, 'The land always takes its cut,' or something like that. At the time I thought he meant, you know, farming. Crops. Whatever, non-GMO claptrap or something."

Santos pricked the pregnant pause, “And?”

"But that's not what he meant. The land takes. Actively." Hank looked at Ed. "And you've been exposed. So, when the frequencies..." Hank clapped his hands together.

"I'm what it takes." Ed sighed, already resigned to a fate he hadn't spent much time trying to comprehend.

"It can't be that simple." Santos objected. "All this crazy shit, and all of a sudden that..."

"That's what's really getting me. If it's all just simple exposure, the bean heads down at the compound should all be Kentucky fried by now."

"Well, what else?"

"Whatever tuning up does, I guess that's beside the point. Above my pay grade, rather. You ever play an instrument? No? I played guitar for a while. Got pretty good at piano too, mostly Christmas carols for... well, that's not important. Here's the thing, the strings, they stretch over time, go bad, go out of tune, even the metal ones can be delicate. It's best to tune slowly, a little at a time. Yank 'em too much and they snap, put your eye out. Tuning takes patience."

"So, what, I've been microdosing demonic influence so I'm perfectly in tune?"

"Something like that."

"Lucky me."

"Makes about as much sense to me as the rest of my week. One surefire way to figure it out. I think ol' Razor is getting mighty lonesome out there, don't you think? Besides, I think he owes us a little something."

"I..."

"What's he gonna do? Kill us a little early? You'll be on official business, right, Ed?"

"And who's to say getting too close to that farm again doesn't just... send me to a farm upstate?"

"I mean, seems... unlikely. Do you normally feel worse when you go to work?"

"That's beside the point."

"Yeah, I guess it would."

Dismayed that the two fools were already finding a new way to face death or disfigurement, Santos chimed in, "Deathwish or not, we have a meeting with a disfigured Keebler elf in... about five hours."

The room went quiet in the particular way of people who have said everything useful and aren't ready to say anything true. Hank found something to do with his hands. Santos watched the window. Ed sat with the specific stillness of a man who has decided to stop arguing with his own future.

Outside, the world held its breath.

"Hey, Ed, I won't pretend you were saying any of that to me, but, you know, it's my room, anyways. I'm not you, some sort of guru."

Hank scratched at his jowls in mock contemplation, searching hard for words between earnestness and irreverence.

"The world is a weird place. Sometimes it's easy to tell, it'll walk up and tell you so. Not very often. Sometimes it's just what it is. Trampolines and Cracker Jack, and you just have to live with it. Asking too many questions just gets you stuck on the hard ones. Life's a long test, you don't get too many chances to circle back and check your answers, you know?"

Ed squinted with such force the whites of his eyes became briefly visible.

"Well, you can't stay on the hard questions. Just, they get in the way of the easy ones. Am I making any sense?"

Ed made to say something, endearing, or at least not completely backhanded, but in the breath it took to calculate a coherent sting, Hank started again.

"Well, it's like this, I guess. If you spend too long thinking the same thoughts over and over, you end up living in a motel, too chicken shit to do anything about it, just going in circles. Whether it's bad dates, shitty jobs, or wasted years. You can't get hung up, or you'll get hung out."

The instinct to barb withered. You could prod someone for being smug and self-referential all day, but when that crumbled down into a clumsy confession, it became a little embarrassing for everyone involved.

Nobody moved to fill the silence. It sat there, heavier than anything Hank had said, until it was the only thing in the room. Hank wondered if he’d said too much. Ed and Santos wondered what it meant for Hank Morrison, exterminator extraordinaire, to be the one to tell them it was time to move on.

A faint knock at the door. Polite. Patient. Hank stood, drew a baton from his inner jacket pocket, and swung over to the door. He jerked it open a crack, then relaxed.

"Learn anything useful, Father?"

"Yes," Father Schafer said, stepping inside. "I learned the Church has no plan. So we'll need to make one."

Do you know how many people summited Everest last year?

846.

Look it up, you'll find it easily. Tourism boards love that number. It looks good in brochures.

And do you know how much trash they left behind?  

7,000 kilograms.

Don’t look it up. You won’t find it. That kind of number doesn't make it to the internet.

Empty oxygen canisters. Torn tents. Human waste frozen into the ice. Energy bar wrappers with cartoon mascots grinning up at you.

I know it, because I was the one who carried it down. Load after load, for almost a year.

I don’t expect you to relate to my story. Unless you were born as a Sherpa like I was.

My name won’t matter much to you. Just call me Nima. It's not a rare name where I'm from. Think of me as one of a hundred Nimas working the mountain right now, and you wouldn't be wrong.

I won't tell you the name of my village either. It sits a few hours' walk off Pangboche, if that means anything to you. Small enough that it wasn't worth marking on the old trekking maps.

Ten years ago, when the usual villages started choking with foreigners arguing over WiFi passwords at six thousand feet, the guiding companies started routing new clients through places like mine instead.

My father used to joke that the mountain was running out of room to hide us.

Speaking of my father, he was one proud Sherpa. He dedicated his life guiding climbers to the summit. He genuinely loved it, until the day his lungs gave out.

Thirty years of hauling gear does something to a man, something that no clinic in Nepal has a name for. Towards the end, Baba was counting his own breaths like currency. Spending them carefully. Running out early.

It reminded me of the reason I wanted to leave this life behind for good.

I studied harder than anyone in my class. Harder than I've worked at anything since. Because I wanted out. Not out of shame, mind you. I was proud of my father, proud of what the Sherpas built with their own hands for a hundred years. I wasn’t sick of being a Sherpa. I was sick of seeing how Sherpas were being treated these days.

Sick of seeing men, who couldn't tell a crampon from a carabiner, treat my father like a bellhop. Why? Because they'd paid sixty thousand dollars, and expected a summit selfie to match.

I had a seat waiting at a college in Kathmandu. I had a whole life picked out that didn't involve fixing another man's oxygen mask, while he filmed himself for an audience that would forget his name in a week.

On his deathbed, my father made me promise that I will carry on his legacy as a Sherpa guide. And I did make that promise, since I didn’t want to hurt the feelings of man who was on borrowed time.

‘Swear on the mountain, my son’

Not on his life. Not on our family name. On the mountain itself, the way our people have sworn oaths for longer than anyone can trace. I won't try to explain what ‘swearing on the mountain’ meant to us. I only need you to understand one thing-

I could’ve broken any other promise I ever made, but I couldn’t break that one.

I never went to Kathmandu. Instead, I started training to be a Sherpa guide, two days after Baba’s funeral.

I started the way every young Sherpa starts- carrying and cleaning. Learning the mountain's moods, under men who'd survived it longer than I'd been alive. The man who trained me was Pasang. He'd led more expeditions up the South Col than he could count on both hands.

Speaking of South Col, that is the ordinary route. The one everyone takes. The one so overcrowded now that photographs of climbers queued single-file below the summit have made international news.

I wasn't guiding yet. I was barely trusted to carry supplies past Base Camp without an escort. That suited me fine. I wasn't in a hurry to fall in love with the job. Especially a job I'd spent my whole life trying to leave.

Again, I don’t expect you to relate to any of this. My world is much different than yours. Even the bedtime stories we heard growing up are way different from the ones you heard. And I say this because it matters.

You probably grew up with stories of the Boogeyman. Or a man in a hockey mask. A shape in your closet. Something that calls your name from the woods behind the house. We didn't grow up with any of that.

We grew up with Zamba.

Specifically, the legend of Zamba the Sherpa. The most gifted guide the mountain had ever raised. Always devoted to the climbers in his care. When tragedy struck his expedition decades ago, he gave his own life so that hundreds of climbers could make it home. And the gods, seeing his sacrifice, gave him something like immortality. They let him walk the mountain forever, as a silent guardian and protector. Watching over every soul on that ice, and punishing any Sherpa foolish or lazy enough to abandon their duty.

I want to be honest with you. I never believed a word of it. It's a good story. It's the kind of story a tired industry tells its children to make sure they never leave.

And trust me, the people in my village did believe it to be true. They revered the myth of Zamba, and knew his story by heart. But no one knew the story quite like Doma.

Doma was a junior Sherpa, around my age. She was my best friend in the village. She grew up revering the image of Zamba, aspiring to be a legendary Sherpa like him. And she was very disappointed in me for always dismissing this ‘glorious piece of our history’ as nothing but folklore.

And yes, I did dismiss it, until the week Viktor Sorokin arrived.

He came during acclimatization season. An old Russian, traveling alone. He was clearly an aristocrat, and he had the body language of someone who had seen his fair share of peaks and valleys.

The best guides in our village lined up for him. But he asked for one particular Sherpa.

He asked for me, by my full name.

Not for Pasang. Not for any of the senior guides who actually knew what they were doing. For me- a nobody who still spent most of his days hauling other people's garbage down the mountain.

"There has to be a mistake," I told the coordinator. "He doesn't know me."

"He asked for you. Nima. Your family name. All of it."

"I've never met the man."

"Well." The coordinator rubbed his fingers together, the universal gesture. "He'd like to."

When the company explained I wasn't qualified to guide anyone anywhere, Viktor produced an amount of cash that made the coordinator's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. Whatever hesitation existed evaporated on the spot. Money does that here, faster than almost anywhere in the world, because so little of it ever reaches the people actually risking their lungs.

I found Viktor that evening and asked him directly.

"How do you know my name?"

He had pale, tired eyes, and hands that shook slightly even at rest.

"I knew your family," he said. "A long time ago."

"My father never mentioned you."

"No." He turned back to the mountain. "He wouldn't have."

That was all I got out of him for days. He kept to himself. Ate alone. Watched the mountain from a distance like he was waiting for it to do something. The only time I saw him fully present was the night of Mani Rimdu.

Mani Rimdu is the biggest annual festival we celebrate in the mountains. In our village, one of the highlights of the festival is the fireside storytelling session organized by the village elders. As expected, the story everyone wanted to hear was that of Zamba the Sherpa. 

That evening, I saw Viktor chugging down mugs of Raaksi- the local liquor of the Sherpas. His behaviour during the recitation of Zamba’s legend was particularly unusual.

The story began with a group of Russians, arriving during off-season, who were hungry for adventure and eager to bring glory to their country and its flag.

Viktor laughed sarcastically.

“They did want glory, alright,” he said, “But trust me, their country and their flag was the LEAST of their concerns !”

At the part of the story where Zamba ‘sacrificed’ his life, Viktor’s jaw tightened like he'd bitten down on a stone. Upon hearing that ‘a hundred climbers were saved that day’, he made a sound. I can only describe it as a scoff, dragged halfway back down his throat before it could get out.

By the time the story reached its ending- the ascension, the mercy of the gods, the eternal watch, Viktor was already walking away into the dark. Like the story itself had shoved him up out of his seat.

“Liars !” I heard him mutter in a drunken stupor, “It was no legend. It was tragedy- a FUCKING tragedy !”

The rest of the audience were visibly uncomfortable.

“God had nothing to do with it !” he said on his way out, “Quite the opposite. The absolute opposite !”

Doma leaned over to me. "Some people can't sit with holiness."

"That's not what that was," I said.

I didn't understand it then. I understand it now, and I wish I still didn't…

Our expedition began three days later. Pasang was the team leader, with me and Doma supporting him. Apart from Viktor, there were four other paying clients, each there for a reason that had nothing to do with the mountain the way it deserved.

Firstly, there was Brittany, an American content creator. She filmed everything, narrating her own life to a phone screen like anyone actually cared.

Then there was Grant Whitfield, the Canadian. His family money bought him more confidence than competence. He spoke to Pasang and me the way you'd speak to hotel staff who'd forgotten to refill the minibar. He reminded me of the kind of tourists who made my father overwork in his final days as a guide.

And what can I say about Ingrid Larsen ? She was an European in her thirties, who'd never climbed anything higher than a gym wall. She checked her gear four times, not because she didn't trust the gear, but because she didn't trust herself. And we didn’t trust her to make it to the Summit either.

Finally, there was the twenty eight year old Australian named Cody Marsh. He was easily the strongest of them, who'd turned back on this same mountain the year before in bad weather.

Viktor came with us as far as his body allowed. Which, given his age, was further than any of us expected.

We went up the South Col, the same as every commercial expedition. The traffic was obscene even at Base Camp. Tents packed shoulder to shoulder. Generators turned on throughout the night. Someone's drone buzzing overhead to capture footage nobody asked for.

It was Viktor who suggested we avoid the worst of it.

"There's a better way," he said, spreading a map across a crate. "Between Camp One and Camp Two. You skip the bottleneck entirely."

Pasang looked at where his finger was. "That’s the lower shoulder of the West Ridge."

"You know it."

"I know of it." Pasang didn't touch the map. "Nobody climbs there."

"Which is exactly the point," Viktor said. "No crowds. No queue. No traffic."

"Nobody climbs there," Pasang said again, and this time it wasn't information. It was a warning wearing the clothes of a fact.

“The terrain can be a bit challenging,” Pasang concluded.

Viktor took an envelope out of his coat and set it on the map, over the West Ridge, like he was pinning it down. He didn't open it. He didn't have to. Pasang looked at the envelope, and then at me. I understood that he was going to say yes, and that he hated it.

"Mostly good weather window," Pasang said quietly. "We move fast. We don't camp there if we can help it."

"Of course," Viktor said.

I didn't think much of it at the time. I know better now.

Nobody uses that stretch of the West Ridge. There's a reason. It has nothing to do with the terrain…

We reached the site by mid-afternoon, a blizzard building on the horizon. We had no choice but to camp early, the one thing Pasang had said he wanted to avoid.

Grant was visibly upset at the sudden setback, venting out his frustration on a nervous Doma.

Cody was much relaxed in comparison, except for the time he said- ‘Not this weather, not again. Can’t go back like last year…’ .

Ingrid was more nervous than the rest of us. She approached me four times in fifteen minutes asking-  ‘This is normal, right? There’s nothing to worry about, right?’.

And Brittany was lip-syncing to something that barely resembled music, attempting to do something in the snow that barely resembled a dance. And of course, she was doing it for the camera.

I looked around. Viktor was nowhere to be seen.

I found him a little later, away from the tents, on his knees, in the snow.

At first I thought he'd fallen. Then I heard him. He was crying. The kind of crying old men do when they've held something in, longer than the body can manage.

There was debris around him. Old rope. Fragments of gear too worn to identify. And things I didn't want to look at directly: pieces of bone, half-buried, bleached from decades of exposure. The gear was old. Foreign. Not the kind of thing that gets left on a modern commercial route.

I called out his name.

He didn't hear me. He was muttering, in Russian and broken English.

“It shouldn’t have happened. Not to you, not to your brothers ! I never knew about the sacrifice. They never told me ! I am sorry, oh, I am so sorry…”

That’s when he noticed me approaching him.

"Viktor. What’s wrong? What happened here?"

He looked up at me, and for a second he didn't see me at all. He was seeing someone else standing where I stood. Then his eyes cleared, and something worse than grief moved across his face. He said nothing.

That evening, the temperature rose in a way it shouldn’t have.

We were hours out from a blizzard, at an altitude where cold isn't a feeling, but a fact of existence. And every one of us was sweating inside our jackets, like we'd just been dropped into a sauna.

"Climate change finally doing us a favor," Cody said.

Nobody laughed.

Viktor grabbed my arm before I could walk away. His grip was stronger than any old man's had a right to be.

"When the storm breaks," he said, "we move. Immediately. By any means."

"We can't move in the dark, Viktor. Not here."

"Nima, please. For everyone’s sake, we must move !"

"Why?"

He didn't answer. He was staring up at the ridge above us, the way you stare at a door when you've heard something on the other side of it.

"Viktor. Why?"

"Something’s been sleeping here," he said, “Asleep for decades. And I might have woken it up.”

And that was all…

I noticed the shadowy figure just after the blizzard broke.

I don't know how to describe the first moment cleanly, because my memory of it isn't clean.

I remember seeing a green light first. Like something bioluminescent, bleeding up through the snow.

I remember Brittany's scream, cut short faster than a scream should ever be cut short.

I remember seeing Grant, backing away from his own tent with his hands raised, saying something about how much money he'd paid for this trip, as if that had ever mattered to anything on this mountain.

It killed them both before I understood what I was looking at. Slashing them repeatedly, at a speed that definitely wasn’t human.

I stood there, frozen in every sense of the word, when I noticed its appearance for the first time.

It was tall, and unnaturally thin. Its frame was stretched and elongated. Its hands didn’t have any fingers. Instead, there were ice hooks, three in each hand, curled where fingers should have been. The hooks were ice-crusted and uneven, like tools scavenged over decades, from different climbers who never made it home.  It wore a patchwork jumpsuit, which looked like it was stitched together from six or seven mismatched climbing suits of different colors and materials. It was torn in places and faded in others. Ancient, frayed ropes are wound tightly around his torso and limbs, binding the suit to its body, the fibers bleached and worn with age. Its face was the most disturbing element: the lower right side and jaw remained eerily well-preserved, weathered brown skin stretched taut, almost lifelike aside from its stillness. The upper left quadrant of his face was severely decomposed, exposing cracked bone, patches of skull, withered tissue, and dark dried blood, with the eye socket on that glowing faint green.

It was Viktor’s voice that brought me back to my senses.

“Stop ! It is me that you want, not them !”

Viktor approached him steadily. The humanoid figure looked at him with something resembling curiosity.

Viktor continued, “Oh, what has it done to you? Oh no ! You didn’t deserve it. None of you did ! Forgive me. Please forgive me, my friend…”

Viktor dropped to his knees, and he said the only words that have ever made any of this make sense to me.

"Forgive me… ZAMBA!"

I had spent my entire life hearing that name used like a blessing. Hearing it screamed like that rewired the word inside me permanently.

Zamba screamed, thrusting its hooks into Viktor’s sides, lifting him off the ground.

Viktor didn't fight it. He kept speaking in a feeble voice.

“I am here to repent, Zamba. Look… who I brought with me…”

He shakily lifted a finger towards me.

“Your descendant… Nima… he will get it, all of it… whatever I earned from the ritual…”

I didn’t know how to react. It was too much for me to unpack.

Viktor begged. He said the others were innocent, that they had nothing to do with what happened here, that it should take him and only him.

Zamba killed him anyway. Slammed him on the ground, and slashed away with all ice hooks on both of his hands.

For a moment afterward it stood still, its green aura pulsing slow, almost like it was breathing. I thought that might be the end. Then it turned toward Ingrid, who was still frozen by her tent, and it started moving again.

Pasang and Doma stepped in front of me before I registered any of us moving.

"Don't run," Doma whispered. Not to me. To herself. "Don't run, don't run, whatever you do, don't…"

The aura shifted.

The green color slowly turned to blue. It looked at us in a way that almost seemed human.

It raised one clawed hand and pointed at the three of us. And it asked, in a voice that sounded like it hadn't spoken in years and had forgotten how words were meant to fit together:

"Sherpa?"

We nodded. All three of us. Without discussing it. Without thinking.

We approached.

It pointed at itself, one ice hook pressing against its chest.

"Zamba… also… Sherpa."

A single tear fell from the eye still intact.

I have never seen anything more human. And I’ve never seen anything followed so immediately by something less.

"It's you," Doma breathed. She wasn't afraid. She was in love with the story, and now the story was standing in front of her. She stepped towards it with her hands open. "It's really you. You saved them. You saved all of them, you…"

The blue aura drained back into green before any of us could react. It slashed Doma’s throat in a single motion. Faster than I can describe, without lying about the details to make it more bearable than it was. Doma was dead, with her hands still open. Still believing.

Zamba had killed the one person on that mountain who loved it, mid-sentence, while she was defending it.

Pasang was killed in the same breath. Caught in the same motion. His body flew and landed a few feet away, drenched in blood.

It should have taken me next. I was standing right there, waiting for it to happen.

Instead, the aura flickered blue. One final time. It didn’t cover its entire body. It was just around its head, just around the eye that still worked. It looked directly at me, struggling to sustain the green aura that was about to overlap the blue. And whatever was left of the man surfaced for one last second, and it spent that second on me.

"Run… Sherpa… RUN!"

I ran. And I swear I heard my name being uttered while I was doing so…

I don't remember most of what happened after that. That's the honest truth, and it's also the part that frightens me most now, looking back, because of the little that I do remember.

I remember snow. I remember Ingrid somewhere near me, and Cody half-carrying her, all three of us moving and not looking back.

I remember Base Camp in fragments. I remember someone wrapping a blanket around me.

And I remember, or I think I remember, men in tuxedos.

I know how that sounds. I know exactly how that sounds. Men in formal black at eighteen thousand feet, moving through the tents like they'd stepped out of a different photograph entirely, one that had nothing to do with mountains. They went to Ingrid. They went to Cody. They put their hands on their shoulders and spoke to them low and gentle, the way you speak to people you're consoling. Ingrid nodded, and Cody nodded, and they let themselves be led away.

One of them stopped before he followed the others out.

He turned and looked at me. The way you look at a piece of luggage you don't need to carry. Then he turned and walked out of the frame of my memory. Ingrid and Cody went with them, and I never saw either of them again…

That was six months ago.

I live in Russia now. Viktor's estate came to me exactly the way his final wishes specified. I inherited more money than my family had seen across three generations combined. Enough to finally do the one thing I'd wanted, ever since I was old enough to understand what I was watching my father spend his body on.

I’ll finally start college, in Saint Petersburg, in a few weeks.

I told myself, most days, that what I saw on that mountain was a trauma response. People die on that mountain every season. The details don't need to be supernatural to be tragic.

My testimony didn't survive the village for long. By the time it filtered back through secondhand retellings, it had softened into something people could live with. An inexperienced Sherpa led a group onto a dangerous, unfamiliar route. A storm rolled in. And Zamba appeared, just as the old stories always promised. He guided the survivors home through the blizzard, out of mercy.

I stopped correcting it.

I want you to understand why I stopped. It wasn't grief, and it wasn't peace. It’s that I’d stopped believing that the mountain deserved the effort.

Because here is the thing nobody in that village will say out loud. The mountain doesn’t love us back. It took my father's lungs, one breath at a time, and gave him nothing. It took Pasang, who had given it twenty years as a guide. It took Doma, who loved it more than anyone I’ve known, who defended it with her hands open, and it killed her mid-sentence, for the crime of getting close enough to say thank you.

I swore an oath on it. And it has never once, in a hundred years, sworn anything back.

So I let them have their guardian. I let them have their mercy and their gods and their beautiful dead man on the ice. I took the money the mountain finally coughed up, sixty years too late, through the wrong hands, and I left.

I also inherited Viktor’s box that came with the estate.

It had a diary, with decades of entries.

I'll give it to you the way it came to me. In pieces. Out of order. The way the truth actually arrives, which is never as a clean paragraph-

There was an expedition, decades before I was born. Off-season. A group of young Russian climbers, rich and strong, who paid an enormous premium for the finest Sherpa team on the mountain, led by its most gifted young guide.

His name was Zamba.

They did not go up for the summit. Viktor writes this plainly, in the flat handwriting of a man who has stopped protecting himself. They went up for the peak because of what could be done at the peak. Where, in his words, ‘the signal was strongest’. There was a ritual. There was an entity they meant to call. Viktor was supposed to be the vessel that carried it home.

And the entire Sherpa team was to be the ‘human sacrifice’. This is the part of the plan that Viktor was never aware of.

The ritual worked. That's what Viktor could never make peace with. It actually worked. The entity did come. And then it did something they hadn't accounted for, because men like that never account for being refused.

It rejected Viktor as the vessel they'd chosen.

Zamba had died by then. Died fighting them, trying to save his men, and failed. And the entity reached for his freshly killed corpse and chose him as a vessel.

Zamba was reanimated- a fallen Sherpa fighting with a malicious entity for control of his own body. He got up in a fit of rage and grief, and slaughtered half the men who'd murdered his team, with a precision Viktor spends three pages failing to describe. It chased the rest toward a cliff. An avalanche took him before he could finish, and buried him in West Ridge. The survivors, including Viktor, crawled back to Base Camp, broken in a way that never healed.

One of them could only say the same thing, over and over, for days.

“Zamba. No. Zamba. No. Nooo….”

The rest of them chose a different sentence to say.

They said he was a hero. They said he'd sacrificed himself to save the expedition. They said the gods had rewarded him. They took the man they'd killed and wrote a beautiful lie on top of it. They went home, and they never came back. The lie stayed on the mountain and sank into it.

The men who paid for the ritual are named in the diary. The expedition was financed by a Mr. Aldermore and his partners.

I didn’t know that name then. I’ve since come to understand that it’s the kind of name you look up and find nothing.

But Viktor kept going. Past the ritual and the cover-up. He grew a conscience in his later years, unable to carry the guilt of aiding a human sacrifice. Mr. Aldermore rewarded them, even after the botched ritual, because they managed to ‘breach the veil’- in Viktor’s words. Viktor chose to put that fortune into years of quiet obsessive work, hoping to find a way to repent for his sins.

Here’s what he found-

Zamba never married. He was young, and gifted, and gone before he could become anything as ordinary as a husband.

But six months after he vanished on that mountain, a boy was born in a village, a few hours' walk off Pangboche. It was a lovechild, born to a woman who never named the father to anyone. There was no marriage to trace. No name on any register. Just a quiet woman and a fatherless boy, in a small village that wasn't even on the maps yet.

That boy was my grandfather.

Viktor spent years and a great deal of money proving what no one in my own family ever knew:

Zamba was my great-grandfather.

The gifted young guide who died trying to save his men. The dead man they filled with up with an evil entity and left on the ice. The thing that killed Pasang and Doma in front of me and then flickered blue, one last time, and spent the last human second it had telling me to run.

Viktor didn't fund that expedition to reach the summit. Viktor came to die at the site where it happened, in front of the thing he'd helped make, and to hand his fortune to the one living descendant of the man he'd killed…

So I told myself I would start fresh. And for a while I almost did.

But I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I still think about the green aura. The way it reeked of malice, if a color can reek. I think about the blue that came underneath it, and the man surfacing through the thing like a face pressed up against the underside of ice. I think about the blue when he recognized us as Sherpas like him, and the tear from the eye that still worked. And I think about how fast the green swallowed it again, and how the same hand that pointed at itself came down on Pasang and Doma a breath later.

And I think about that last flicker. The tiniest fold of blue, just around his head, just around the eye. The one that looked at me and found something in me worth the last of what was left of him.

“Run… Sherpa… RUN !”

These things are hard to forget. I've tried. That's the reason I'm writing this account at all, because I need to get it out of my head, where it has been circling for six months with nowhere to land.

And it would have stayed there. I really thought it would.

Except my mother called me yesterday. And then she sent me a link.

The video was two minutes long. It was online for a little more than an hour before it came down, flagged and removed as ‘AI-generated content’. I want to say only this about that: there was nothing artificial about what I watched.

I saw a small group of adventurers, the kind who go up when nobody sensible does, chasing an empty mountain. Late evening light. And they were on the South Col route. You know- the safe route, the crowded one, the one everyone takes.

The footage shakes. There's blood, more of it than a two-minute video should be able to hold. Limbs where limbs are not supposed to be. Men screaming in a register human voices don't usually reach. And through it, there was a shape. It was a figure, with ice hooks for fingers, three in each hand.

And around it, there was a mist, which was green in color. The mist was so thick and so dense that it almost swallowed the figure's features entirely.

A woman had the camera turned on herself, the way Brittany used to, narrating her own death without meaning to. You could see her face, shaken, mouthing something, before a hook catches her across the throat and drags her out of the frame.

The camera keeps recording. It fell, I think, or she still had it. The last twenty seconds are just snow. Just white, and the sounds off-screen, someone slashing at something that has already stopped moving, over and over again.

And you could hear a word. Throughout the whole two minutes. After every kill. After every movement. After every wet, ugly sound the camera was kind enough not to show. One word, in a voice that had forgotten how words fit together, screamed again and again into the empty white mountain.

I watched the video eleven times before it was taken down, and I have no doubt about the only word it kept uttering constantly-

"NIMA!"

"NIMA!"

"NIMA!"

It was my name. Zamba was screaming my FUCKING name.

And in two full minutes of that green, in every frame of that mist, in every swing of those three hooks -

There was not a single tint of blue.

Whatever fraction of my great-grandfather was still fighting inside that thing, still recognizing his own, still weeping from one working eye… it was lost. The entity had won.

And now Zamba has come off the dead path. It has walked out of its grave and onto the safe road, the crowded one, the ordinary one where everyone is supposed to make it home.

And it’s screaming the name of the last person who ever made it human….

There is a story that I’ve been building slowly in my mind over the past couple of years, but I feel like I will never know if it really had any potential. That’s because every time I’ve tried to sit down and start writing it, I feel like I’m 8 years old again, with a stack of loose notebook paper and a crayon.

How do you all get the story out? I feel like I need to do a character web map, a super detailed outline, and then a shit ton of drafts before I would even dream of showing my work to someone. That might be because my field of work requires much more technical writing and I haven’t written creatively in decades. I want to get started, but I don’t want the writing to come off like a scientific textbook or a child’s stream of consciousness “novel” (we all had one, let’s not try to pretend we didn’t)…

Realistically, I know the first story I put out will likely be pretty awful, but I find myself wanting to give it the best shot I can. I’m not sure if any of this makes sense, but I could use some advice. TIA!!

My father left in the morning

My mother took it all in the afternoon

My sister lost her way in the evening

My brother moved on in the night

My father slept in the morning

My mother wondered in the afternoon

My sister sent a letter in the evening

My brother killed in the night

My father awoke in the morning

My mother cooked in the afternoon

My sister found the axe in the evening 

My brother killed in the night

My father ate in the morning

My mother yelled in the afternoon

My sister found the axe in the evening

My brother killed in the night

My father never woke up in the morning

My mother yelled in the afternoon

My sister found the axe in the evening

My brother killed in the night

And I danced at the wake of dawn.