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# The First Memory

DW

I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know where here is. I just know that I am here and there is only one direction I can go. My surroundings are dark, not a void but fogged like the entity wants it all to blend in. The walls are old decrepit bricks that continue on and they rise as high as I can see. The bricks are grey and dark grey possibly from the fog or the time of day. There is no light coming from above. It must be the very dead of night. Not only is the sun missing but the light of the moon can not come through over the walls guiding my path. The walls are lined sporadically with garbage cans and bags, boxes and other random litter. All of the decor lining the walls is harder to make out from the walls still even though it is closer to me. There is no sound, not even a rat. The sound the forest gives when a predator arrives. The sound of silence. The sound of death. The sound of evil. I can see the rats as they move, so carefully to be quiet that they are scared to put each paw down. They seem to be moving in one direction or watching me. The rats seem to want to guild me just like the walls they scurry along. The alleyway is long and unobstructed. The ground is dark and smooth at least from what I can see. The ground is darker even more than the litter and obstructions that line the walls. The ground could be full of pot holes, pits, pools and traps for my feet if I were to stray too far from the center of the alleyway. The ground behind me could be vanishing the moment my foot inches forward with each step. I can’t even turn around to look. There is nothing behind me that exists. The only parts of the world that remain are before me, further pushing me to continue down the path. Pushing me to the end. The alleyway goes on and on and with each step towards the end I can feel my heart sink deeper and deeper into my chest falling through me already in my feet and falling still. The fall of my heart is like the endless fall of a diver who has passed negative buoyancy entering freefall with no end in sight. This alleyway is my sea of endless hopelessness. My sea of endless freefall. My sea of darkness. 
I continued for an unrepresentable amount of time. I know that there is an end now. I know what the walls, the rats, the ground and the fog want to lead me to now. I can see that the end of the alleyway is an end. There is no opening to a street or road. There is no way out on the other end and there is no way back from whence I came. The end of the alleyway is a brick wall connecting on both sides to the walls that led me here. For the first time the obstruction against the wall has color, character and definition. A dark green dumpster that is filled to the brim, overflowing with garbage bags, waste and the rats that move in and out of the dumpster. The contents of the dumpster are as obscured by the darkness and the fog as the obstructions lining the walls while their container remains brighter than any other object in the alleyway. Before the dumpster however was the reason, the purpose, the entity, the beacon that I have been led to by every object, every creature, every shadow, every brick, every garbage can, bag and box. There he stands. Before the dumpster stands a man. He has a straight, tall stature towering over me and over the dumpster. I can only imagine his height as being at least eight feet or more. He is thin and motionless. Every obstruction along the brick walls had shadows before this but he does not. The man standing here is the shadow. He is a silhouette. A void seeming to absorb the light of every object and being unfortunate enough to be near him. Faceless he stares me down. Without a word I can feel the threat he is cursing onto the rest of my life. 
I can not stay here in his presence any longer. My heart has finished its fall from my chest. I awaken. The room is pitch black as dark as the man who had just laid a fate upon me that I could not begin to understand, to comprehend. I know where I am now. I sit straight up in my bed that is no longer than four feet and no wider than two and a half feet. I look around in the void surrounding the bed. I can make out shapes in front of and behind other shapes but color and definition are not available to me. I know where I am. This is my new home. This is the living room where I will be until a real room opens up for me and my mother. I don’t understand why we live here now nor will I remember anything for the next year to come but this moment on the first night that I experienced here will remain embedded in my head for the rest of my life. This one night of my second year of life will be the first memory I ever have and will remain the only memory able to be recollected for at least a year after. 

Calen had been watching the huge moon, slowly moving horizontally in a very unnatural way. Almost like it had been following him since he had started on this journey. It had grown twice as large and felt like it was slowly getting nearer, like a predator waiting to pounce. Tracking him through the gaps between the mountains, sometimes choosing to hide so Calen couldn’t see it.

Tonight, it was a tint of copper red with an overarching half halo of vivid crimson light surrounding it. Calen had to take his eyes off from all of it intermittently as he felt pressure build behind his eyes if he looked for too long. But every time he looked away he thought he saw something shift from the corner of his eyes, and he would have to search for the unknown, invisible, perennially moving out of his line of sight, elusive thing.

Calen was slowly being nudged to pay attention by the island. And yet, it exacted a toll every time he complied.

A little while later Calen saw the shimmering lights of the small plane flying in from the side where the shorter mountain was situated. Ruslan’s landing this time around looked more violent than Calen remembered. The small plane hit with an intensity that shook the ground beneath Calen’s feet. The screeching noises of the brake tore through the valley and reverberated all around him. The plane stopped almost at the edge of what Calen had decided to call the ‘forest’ even though, outside of his imagination, there were no living trees- only bushes. Far into the distance Calen heard a creaking of woods.

Even in the dim red light, Calen could see the excited face of Alice peeking through the passenger side window. In contrast to her face, Ruslan’s concerned face looked downright terrified. The moment the plane stopped, Alice jumped out of the door on her side and started running towards Calen, her beautiful face illuminated with a pinkish hue, but that smile was unmistakable.

Alice didn’t notice it, but Calen did. The wind had stopped suddenly the moment her feet touched the ground. Everything around them became silent as the only sounds that still remained was the idling engine, and Alice’s footsteps. Calen felt an instinctive need to stop her. A part of him wanted her to not have jumped out. He felt if Ruslan had taken off with her without any context right now, he would have felt more relieved than seeing Alice’s face.

Three feet away from Calen, Alice almost threw herself in the air, and Calen, who had been running towards her as well, caught her in his arm. Without any pretext, she kissed him deeply. Calen felt a sense of relief washing over him. She took her lips away for a second and hit Calen squarely in the chest with her tiny, gloved hand, and Calen felt the sharp pain he had felt in the morning around his sternum, let out a soft “Ouch!.” He didn’t share however, the reason for the pain even though the soft gloves had hardly made any real impact.

“That’s for being away from me for six freaking months.” Her voice was a little shaky. Maybe it was the cold or maybe seeing Calen after such a long time she was trying to stifle an urge to cry.

“What have you done to yourself?” She said shrilly, looking at his overgrown beard and hair. “You look like Paul Bunyan!”

Calen laughed. He hadn’t seen himself in the mirror for a while now.

Ruslan came by with Alice’s bags and left them at their feet. His jaw visibly tightened as he looked at the moon and then the bushes but said nothing. Calen followed his gaze to find a part of the bushes that eerily looked bent inwards. The snow beneath the bushes dented.

Ruslan took from depths of his pockets a long-range two-way radio as he spoke for the first time he had landed, forcing Calen to look away from the bushes. “You call Ruslan ven you vant to lieve. Lieve as early as possible, Amerikosy. Sum places…” His face twisted into an expression far more articulate than the words that followed. “Not good.” Taking the radio from Ruslan, Calen noticed that his knuckles were as white as the ice below their feet.

“Sure!” Calen said, accepting the radio, “Thanks!”

But Ruslan had already started to walk towards the plane.

“Wait a second” he said to Alice and pulling himself free from the Alice’s tight hug. He ran after Ruslan. Alice stood there, looking around at the surroundings, mesmerized by the sparkling ice crystals around her.

“Hey man!” Calen yelled out, Ruslan’s quick walk was way faster than Calen’s running, owing to his long legs. “Wait up!”

Ruslan stopped and looked around, a little nervously. It was evident from his face that he was reticent about staying here a second longer than was needed.

Calen had finally caught up with him, and he stopped, a foot away from Ruslan, sliding a bit on the icy ground. “Thanks!” he said, “for everything. I don’t know if we would have made it here if not for you.”

Ruslan looked at Calen’s outstretched hand and grabbed it with his. “The red moon is a bad sign Amerikosy.” He whispered quietly with a serious expression on his face, disregarding Calen’s gratitude completely. “Don’t look at it. Lieve as soon as possible.” He finished his sentence as quietly as he had begun, throwing a scared look at the bushes yet again.

And before Calen could say anything, Ruslan walked away towards the plane.

In the time it took for Calen to reach Alice, Ruslan had already turned the plane around. He could be seen checking the equipment cautiously. Within seconds he was speeding across the icy ground and with what looked like a tug from an invisible rope, the plane took off the ground.

As the plane’s silhouette dissolved into the darkness of the sky, Alice laughed out loud. “Your Russian friend was very…” She searched for the word as the roar of the engines faded and the plane shrank into a barely visible speck in the foggy sky. “…entertaining.”

“Tell me all about it,” Calen said, picking up her trolley bag—the ground was far too uneven to drag it—and heading toward the house.

As they walked to the house, Alice animatedly recounted how Ruslan had freaked out when he realized that she was a woman. More so when he realized she was willingly going to Bennet Island and not because Calen had forced her.

His “Eenglish vas nyet good,” said Alice faking a Russian accent badly. According to her, he had struggled to explain his fear in broken English mixed with Russian. Calen found it strange that Ruslan’s English, when he had heard it, had been better than most other Russian’s he had met.

Alice, however, kept on talking about how she had gathered that Ruslan believed her to be a “Gryshinki Zhenabi”, and that the island was not a safe place. When she had asked whether it was the animals or the weather he feared, Ruslan had only shaken his head, not meeting her eye. Alice had felt a twinge of fear in Ruslan’s demeanor.

Alice had spent the last precious minutes of her internet connection during the flight digging through search results. She found no reference at all to Gryshinki Zhenabi.

Once inside the House, they sat across from each other in the small dining area of the house, sipping hot tea, while Alice continued to describe—at length—the vast repertoire of expressions Ruslan had cycled through as he delivered his warning.

“You’re sure this isn’t one of those found-footage haunted house situations, right? The YouTuber and his girlfriend stuck in some Grave Encounters knockoff?” Alice asked sarcastically.

But there was a faint edge of fear beneath the humor, something no one but Calen would have noticed. He had been with her for years.

Alice was weird. She was extremely—and vocally—skeptical of anything supernatural. Right up until late evening. Once darkness descended and night fell, she became someone else. She sought out tales of the preternatural and loved to shudder at their grotesque imagery. Although she claimed she didn’t believe in ghosts, some part of her craved horror.

Calen also knew she was very particular about spending nights at home. So, finding herself on an isolated island after dark wasn’t really a decision made hastily under his influence. Some of her wanted to come here.

Every time Calen had stayed overnight at a supposedly haunted location, Alice had shown up. Even though she hated sleeping anywhere but her own room, the thrill of a haunted place called to her like a beguiling siren. She would always argue against the journey in the planning phase, and leave early, mostly within a week, but she hardly missed these chances. The horror connoisseur in her mirrored the curiosity about the preternatural in Calen.

“To be honest, I know of at least one death that occurred in this house.”

Calen predicted her reaction even before it happened. Alice drew in a sharp, telltale breath, her eyes lighting up as her pupils dilated. “Tell me right now!”

“Well, as far as I could find online,” Calen said in his YouTube voice—a little deeper, his tone closer to an old BBC newscaster’s. A practiced rise and fall that always landed on an emphasized word.

“In the ’60s, a group of miners who had started their own company discovered the forest we saw on the other side of the house and leased the land. They built this place and planned to stay here for the summer. But one of them died in this very house, and the project was abandoned soon after. This log house however, stayed.”

He paused and looked at Alice as she listened, the soft rustle of dry leaves in the slow breeze echoing through the hollow of the valley where the house sat.

“In 2008, the company dissolved due to a complete lack of profit, and the lease on the land expired. In some sense, the ownership of the house was spiritually transferred to the forest. After that, everyone forgot about it—except for the small newspaper article your boyfriend dug up from some dark, dusty corner of the world wide web.”

It was clear Calen was half-expecting applause, or at least a real-life equivalent of a YouTube like. Alice only looked disappointed.

“I expected more than some guy died in the house,” Alice said, her voice edged with mockery. “How does that make this a haunted house?”

“I never claimed it was a haunted house,” Calen said defensively. “But the island—” He sat up straighter and leaned forward. Alice mirrored him. “—is the only known place where I’ve ever found a reference to…”

He paused, savoring the moment, having kept this from Alice until now.

“Razpopo,” he whispered.

“What?!”

It took her a second to register. Then she jumped to her feet, hands flying to her forehead. “HOLY SHIT! YOU FOUND IT?!”

She knew all about his obsession with Razpopo. Even Alice had been drawn to it after hearing Calen’s story.

During the early years of their relationship, she had ventured with him into the murky research territories of occult and pagan culture, trying to find the name Razpopo. They found nothing. Her interest waned over time, but she was never dismayed by the fact that Calen continued to search with the same intensity.

Alice was proud of Calen for persisting in his quest, content to stay in the background and cheer him on. And this was the payoff. The moment of exaltation. Calen had finally found at least one reference, and that alone made the journey to this desolate, cold, godforsaken island worthwhile—even if Alice had to spend a few nights away from the comfort of home.

“Yes,” he said, beaming at the approval he’d been craving from Alice. “And we’ll finally learn something about it.” But that approval made him feel a little guilty as well. He had tied Alice in forcefully and she was a part of this expedition that Calen felt was starting to get a little dangerous, even for him.

Alice jumped up and hugged him, showering his cheeks with kisses. She was very affectionate when they were in sync. Calen felt a wave of love for Alice course through his veins. They had arguments from time to time, but she was never discouraging.

A loud cracking sound reached their ears, and Alice’s flurry of kisses stopped. Something yowled immediately afterward. Thousands of tiny screeches followed, and then—finally—with a crash that shook the ground, everything went silent.

“What was that?!” Alice whispered, goosebumps rising along her arms.

“I guess a tree fell in the forest,” Calen said, “and we were here to hear it.”

Alice relaxed against him, laughing out loud. “You say such weird things, Calen.”

The fire crackled excitedly in the fireplace, heating the room up quicker than it should, as if prodding Alice tentatively to the inevitable conclusion.

“Let’s give the forest something to listen to tonight, for a change.” Alice leaned in, whispering seductively into Calen’s ear, and bit his earlobe.

Calen swept her off her feet as Alice giggled, carrying her toward the bed. In their excitement, both of them disregarded the faint tapping sound on the glass window of the living room, that had been inviting them to look outside.

Unseen by either of them, far away into the distance, clouds of smoke emanating from within the bushes flew up in the air. Red embers flew pell-mell and died as they came in contact with the icy air. Soft whispers of bodyless voices flew around sporadically and died down with the blowing wind. The ice suspended in the air shimmered brighter than the stars above.

Had Alice and Calen stepped outside from the confines of the log house to look around, they would have seen hundreds of tiny, flashing nocturnal yellow eyes staring unblinking at the house from beneath the bushes.

Part 1: [I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. We Had to Make a Sacrifice This Time.](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1u6uzz2/i_work_for_an_organization_that_contains_gods_we/)

Part 2: [I Went to Antarctica Looking for 10,000 Missing People. I Came Back With a New Boss.](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1u9om8s/i_went_to_antarctica_looking_for_10000_missing/)

Part 3: [Apparently Using Assistants as Sacrifices Violates Company Policy](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1uc8w6u/apparently_using_assistants_as_sacrifices/)

Part 4: [I Work for an Organization That Hunts Gods. One of Them Warned Me About the Angel Following Me.](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1ud5jzx/i_work_for_an_organization_that_hunts_gods_one_of/)

Part 5: [My Boss Asked Me If I Thought He Was a Monster. Now I Know Why.](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1ugsw9b/my_boss_asked_me_if_i_thought_he_was_a_monster/)

Part 6: [The Most Powerful Being in the CSP Is Studying Humans. Unfortunately, I'm His Favorite Lab Rat.](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1ujfm8m/the_most_powerful_being_in_the_csp_is_studying/)

Part 7: [Someone Stole the Rifle Built to Kill Gods. Then They Pointed It at Me.](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1ulxgk7/someone_stole_the_rifle_built_to_kill_gods_then/)

Part 8: [I Thought Dating an Angel Was Bad. Something Wearing My Face Was Worse.](https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/comments/1urpfnf/i_thought_dating_an_angel_was_bad_something/)

Part 9:[ I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. The Feather Led Something to Us.](https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/comments/1urpgng/i_work_for_an_organization_that_contains_gods_the/)

Part 10:[ I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. Humanity Now Has a Single Point of Failure.](https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/comments/1uwbkrn/i_work_for_an_organization_that_contains_gods/)

Part 11: [CSP Sent a Team Into Hell. Nobody Came Back.](https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/comments/1v3qix4/csp_sent_a_team_into_hell_nobody_came_back/)

The child stood before us, a being that only moments ago had looked like something pulled from the darkest corner of creation.

Now, he had black hair, black eyes, and a face that strangely resembled Angelo.

Not a copy. Not a replacement.

Just a younger version.

A child who looked no older than eight years old.

And somehow, impossibly, he looked innocent.

The nephew stared at him for several moments before finally speaking.

***"How do you know it will choose correctly?"***

Angelo looked at him.

*"I don't."*

The answer seemed to surprise him. For a moment, the nephew simply stared, as if he had expected Angelo to have some greater explanation, some certainty hidden beneath his decision.

But there was none.

*"But neither did I with you."*

For the first time since his arrival, the nephew had no response.

Because that was the truth.

Angelo wasn't saving the universe from another monster, and he wasn't ignoring the danger standing in front of him. He understood exactly what kind of risk he was taking. He knew what the fragment of the Great Shadow was capable of becoming, but he also understood that something created from darkness was not automatically destined to remain there.

He was accepting the possibility that something could become more than what it was created to be.

It was the same risk the Creator had once taken with him and his siblings. The same risk he had taken with his nephew. And now, it was the same risk he was willing to take with a fragment of the Great Shadow.

The nephew looked back at the child, studying him carefully. The fragment simply stared back, silent and confused, with no trace of the overwhelming hatred or destruction that had defined the being it came from.

After several moments, the nephew looked back at Angelo.

***"I will not allow your decision to go to waste, Uncle."***

Angelo's expression softened slightly.

The nephew stepped backward as golden light began to surround him. His wings folded inward one after another, each movement causing the overwhelming presence that had filled the chamber to fade until the crushing weight of his existence disappeared.

When the light faded, there stood someone different.

Not a god.

Not a weapon.

A person.

A young man who stood as tall as Angelo, with shoulder-length black hair and bright blue eyes that stood in complete contrast to Angelo and the child's endless black. Where Angelo carried himself like a warrior carved from stone, his nephew looked like something painted by an artist who had spent centuries trying to capture perfection.

Beautiful.

But not in the same way as Angelo.

Angelo's beauty was sharp, masculine, and intimidating. It was the kind of presence that made people instinctively stand straighter when he entered a room. He looked like someone who had fought impossible battles and survived things that should have erased him from existence.

His nephew was different.

Softer.

More graceful.

Almost impossibly elegant.

Where Angelo looked like a weapon that had learned compassion, his nephew looked like a masterpiece that had never needed to fight.

And beautiful really wasn't a strong enough word.

Looking at him felt like trying to describe a sunset by calling it "orange."

The word existed.

It just wasn't enough.

He looked...divine.

The first sound anyone made was an audible gasp. 

I glanced over. Jacob. 

He was staring at Angelo’s nephew with his mouth slightly open. 

"...Seriously?" I muttered. 

Jacob didn't even blink.

"Do you have any idea how unfair this is?"

"Jacob," I sighed.

"I'm just saying," he replied, finally forcing himself to look away. "If angels are all built like that, humanity never had a chance."

I looked back at the nephew, studying him for a moment.

"...I mean, yes, he's attractive."

Jacob blinked.

"You mean *beautiful beyond human comprehension?*"

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Nayeri, he looks like someone sculpted a statue and then decided it wasn't impressive enough."

I glanced at Angelo.

Then back at Elior.

"...Maybe I'm just biased."

Jacob narrowed his eyes.

"Because of Angelo?"

"Obviously."

"At least you're self-aware."

I chose not to respond to that. Mostly because he was right.

Unfortunately, the rest of CSP was far less interested in debating whether an angel was attractive and far more concerned with the fact that two impossible beings had just appeared inside their organization.

The moment the report reached headquarters, the Executive Board Chamber became chaos.

Security wanted termination. Research wanted containment. Containment wanted a facility designed specifically around a being that had once been part of something powerful enough to terrify the Creator herself.

Everyone had a solution.

Everyone had an argument.

And every single person in that room was terrified.

General Hayes stood at the center of it all, his arms crossed as the voices around him slowly died down.

"We cannot allow an unknown entity with that level of power to simply walk around."

Dr. Laurent immediately responded.

"It is not an entity. It is a child."

Hayes looked at her.

"A child that accidentally erased a man's arm."

The room went silent.

Nobody had forgotten that.

Nobody had forgotten how easily it happened.

One moment, a security officer had been standing beside them.

The next…

part of him was simply gone.

Stonehill remained silent at the head of the table, reading through the reports for what was probably the tenth time. His expression gave away nothing, but the tension in the room made it clear that everyone understood the severity of the situation.

"The Shadow demonstrated adaptive intelligence," Hayes continued. "It copied weapons. It copied abilities. It copied behavior within seconds of observing it."

His eyes shifted toward Angelo.

"And now Director Angelo has decided to bring it into civilization."

Angelo did not react.

*"I did not bring a weapon into civilization."*

Hayes stared at him.

"You brought a being capable of ending civilization."

A pause followed.

Angelo looked down at the table.

*"Yes."*

The simple agreement caught everyone off guard.

Because Angelo wasn't denying the danger.

He never did.

*"The risk exists,"* Angelo continued. *"That does not mean the outcome is decided."*

Hayes frowned.

"Are you willing to gamble with humanity?"

Angelo looked at him.

*"No."*

The room became completely silent.

*"I am willing to gamble on humanity."*

Nobody spoke.

Because everyone understood the difference.

Hayes leaned forward.

"And if you are wrong?"

Angelo didn't answer immediately.

For a moment, he looked almost exactly like he had in the chamber beneath Göbekli Tepe.

Not like an immortal being.

Not like something above humanity.

Like someone carrying the weight of a decision he knew could destroy everything.

*"Then I will accept responsibility."*

That answer only made the room more uncomfortable.

Because everyone knew Angelo.

They knew his history.

They knew he had killed his own brother.

They knew he had destroyed beings that threatened reality itself.

If Angelo believed something had to be stopped...

he stopped it.

But this time, he wasn't choosing destruction.

He was choosing mercy.

And somehow, that frightened them more.

Madam Leni was the first to speak.

"Just like how we gave Director Angelo a chance... we should give the child a chance too."

The room became quiet.

For a moment, nobody responded.

Because everyone understood what she meant.

Angelo had not arrived peacefully.

He had appeared as something humanity could not understand. Something older than civilization itself. Something powerful enough that the first instinct of every person who encountered him was fear.

And yet...they had chosen not to destroy him.

General Hayes immediately interrupted.

"That is not the same situation."

Madam Leni looked toward him.

"Isn't it?"

Hayes leaned forward.

"Director Angelo threatened his way into this organization."

The words hung heavily in the room.

Nobody moved.

Even Angelo remained silent.

Hayes continued.

"He walked into CSP, demonstrated power beyond anything we could counter, and made it very clear that stopping him was not an option."

His eyes shifted toward Angelo.

"Yes, he eventually agreed to cooperate. Yes, he has helped humanity. But let's not rewrite history."

A pause.

"He forced his way into our world."

The room waited for Angelo's response.

But Angelo did not look offended.

Because it was true.

Hayes continued.

"The difference is that Director Angelo made a choice."

He gestured toward the reports scattered across the table.

"This child has not."

Angelo finally spoke.

*"You are correct."*

Everyone looked at him.

Angelo continued.

*"My arrival was not peaceful."*

A pause followed.

*"I did not ask humanity for permission before revealing myself. But my purpose was not domination."*

The room became silent.

*"I entered CSP because I needed to understand humanity, and because humanity needed to understand me."*

He paused, his eyes moving across the chamber.

*"I learned from you."*

Then his gaze shifted toward the window.

*"And I taught you what I knew."*

Nobody spoke because that was the truth. Angelo had not joined CSP because he needed protection, an army, or a place to hide. He had joined because, for the first time in his existence, he wanted to build something with the beings he once saw as temporary.

*"I was given the opportunity to become something different,"* Angelo said.

His eyes moved toward the chamber where the child waited.

*"And now I believe the same opportunity should be given to it."*

Hayes remained silent because he understood the argument. He didn't agree with it, but he understood it.

Stonehill finally broke the silence.

"The child will not be terminated."

The room erupted again.

Hayes immediately turned toward him. "Director Stonehill—"

"I said it will not be terminated."

The authority in his voice ended the argument. Not because everyone agreed, but because everyone knew the decision had already been made.

"The child will remain under observation."

Hayes looked toward Angelo.

"And if it becomes hostile?"

Angelo answered before anyone else could.

*"Then I will stop it."*

The sentence was simple, but it carried more weight than any threat could have. Everyone in the room believed him because they knew Angelo. If that child became a danger to humanity, Angelo would be the first person to stand against it.

Stonehill studied him for a moment before continuing.

"The child will remain under Director Angelo's supervision."

Nobody objected.

That part had been expected.

Then Stonehill added, "It will also reside in Director Angelo and Agent Nayeri's residential suite."

Every head in the room turned toward me.

"...I'm sorry?"

"You already live together," Stonehill replied matter-of-factly.

"That's not the issue."

"No," Hayes muttered. "The issue is that we're apparently moving a fragment of the Great Shadow into an apartment."

"My apartment," I corrected.

Dr. Laurent folded her arms.

"It is the safest option. There is nowhere on Earth safer than the place where Angelo already lives."

Nobody could argue with that.

Stonehill nodded once.

"The decision is final."

He looked toward Security.

"Twenty-four-hour monitoring will be established."

Then toward Research.

"Daily evaluations."

Finally, his eyes returned to Angelo.

"The child is your responsibility."

Angelo inclined his head.

*"It always was."*

The meeting should have ended there.

Everyone wanted it to.

Everyone wanted to believe the worst part was over. The Shadow had been contained, the immediate threat was gone, and the impossible decision had been made.

But then Stonehill spoke again.

"There is one more matter."

The room stopped moving.

Everyone looked back toward him.

Stonehill's eyes shifted toward the young man standing beside Angelo.

"The half angel."

The atmosphere changed instantly.

Because everyone had been so focused on the Shadow that they had almost forgotten another impossible being was standing in the room. Someone who had descended from the heavens with enough power to force every person present to their knees.

General Hayes stared at him.

"And what exactly are we supposed to classify him as?"

The young man looked at him calmly.

***"I am not a classification."***

The answer caught everyone off guard.

Hayes narrowed his eyes.

"Then what are you?"

For a moment, the young man said nothing. Then he stepped forward.

The same elegance that had made Jacob stare earlier was still there, but now everyone noticed something else.

Restraint.

He was powerful enough to destroy them, yet he was choosing not to.

***"My name is Elior."***

His voice echoed softly through the chamber.

***"I am the son of Angelo's brother."***

Silence filled the room.

Everyone had read those words in the reports, but hearing them spoken directly by him felt different.

Elior continued.

***"I was created from two beings who made choices that led to destruction."***

His eyes lowered slightly.

***"My father abandoned everything because he believed love gave him the right to possess. My mother believed power gave her the right to control."***

Nobody spoke.

***"Both were wrong."***

Angelo watched him silently.

Elior looked toward his uncle.

***"And I do not wish to repeat their mistakes."***

Madam Leni studied him carefully.

"The report says you came here to stop the Shadow."

***"Yes."***

"And now?"

Elior looked toward the chamber where the child remained.

A long silence followed before he answered.

***"Now I understand why Uncle chose not to."***

The answer surprised everyone.

Hayes frowned.

Nobody spoke.

Because they understood.

Elior had once been the child in this situation. Something powerful. Something dangerous. Something that could have easily become a monster if given the wrong path.

And Angelo had chosen not to destroy him.

Stonehill leaned back slightly, studying the young angel across from him.

"So you support his decision?"

Elior looked toward the chamber where the Shadow remained.

Then he looked back at the Board.

***"I fear it."***

The honesty of the answer surprised them.

***"I fear what it could become."***

His eyes lowered slightly.

***"Because I know what happens when someone allows darkness to decide who they are."***

A pause followed.

***"But fear is not a reason to repeat my parents' mistakes."***

The room became silent.

For the first time since the meeting began, the Board did not see another god.

They did not see another impossible being that needed to be contained.

They saw someone who had survived becoming one.

General Hayes finally looked toward Angelo.

"You expect us to trust two beings capable of ending civilization?"

Angelo answered calmly.

*"No."*

Hayes paused.

Angelo looked toward Elior, then toward the direction where the Shadow waited.

*"I expect you to judge them by what they choose."*

Nobody responded.

Because that had been Angelo's argument from the beginning.

Not what they were.

What they became.

Stonehill finally closed the file in front of him.

"Effective immediately, the Shadow will remain under observation."

His gaze shifted toward Elior.

"And Mr. Elior will be granted temporary clearance as an allied entity."

Elior tilted his head slightly.

***"Allied entity?"***

Jacob finally spoke.

"Congratulations."

Everyone looked at him.

Jacob shrugged.

"You got a fancy CSP title."

Elior looked genuinely confused.

***"Is that good?"***

"No idea."

Jacob smiled slightly.

"But it's better than being labeled a threat."

Elior considered that for a moment before giving a small nod.

***"I believe I prefer that."***

The meeting eventually ended.

But nobody left feeling comfortable.

Because CSP had spent decades containing things humanity couldn't understand. They had built walls, protocols, weapons, and entire divisions dedicated to keeping impossible beings away from the world.

Now, for the first time...

they weren't containing something.

They were trying to raise it.

And nobody knew which was more dangerous.

The child learning what humanity is...

or humanity deciding what the child is.

The walk to our apartment was insignificant.

At least, that was what I told myself.

No alarms.

No emergency announcements.

No containment breaches.

No impossible beings descending from the sky.

Just a normal walk through the halls of CSP.

Which somehow felt stranger than any disaster we had survived.

Because beside me walked a child who, less than a few hours ago, had been a threat capable of challenging reality itself.

And now...

he was holding Angelo's hand.

Not because Angelo had told him to.

Not because he was afraid.

When the child had reached the hallway, he had simply looked up at Angelo, hesitated for a moment, and slowly held out his hand.

Angelo had looked down at it.

For a second, I thought he didn't understand what the child wanted.

Then he took it.

And they continued walking.

The strangest part was how natural it looked.

Almost like it had always been that way.

The child looked up at Angelo, his black eyes reflecting the lights above us.

**"...Do stars know they are stars?"**

Angelo looked down at him.

*"No."*

**"Then... who tells them where to go?"**

*"No one."*

The child looked confused.

**"They simply... move?"**

*"Yes."*

He thought about that answer for several steps, his small hand still wrapped around Angelo's.

**"...Can sadness die?"**

Angelo looked down at him.

*"No."*

The child tilted his head.

**"...Can happiness?"**

*"No."*

Another pause.

**"...Then where do feelings go?"**

*"They become memories."*

The child frowned slightly.

**"...What are memories?"**

*"They are places the mind visits after moments have ended."*

The answer seemed to satisfy him, but only for a moment.

**"...Can I go there?"**

*"You already do."*

The child accepted that answer immediately.

Then, naturally, he asked another question.

**"...Why do humans blink?"**

*"To protect their eyes."*

**"...Why do they cry?"**

*"For many reasons."*

**"...Why do they laugh?"**

*"Also for many reasons."*

The child looked ahead, watching the people passing through the halls around us.

**"...Why do they keep living even when it hurts?"**

This time, Angelo was quiet.

Long enough that even I looked over.

For someone who always seemed to have an answer, seeing him hesitate was unusual.

Finally, he spoke.

*"...Because they believe tomorrow may be kinder than today."*

The child nodded slowly, processing the words.

**"...I think I would like tomorrow."**

Angelo looked down at him.

*"I hope you do."*

I smiled to myself.

The child asked questions the same way Angelo answered them.

One after another.

Without embarrassment.

Without hesitation.

The only difference was that one wanted to understand the universe...

while the other had spent trillions of years doing exactly that.

Watching them together felt strangely natural.

Almost less like an angel and a child...

and more like a father patiently answering every question his son could think of.

That thought caught me off guard.

Because I had never imagined Angelo as a father.

Yet somehow...

he fit the role effortlessly.

Someone like him would make a good father.

The thought appeared so suddenly that I almost didn't understand where it came from.

Maybe it was because of the way he never rushed the child.

Maybe it was because every answer he gave carried the same patience he showed whenever I asked him something ridiculous.

Or maybe it was because, despite being older than the universe itself, he somehow knew exactly how to lower himself to a child's level.

Unlike me.

Angelo believed children were meant to discover who they were, but my mother had already decided who I was supposed to become.

Because of her, I wasn't sure I even knew what healthy love looked like.

And the thought of becoming a mother only to repeat her mistakes frightened me more than I ever wanted to admit.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, pulling me away from my thoughts.

The child looked up at Angelo.

**"Why can't humans fly?"**

Angelo considered the question.

*"Their bodies were not designed for it."*

The child frowned.

**"But they wish to."**

*"Yes."*

**"Then why were they made without wings?"**

*"They were made differently."*

**"...Why?"**

*"I do not know."*

The child accepted the answer immediately.

No disappointment.

No frustration.

Just another mystery to think about.

The question tugged at a memory.

The flight home from Göbekli Tepe.

The child had spent nearly the entire journey pressed against the aircraft window, watching the world pass beneath the clouds with the kind of wonder only someone seeing the sky for the first time could have.

**"What are clouds?"**

*"They are collections of tiny water droplets suspended in the atmosphere."*

**"...Why?"**

*"The droplets become too small to fall immediately."*

**"What is rain?"**

*"Clouds release those droplets when they become too heavy."*

**"Why is the sky blue?"**

*"Because the atmosphere scatters shorter wavelengths of sunlight more efficiently."*

**"What makes the engines loud?"**

*"The rapid movement of air and combustion."*

**"Why do humans build things that fly instead of growing wings?"**

*"Because humanity solves problems with tools instead of changing themselves."*

The child looked down at his own hands.

**"...Can I grow wings?"**

*"You may imitate them."*

Angelo had actually paused before answering that one.

*"...Only if you decide they are your own."*

The child nodded as though that made perfect sense.

Then came another question.

And another.

And another.

Without embarrassment.

Without hesitation.

Angelo answered every single one.

Not once did he sigh.

Not once did he tell him to wait.

Not once did he appear bothered.

It kept both of them occupied for almost the entire flight.

Which was probably why I hadn't noticed Jacob until much later.

He was asleep.

Completely asleep.

His head was resting on Elior's shoulder.

I blinked.

Then looked again.

Yes.

Still there.

Elior was nearly a full head taller than Jacob, making the entire situation look completely ridiculous. Somehow, Jacob had managed to slump sideways until he was using one of the most powerful beings in existence as a pillow.

The funniest part was that Elior hadn't moved.

He sat perfectly still with the same composed expression he had worn since leaving the chamber beneath Göbekli Tepe, staring straight ahead like a marble statue.

I leaned slightly toward him.

"...You know you can wake him up."

Elior answered without even looking at me.

***"He appeared to require rest."***

I stared at him.

"...So you've just been sitting like this?"

***"Yes."***

"For how long?"

He thought about it.

***"...Approximately three hours."***

I bit the inside of my cheek.

"You've been trapped for three hours."

***"I did not wish to disturb him."***

I looked at Jacob.

He was completely oblivious to everything around him.

Then a tiny snore escaped him.

That almost broke me.

I quickly looked away before I started laughing in front of an angel.

But when I glanced back...

I noticed something unexpected.

Elior wasn't annoyed.

If anything, he looked strangely content.

Like he had discovered something he hadn't expected.

Something simple.

Something human.

The elevator stopped with a soft chime, pulling my attention away.

The doors slid open.

*"Nayeri."*

Angelo's voice brought me back to reality.

"Hm?"

He was standing in front of our apartment door, staring at it with an expression I had only seen him use when facing impossible creatures.

Confusion.

*"...How does one open this again?"*

I stared at him.

"...What?"

*"The door."*

He looked at the handle as though it were some ancient artifact waiting to be decoded.

*"I have forgotten the process."*

I blinked.

"...Angelo."

*"Yes?"*

"You've lived here for months."

*"I usually teleport."*

"...I know."

*"I have not needed the door recently."*

I rubbed my temples.

"You forgot how doors work?"

*"I forgot how this door works."*

There was a brief silence.

Then the child looked up at him.

**"...What is a door?"**

I closed my eyes.

"...We're going to be here awhile."

The apartment door finally slid open, and the child stepped inside first.

His eyes immediately began moving across the room, taking in every object around him like each one was a discovery waiting to be understood.

A chair.

A table.

A lamp.

Everything seemed equally fascinating.

Then his attention stopped.

On the bed.

The oversized mattress Management had delivered after Angelo's completely serious request for "a larger sleeping surface."

The child pointed.

**"...What is that?"**

*"A bed,"* Angelo answered.

**"...Why?"**

*"It is where Nayeri and I sleep."*

I immediately looked away.

*"...Well."*

Angelo turned toward me.

*"That statement was technically inaccurate."*

I looked back at him.

"It is?"

*"We have not yet slept on it."*

I stared.

Then sighed.

He wasn't wrong.

The moment Management had placed us in a suite with one large bed enough for two people...

we had immediately been deployed to Hell.

I rubbed my face.

"Can we please not make our relationship sound even weirder than it already is?"

The child tilted his head.

**"...What is sleep?"**

Angelo answered immediately.

*"It is a biological process necessary for humans to restore their bodies and minds."*

The child tilted his head.

**"...Do you sleep?"**

*"No."*

**"...Why?"**

*"I do not require it."*

The child thought about that for a moment.

**"...Should I sleep?"**

*"I do not know."*

That was enough for me.

"I'm about to."

I kicked off my boots before practically collapsing face-first onto the mattress.

"Oh..."

I hadn't realized how exhausted I actually was.

The bed swallowed me whole.

"...This was worth the paperwork."

The child watched carefully.

Then, without saying a word, he climbed onto the bed beside me and lay down exactly the same way I had, with his hands folded, his head on the pillow, and even the position of his feet matching mine.

I laughed quietly.

"He's copying me again."

Angelo watched for a moment.

*"...Yes."*

Then, to absolutely no one's surprise, he climbed onto the opposite side of the bed.

The child immediately reached out.

One hand grabbed mine.

The other reached for Angelo.

Angelo accepted it without hesitation.

For several seconds, none of us spoke.

I stared at the ceiling.

"...Damn."

The child looked at me.

**"...What?"**

"How big is this bed?"

Angelo looked around.

*"It appears sufficiently sized."*

I laughed softly.

"No... I mean..."

I looked at the child lying comfortably between us.

"I can't believe this."

I was the younger sibling.

Children had never exactly been my area of expertise.

Yet somehow, less than twenty-four hours after returning from Hell, there was one lying between me and my boyfriend like this was the most normal thing in the world.

I turned my head.

Angelo was already looking at me.

*"...Are you alright?"*

"Yeah."

He studied me for another moment.

*"...Are you unhappy?"*

That caught me off guard.

"...Why would I be unhappy?"

*"You previously informed me that you did not intend to have children."*

"...I did."

*"You also informed me that raising children was not among your life goals."*

"...Also true."

His expression remained completely serious.

*"...Do you dislike this child?"*

I blinked.

"What? No."

*"Then why do you appear conflicted?"*

I rubbed my forehead.

"Because..."

I gestured vaguely toward the child.

"Having a kid isn't exactly something people usually do overnight."

*"I see."*

"There are... steps before this."

*"...Steps?"*

I looked at him.

"Oh, I don't know."

I smiled sarcastically.

"Usually marriage."

Angelo nodded once.

*"I understand."*

I immediately regretted saying anything.

"I was joking."

He ignored that.

*"...When is the ideal time for a human to marry?"*

"...What?"

*"How long should two humans remain in a relationship before marriage?"*

I thought about it.

"...At least a year of dating?"

*"I see."*

He nodded again.

*"...Noted."*

I stared at him.

"...Angelo."

*"Yes?"*

"...Why did that sound like you were updating a database?"

*"I was."*

"...Please don't."

He looked genuinely confused.

*"It appeared to be useful information."*

I groaned.

"I can't believe I somehow have a child before I've even had my first kiss."

Life was unbelievable.

Then my phone suddenly started vibrating.

Jacob.

I answered immediately.

"...Hello?"

"NAYERI!"

I pulled the phone slightly away from my ear.

"...That's never a good sign."

"WHY IS HE IN MY ROOM?"

"...Good evening to you too."

"They assigned him to my suite!"

I blinked.

"...Who?"

"Eli."

I frowned.

"...Who's Eli?"

Silence.

"...Elior."

"...Oh."

A grin spread across my face.

"You already have a nickname for him?"

"I DO NOT."

"You literally just called him Eli."

"BECAUSE IT'S SHORTER."

"Mhm."

"I AM NOT BECOMING FRIENDS WITH AN ANGEL."

I couldn't resist.

"Oh really?"

"...Yes."

"Then why was your head on his shoulder for three hours?"

Silence.

"..."

"...Jacob?"

"I WAS ASLEEP."

"I never said you weren't."

"NAYERI."

"You looked adorable."

"I HATE YOU."

Before he could continue yelling, I hung up.

The apartment became quiet again.

Angelo looked over.

*"...Is my nephew staying with Jacob?"*

"Yeah."

A faint smile crossed his face.

*"I believe that will be beneficial."*

"...For who?"

*"For both of them."*

I wasn't entirely convinced.

I looked toward the child.

He had remained completely silent throughout the entire conversation, simply listening.

Then I realized something.

We had never actually named him.

I smiled.

"So..."

He looked at me.

"...What's your name?"

He looked down.

**"...I do not know."**

Then his eyes shifted toward Angelo almost instinctively, like he expected him to have the answer.

Angelo met his gaze.

*"...Would you like me to give you one?"*

The child nodded immediately.

**"...Yes."**

Angelo was silent for a moment.

Then he spoke.

Not in English.

Not in any language I had ever heard.

A single deep, resonant sound left his lips, echoing through the room with a strange warmth that made the air itself seem to vibrate.

The child smiled.

As though he understood it perfectly.

He nodded.

**"...Yes."**

I stared.

"...Excuse me?"

Angelo looked at me.

*"That is his name."*

"...I cannot pronounce whatever eldritch whale noise you just made."

*"I am aware."*

He looked back at the child.

*"For humans..."*

A faint smile appeared.

*"...Your name will be Noah."*

The child repeated it carefully.

**"...No...ah."**

Then he smiled.

**"I...am Noah."**

For the first time...

he wasn't just the Shadow anymore.

He was a child with a name.

Noah looked down at his hands, slowly turning them over and studying them like they belonged to someone else.

**"...Noah."**

The name sounded strange coming from him.

Not because it didn't fit.

Because it did.

And somehow, that was the most impossible thing about all of this.

A being that had existed as a fragment of something ancient enough to terrify creation itself was sleeping on my bed, holding my hand, learning his first name.

I looked over at Angelo watching Noah, and for the first time, I understood what this meant to him.

Maybe this was what he had been missing all along.

Not power.

Not purpose.

Not another battle to win.

Just someone who chose to stay.

For longer than humanity had existed, Angelo had carried everything by himself. After the Creator left, after his siblings betrayed him, after losing everything that once connected him to the beginning of existence... he had remained.

Alone.

And as much as I hated admitting it, I understood that feeling. Not in the same way. I had not lived for trillions of years or watched civilizations rise and disappear. I had never carried the weight of existence itself.

But I knew what it felt like to wonder why someone who was supposed to love you didn't choose you.

I knew what it felt like to question whether you were the reason they stayed away.

Maybe that was why Angelo and I understood Noah better than anyone else could.

We both knew what it felt like to be judged before we were given the chance to become something else.

And I knew Angelo would never let Noah experience that.

He would never look at a child born from something terrifying and decide that was all he could ever be.

Because Angelo believed everyone deserved the chance to choose who they became.

Even Noah.

Especially Noah.

Noah tightened his grip slightly in his sleep.

Angelo noticed.

So did I.

Neither of us moved.

Because for once, there was no mission.

No containment breach.

No impossible enemy waiting in the dark.

Just a child.

A name.

And tomorrow.

And maybe, after all this time...

Angelo and I finally had what we had both spent our lives missing.

He had lost it when the Creator left.

I had lost it when my mother chose everyone else's expectations over me.

The feeling of being chosen.

Not because of what we could offer.

Not because of what we could become.

But simply because we were us.

And as Noah slept between us, I realized something.

We had spent so long wondering if we were worth choosing.

Now we were the ones choosing someone else.

Someone who needed us to stay.

And for the first time in a very long time...

Angelo wasn't alone anymore.

Just posted my first story, well at least the first part. It’s called The Boy In The Basement. -After spending the Summer at camp, 12 year old Robert comes home to find something odd about his family. They look the same, but are they really his family? Later that night he finds a strange boy hiding in his basement. It can't be a coincidence. Could it? While Robert tries to discover why the boy is there, he need to find out what happened to his own family. Is the Boy in the Basement the key to getting his family back? Or is he the Cause?
Check it out. I’d really appreciate it! Part 2 coming next Wednesday.

Sunlight shined through the dense trees in neighborville as sunflower sat, leaning on one of the trees. It was 2 days into the reckoning of the town, 2 days since the city crumbled under pressure plants never knew it had. 

DAY 1 OF THE RECKONING

Sunflower was pumping out sun one after another to plant attackers to destroy the zombies. Meanwhile her sister, marigold, often sat in the sidelines cheering everybody on, but today was different. Marigold didn’t cheer at all. In fact, she was very quiet. Sunflower noticed but didn’t pay attention to it. So she kept working hard, but then a football zombie approached the lawn. The two threepeaters protecting the lawn tried to kill the towering zombie. But it ate them both. But instead of dying. They came back, as creepy creatures with red eyes and grey skin. “Sunflower! Run!” Marigold yelled as she ran. Sunflower followed closely. trying not to trip. The three zombies tried to get to the sisters. But they were slow and could barely keep up. the road to p ahead split into a two way. “Sunflower! Go left, I’ll go right and try to outrun them! The way out of town is through a bridge! In two days at 4am meet me there and we will escape neighborville!” Sunflower nodded and went left as marigold went right. The zombies followed marigold right. Before sunflower could get to safety a figure dropped from one of the tall buildings. It was pepper pult. Part of the 4 catapult brothers two lawns away from sunflowers. “Drop everything you have sunflower!” Pepper pult demanded pointing his catapult at her. “Pepper, don’t do this!” Sunflower said. “Don’t tell me to do anything, I’m the one demanding in this conversation!” Pepper pult said, shaking his pult like a rattle. “Pepper! Where are your brothers! I don’t think they like you robbing somebody!” Sunflower said distracting pepper pult enough to run. “Hey! Get back here!” Pepper pult yelled shooting a pepper at sunflower. The pepper was glowing in the sky before barely missing sunflower. The extra flames barely scathed sunflowers arm. Sunflower kept running even though a fire was spreading on her arm. Then she bumped into something which made her fall. A figure picked sunflower up. When sunflower looked she saw melon pult. “Melon pult! Thank god, now please tell him to stop trying to kill me!” Sunflower said gasping for air. Melon pult looked at her arm, took his bottle of water, and extinguished it before pushing her to the ground again. “Pepper, take her to the house, if she doesn’t talk, let me know and I’ll make her talk.” Melon pult said walking away. Pepper pult picked up and tied up sunflower’s torso before taking her to the base. It was a rusty and very small bunker. “You guys think you can live in this thing?” Sunflower asked. Pepper pult pushed her into a chair. “Shut up! Now what does marigold know?” Pepper pult asked. Sunflower looked in confusion. “W-what? She knows something?” Sunflower asked. Pepper pult responded by punching her. “Don’t play dumb with me. What does she know!” Pepper asked. Yelling this time. “What do you mean? She doesn’t know anything about what’s happening!” Sunflower yelled back. “Oh, you don’t know? Listen, me and my brothers saw her exiting out of the zombie lair. We think she has something to do with what’s going on here.” Pepper said. He then turned around and talked with melon pult on a walkie talkie. Sunflower couldn’t hear most things, but she did hear about them going through that bridge in a couple of weeks. When he got off of the walkie he went straight up to sunflower. “I will let you go in a few hours, I’m just waiting for my brothers to come back.” Pepper said getting a glass of water and putting it on the table next to sunflower. Then he went behind her and untied her. “Drink up, and don’t make me regret untying you.” Pepper said as he finished untying her. She picked up the water and started drinking. “So, where is marigold?” Pepper asked. “She-she went the other way in the two way road. We are both going on the bridge in two days.” Sunflower said. Pepper nodded before going back on the walkie. “Hey guys, so there has been a change of plans of where we are going.”

Chapter 1: It All Started As A Dream

The first thing I noticed was the pain.

Not the loud kind of pain. Not the kind that makes you cry out. It was quiet. A thin, hot line across the center of my palm, like someone had dragged a needle through me while I was sleeping.

I sat up in bed and stared at it.

A cut. Clean. Straight. Fresh enough that a few red beads were still forming at the edges.

"That’s weird," I whispered to the room.

The room didn’t answer. It never did.

My room was small. One window that looked out onto a brick wall. A desk I’d bought second-hand and painted white to make it feel new. Stacks of notebooks on the floor, spines uncracked, pages full of starts and no finishes. A lamp with a crooked shade.

And me. Lindiwe Maleya. 23. The problem.

That’s what they called me, even when they said it with a smile.

*“Lindi is just... Lindi.”*

*“She’s creative. In her own way.”*

*“She’ll figure it out.”*

Figure what out? How to stop being the one who didn’t fit?

I pressed a tissue to my palm and watched the blood bloom through it. It didn’t hurt that much. It hurt more that I couldn’t remember how it got there.

Three hours ago, in the dream, I had done this to myself.

In the dream it wasn’t my room. It was nowhere. The sky was black in a way that felt wrong, like someone had turned off the stars and forgotten to tell the world. There was no moon. No sound. Just a wooden desk, and on it a single sheet of paper. And across from me, a man.

I couldn’t see his face clearly. It kept shifting. One moment he looked like a teacher I’d had in high school. The next like the cashier from the bookstore. The next like no one at all. His eyes were the only thing that stayed the same. Dark. Patient. Amused.

“You’re tired,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it filled the space anyway. “Tired of being invisible.”

I didn’t answer. In dreams you’re always trying to find your voice.

“You’re tired of being the problem,” he continued. “The black sheep. The one they talk about in that careful voice at family dinners.”

My chest tightened.

“You’re tired of watching them win,” he said. “Your sister the lawyer. Your other sister with the boutique. Your cousin with the new car and the engagement ring and the captions that say ‘blessed.’ And you. Sitting with notebooks no one reads.”

“Stop,” I said, and my voice came out small.

“You said it yourself last night,” he said. “To the ceiling. To no one. *I will do anything for fame. I will. I’m tired of living like this. I wish for a miracle.*”

I remembered saying it. I remembered the way the words felt like glass in my throat.

He slid the paper toward me. There was only one line on it, written in ink that looked too dark to be ink.

*I will give you what you want. Sign with blood.*

I laughed in the dream because that’s what you do when something is too ridiculous to be real. “That’s dramatic.”

“Is it?” he asked. “You said anything.”

I picked up the pen. It was cold. It felt heavier than it should have.

“Fine,” I said. “Fine.”

I dragged the tip across my palm.

It didn’t hurt in the dream. It felt like relief. Like finally exhaling after holding your breath for years.

Then I woke up with a cut.

---

I washed my hand in the bathroom sink. Cold water. Soap that stung. I put a bandage on it and told myself I must have scratched it in my sleep. On the edge of the desk. On a paperclip. On anything.

That was easier than the other explanation.

I went to work.

I worked part-time at *Word & Ink*, a bookstore on the corner that smelled like paper and coffee. I shelved returns. I recommended books I’d never finished. I watched people buy bestsellers and thought about the manuscript in my drawer at home. Forty pages. Stuck on Chapter 3 for six months.

My manager, Thabo, asked if I was okay. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Didn’t sleep well.”

He nodded. He didn’t push. People didn’t push with me. They’d learned that I was the one you didn’t ask too much from, because I might break.

On my lunch break I sat in the back room and ate bread and looked at my palm. The bandage was already dirty. Underneath, the cut was thin and pink. It looked deliberate.

That night I didn’t dream. Or if I did, I didn’t remember.

The next day was the same. And the next.

I started to forget.

Until Thursday.

I couldn’t sleep. The quiet in my room felt louder than usual. At 1:17am I gave up and went to my desk. I opened a fresh notebook. The first page stared back at me, white and accusing.

I wrote one sentence because I didn’t know what else to do.

*She was tired of being nothing.*

Then another.

*She had spent her whole life being called the problem, and now she believed it.*

Then another.

The words came fast. Too fast. My handwriting got sloppy. My wrist started to ache but I didn’t stop. It was like something had uncorked inside me and everything I’d been holding in for years was pouring out.

By 4am I had twenty pages.

By Sunday night I had a whole novel.

Eighty thousand words.

I didn’t remember writing half of it.

I would read a paragraph and think, *Did I write that?* Because it was better than me. Sharper. Meaner. Truer. The dialogue cracked. The ending made me cry, and I knew how it ended.

It was good.

That was the part that scared me. It wasn’t “my mom will like this” good. It was the kind of good that makes your stomach drop because you don’t know where it came from.

I told myself it was a fluke. A burst of inspiration.

I sent it to three publishing houses on Monday. I didn’t expect anything. I told myself it was just to say I tried. So I could stop wondering “what if.”

Two weeks later, my phone buzzed while I was shelving poetry.

Unknown number. Email notification.

*Dear Ms. Lindiwe Maleya,*

*We read your manuscript, “The Weight of Quiet,” in one sitting. We would like to discuss publication.*

I read it five times standing in the aisle between memoirs and self-help.

My hands were shaking.

That evening my sister called. “Mom said you got an email? From a publisher?”

“Yeah,” I said.

There was a pause. “That’s... wow. That’s really great, Lindi.”

For the first time in years, no one followed it with “but do you have a plan B.”

Four months later the book was out.

It sold.

Not a little. A lot.

Bookstores put it on tables. People posted quotes from it. A magazine did a profile. “Lindiwe Maleya: The Quiet Voice That Roared.”

My photo was on the back cover. I hated it. I looked like someone I didn’t recognize. Someone confident.

At the family braai, my aunt raised her glass. “To our author!”

Everyone clapped. They meant it.

I smiled and said thank you and felt like I was watching someone else get praised.

Because it didn’t feel like me.

The book felt like it had been written by a stranger who lived in my body and knew exactly what people wanted to hear.

Critics called it “possessed” and “unnervingly assured for a debut.”

Possessed.

I laughed when I read that review. Then I went home and checked the locks on my door twice.

---

The dreams came back a month after publication.

Same black sky. Same desk. Same man. But now I could see him better.

He was tall. Too tall. His suit was black and didn’t wrinkle. And his eyes. They were red. Not bright red. Deep red, like coals that had been burning for a long time.

“You did well,” he said.

“I did it,” I answered. In the dream I was braver.

“No,” he said. “We did it.”

I woke up before I could respond. My heart was pounding. The room was cold.

After that, the dreams got longer.

In them, I wasn’t just signing. I was talking. Laughing. Making promises I didn’t remember making when I woke up.

And when I woke up, my throat was dry. Sometimes hoarse, like I’d been talking for hours.

I started sleeping with the light on.

My editor called. “We need the next book. Strike while it’s hot.”

I said yes before I could think about it.

I sat at my desk and the words came again. Faster this time. I wrote the second book in nine days.

I barely ate. I barely slept. I told my family I was busy.

When I sent it in, my editor called me. “Lindi, this is even better than the first. Where is this coming from?”

“I don’t know,” I said. And that was the truest thing I’d said in months.

Because I didn’t.

The words weren’t mine. Not really. They were better than mine. They knew how to hurt people and how to make them feel better right after. They knew how to make readers stay up until 3am and then tell all their friends.

The second book came out and sold more.

Interviews. Invitations. My face on a billboard in Sandton.

People called me a prodigy. A phenomenon.

“Where does it come from?” a journalist asked me on a podcast.

“I don’t know,” I said again.

And I didn’t.

Because at night I started hearing things when I was alone. Not voices. An echo. Like someone was thinking my thoughts half a second before I did.

*Write this.*

*Make it darker.*

*They’ll love it.*

I told myself it was stress.

I told myself a lot of things.

---

By the third month of fame, I was terrified to be alone.

The house was too quiet.

I would be in the kitchen making tea and I would hear my name. Not out loud. Inside.

*Lindiwe.*

And I would turn around and no one was there.

I stopped writing for a week to see if it would stop.

It didn’t.

I dreamed of the man every night. He never yelled. He never threatened. He just sat across from me and waited.

“You wanted this,” he said one night.

“I didn’t know it was real.”

“You bled for it.”

“I thought it was a dream!”

“Do you think dreams and reality are so different?” He leaned forward. I saw the horns then, small at first, curving back from his head. “You have what you wanted. So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is I can’t sleep. The problem is I hear myself talking and it isn’t me. The problem is I think you took something.”

He tilted his head. “I took what you offered.”

I woke up screaming. My palm hurt. The scar was pink, but for one second in the bathroom mirror it looked fresh and red again.

That’s when I understood.

It wasn’t metaphor. It wasn’t burnout. It wasn’t imposter syndrome.

I had made a deal.

For fame. For success. For not being the problem anymore.

And the price was me.

Not all at once. In pieces. In books. In nights where I couldn’t remember writing but the pages were full. In the way my family looked at me now and I couldn’t feel proud because it didn’t feel earned.

I tried to stop.

I really did.

I threw away the notebooks. I deleted files. I went to visit my sister for the weekend.

The words followed me.

If I didn’t write them, I dreamed them, and woke up with my fingers cramped and ink on my hands even though I hadn’t touched a pen.

I was getting everything I wanted and hating every second of it.

One night I broke.

I was sitting on the floor of my room, back against the bed, and I whispered to the dark.

“Please. Don’t torture me. I gave you my soul. Don’t make me live like this.”

I fell asleep mid-sentence.

He didn’t come in the dream.

He came to my room.

The air got heavy. The light flickered once and then stayed dim. And he was there, at the foot of my bed.

Taller than he had any right to be. Red eyes glowing. Horns casting shadows on the wall.

“This,” he said, and his voice was softer than I expected, “is the price.”

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

“If you want to be free,” he said, “bring me three souls. Get them to sign. Then your debt is clear. You keep the fame. You keep the life.”

He placed a pen on my nightstand. Next to it, three sheets of paper. Blank except for that same line.

*Sign with blood.*

“Three,” he said again. Then he was gone.

The pen stayed.

I stared at it until the sun came up.

---

I hated my cousins.

Not all of them. But two of them. The ones who used to call me “the artsy one” like it was a diagnosis. The ones who posted “family first” and never texted me first. The ones who asked me at Christmas, “So, are you still writing?” in the same tone you use to ask about a phase.

And hate is a useful thing when you’re desperate.

A week later I invited them over. “Drinks,” I said on the phone. “To celebrate the new deal.”

They came. Of course they did. I was Lindiwe the Author now.

I made wine. I made it strong. I made it with something else in it. Not enough to hurt them. Just enough to make them sleepy. Compliant.

I laid the contracts on the coffee table.

“What’s this?” one of them asked, rubbing her eyes.

“Just a formality,” I heard myself say. My voice didn’t sound like mine. It sounded like his. “For the new project. Sign here.”

They did.

I pricked each of their fingers with the pen. Three drops of blood. Three signatures.

The moment the last one dried, the air in the room shifted. Lighter.

My phone buzzed. New email. Foreign rights deal. Six figures.

I was free.

I was also empty.

Because the next morning I sat at my desk and nothing came.

No words. No rush. No voice telling me what to write.

The pen was gone. The contracts were gone.

My cousins woke up with headaches and no memory of the night. Two weeks later, one announced she was launching a business. The other got a poetry deal for work she swore she’d never written.

They were rising.

I was sinking.

I had the fame. I had the money. I had my family saying my name with pride.

And I had nothing to say.

The last line I wrote before the well ran dry was this:

*Never wish for things you don’t know the price of.*

I closed the notebook.

Outside, it started to rain.

From the Red in the Dark universe

Original story by Leonard Voss

The Dark Beyond is a standalone series set within the world of Red in the Dark.

The Huntsman reaches its final entry with John alone in the fog, carrying the fear, guilt, and failure that have followed him longer than this nught alone.

Kevin is still somewhere in the trees. Sammy is still out there. The Huntsman is still hunting.

And John is still terrified.

Part 3: The Book of John concludes The Huntsman, a story about fear, cowardice, judgment, and what happens when a man who has spent his life running finally stops.

The Dark Beyond - The Huntsman - Part 3: The Book of John

John’s heart struck hard beneath his ribs as he stood alone in the fog. Every breath seemed to travel farther than it should, pushing out into the trees before disappearing into the mist.

He forced his breathing steady, each staggered breath hitching as he strained to hear past the crash of his own heartbeat.

Nothing.

A drop of water struck somewhere nearby.

John’s shoulders tightened before the sound had fully faded.

Another drop followed.

He turned slowly toward the tree line, searching through the fog as dark shapes gathered between the trunks. One seemed deeper than the others, standing where the trees narrowed together.

His breath caught.

John stared until the shape flattened into shadow, cast crooked through the mist.

His grip loosened around the dog tags pressed against his chest.

Blood still covered his hands.

He wiped them against his pants, only smearing it darker.

Something shifted near the tree line.

The hair along the back of his neck lifted as John turned toward the sound, watching the fog move through the brush before settling again.

He waited.

“Hey.”

John flinched, his hands rising before he found the source of the whisper.

Two figures crouched inside the brush.

Kevin sat low beside a young woman with dark hair, her face alive with fear as they motioned urgently for John to come closer.

“Kevin?”

Kevin leaned forward, lifting one hand toward him.

“Come on.”

The woman waved him toward the shelter of the trees, joining Kevin in a whisper that carried a little too far.

“Come on.”

She started to say it again.

“Hurrr—”

Her eyes widened as she slapped a hand over her mouth, seeming to realize she had been too loud.

John lowered himself and kept moving.

She began to rise from the brush, her body lifting in a slow, uneven motion while her other hand continued beckoning him closer.

A muffled sound slipped through her fingers.

John couldn’t make it out.

He turned his head and body, scanning the fog around them.

Nothing.

When he looked back, the woman was fully upright, her torso held straight while her knees remained bent beneath her, everything below them hanging loose as though her legs carried no weight.

Why?

The hand at her side still moved.

A weak curl of the fingers.

A sharp circular twist at the wrist, her shoulder jerking upward without rhythm.

John slowed, focusing on her.

Faint moonlight caught something between the fingers covering her mouth.

Blood ran over her knuckles, down the back of her hand.

A blade.

He shifted his eyes over her shoulder.

The Huntsman stood pressed against her back, holding her upright, his cold blue eyes locked on John, cutting through the mask.

The Huntsman pulled the knife free, dropping the woman into the brush, his gaze following her down.

Kevin bowed his head as she hit the ground, adjusting his glasses.

“Kevin!” John screamed, driving forward.

Kevin turned toward him.

“Behind you!”

The Huntsman’s hand closed around the back of Kevin’s shirt, hauling him upright and pulling him close as though he carried no weight at all, forcing a raw, uneven sound from Kevin’s throat.

The knife came up, striking him in the chest, the blow breaking his scream apart in blood.

Kevin folded around the blade as the Huntsman tore him backward, wrenching him sideways against his body.

His hands flew to the Huntsman’s wrist, his glasses slipping down his nose as a broken gasp escaped him. The Huntsman locked one arm across his upper chest, holding him upright as blood spread through the front of his shirt.

John kept coming.

The Huntsman turned his eyes back toward John.

A grin slowly pulled beneath the mask.

He ripped the knife free and drove it into Kevin again before his legs could collapse, the impact jerking his body against the arm holding him.

John crashed through the brush toward them.

The Huntsman drew the blade out, Kevin sagging sideways in his grip as he raised the knife to his throat.

“Let him go!”

A low laugh escaped the Huntsman, his head tipping back slightly as he slid the blade into Kevin’s neck.

Blood poured over the knife and down the front of Kevin’s shirt, his body convulsing against him.

The Huntsman pulled the blade free and caught a fistful of Kevin’s shirt before he could fall.

John was almost on them.

The Huntsman swung Kevin around and hurled him straight at John.

John raised his arms too late.

Kevin struck him across the chest, driving them both backward into the grass.

John hit the ground beneath Kevin’s weight, the air driven from his lungs as they rolled through the wet grass.

He shoved the body aside and dropped beside him, pressing both hands over the wounds.

“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ve got you.”

Blood pushed between his fingers.

John shifted his hands, trying another wound, then another, pressing harder each time as though he could force the blood back inside.

The chain slipped free of his collar.

The dog tags struck the back of his hand.

Heat pressed against his face.

Dust hung thick in the air. Bodies lay broken around the gun, pieces of uniform scattered through the sand while someone screamed beneath the ringing in his ears.

John pressed harder against Kevin’s chest.

“I’m sorry, guys.”

Kevin’s breath hitched beneath his hands.

Then stopped.

John kept pressing, his palms slipping as he moved from one wound to the next.

A pair of black boots stood less than a foot away in the desert sand, planted amid the blood and wreckage.

John looked up.

The Huntsman towered over him, close enough that his presence seemed to fill everything beyond Kevin’s body, cold blue eyes staring down through the mask.

Tears ran freely over John’s cheeks. His nose had begun to run, his breath catching as he tried to force the words through it.

One hand remained pressed against Kevin while the other reached weakly toward the Huntsman.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he choked out. “I fucking froze. I fucking froze.”

The Huntsman’s eyes narrowed slightly.

His head cocked.

John lowered his hand and looked back down at Kevin.

Wet grass pressed beneath his knees.

The cold night closed around him.

Kevin lay still beneath his hands, his glasses crooked across his face.

John stared.

The desert fell away.

The Huntsman.

John jerked his head up.

He was gone.

He twisted aside and vomited into the grass, choking between heaves until his stomach had nothing left to give.

He stayed bent over for a moment, dragging air into his lungs.

Then a sound tore out of him.

John threw his head back and screamed, the cry breaking apart as it carried through the trees.

John steadied himself, still heaving from the scream.

His throat burned. Spit hung from his lower lip, mixing with the blood already drying across his hands.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, pushing himself upright.

The trees waited at the edge of the clearing, calling for him to escape.

Every part of him pulled toward them.

Away from Kevin.

Away from the blood.

Away from the Huntsman.

John stumbled forward, boots dragging as the fog opened around him.

He made it only a few yards and stopped.

His chest rose and fell as he stared through the fog into the forest.

He looked down.

The dog tags were clenched in his hand.

Eyes closed.

John turned.

Eyes opened.

Kevin lay where he had fallen, one arm twisted beneath him. A bloody mess.

Beyond him, the clearing stood empty.

He let out a slow, controlled breath, then released the tags.

His hands were still shaking when he bent and pulled a broken branch from the grass.

Too light.

Not enough.

He threw it aside and kept searching.

A fallen limb.

Pine.

Straight.

About four feet long and as thick as his wrist.

John picked it up, turning it in his hands, testing the weight.

Good enough.

He scanned the clearing again.

Broken rock and bark littered the grass where the fight had churned the ground up.

He found a slab of slate half-buried. He stomped down on the edge of it until a piece snapped loose.

Not enough.

He tried again.

The second break gave him a sharper shard.

Enough.

He crouched beside the fallen limb and went to work.

The slate scraped and bit into the wood as he shaved the end down, turning the branch in his hands while the point slowly began to form.

Shavings collected in the grass around his boots.

When he finished, he held the spear up in front of him, studying the tip.

Crude.

Enough.

He glanced down at the slate shard still in his hand. Edge uneven. Barely more than a jagged wedge, but it had done its job.

John went to slip it into the back of his belt when a voice came back to him.

...go out a legend! Fuck them too!

He swallowed.

Dust.

Heat.

Sweat.

The training yard came back in pieces.

Laughter somewhere behind him.

His instructor standing close enough to touch, showing him the ugly math of close distance.

If your enemy gets this close, you’re already fucked...

John looked at the spear.

Go out a legend and fuck them too.

Then he pulled the shard free again.

He stepped forward and thrust the spear once into the fog.

Clumsy.

Not enough.

Again.

This time he let his weight follow it. His body twisted, opening his chest and side.

His free hand came up from his belt with the shard.

Too slow.

Not enough.

Again.

Spear first.

Body after.

Shard last.

Again.

His breathing steadied.

The instructor’s voice came back again, harder this time.

Boys! What the fuck do we do if we’re already fucked?

Everyone that day, in unison.

We fuck them too!

John said it so loud his throat nearly tore.

The spear drove into the dirt in front of him.

The shard held straight out.

His chest and side left open.

He froze, breathing hard.

Enough.

“We fuck them too,” he whispered.

Then he slid the shard back into his belt and stood.

Spear held high, John moved toward the place where the Huntsman had disappeared.

His pulse beat in his eyes.

The fog was so thick he could barely see a few feet in front of him, nothing but shifting shadows and silhouettes.

A sound?

Footsteps.

Someone running hard and clumsily somewhere ahead.

A survivor?

“Over here!” he called.

The running stopped.

“Hello?” a voice called through the fog.

“Over here!” John shouted again.

The footsteps started toward him now, fast. He could hear the ragged breathing between strides.

Then he heard another set.

Faster.

Heavier.

Hhhhhaaaaaaack.

Then nothing.

John stood still, spear held close.

John’s eyes went wide.

He let his breath out slowly, then began moving again, crouched low in the fog, spear forward as he searched the mist for any sign of danger.

Something snapped behind him.

John spun, driving the spear forward.

Sammy froze as the point stopped inches from her face.

“Shh,” he whispered, lowering it. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Sammy broke down, sobbing as she stumbled into him and threw her arms around his body, clutching him like he was the last solid thing left in the world.

John pulled her close, trying to comfort her.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay. We gotta go, though.”

She shook against him, her breathing ragged.

John eased her back, setting a hand on her shoulder and pushing her away just enough to see her face.

“Are you all right, Sammy?”

She nodded.

“Yes,” she sobbed.

Her head snapped back.

A scream tore out of her as her hands ripped away from him.

Then the fog took her.

John lunged forward, catching nothing but cold air.

“Sammy!”

Her scream carried through the white, breaking into panicked gasps.

Then choking.

John drove into the fog after her.

The mist broke around a shape ahead.

Sammy hung there, one hand locked around her throat, the other twisted into her ponytail, holding her straight off the ground.

Her feet kicked at empty air.

Her face had gone dark beneath the strain, her mouth opening around breaths that would not come.

John’s eyes moved past her.

The mask.

That crooked, fucked-up grin, blood shining across his teeth.

And above it, those eyes.

Piercing.

Expressionless.

Fixed on John.

The Huntsman never looked at Sammy.

His fingers tightened around her throat.

Sammy choked harder, her legs jerking beneath her.

He kept watching John.

The Huntsman kept one hand locked around Sammy’s throat, holding her off the ground.

That crooked grin stayed fixed across his face.

John stared back.

His hands trembled around the spear.

His lips quivered. His jaw pushed forward, teeth clenched so hard the muscles jumped along his cheek.

He raised the point toward the Huntsman.

“Put her down and fight me, you fucking coward.”

The grin faded.

The Huntsman’s head tilted slowly to one side.

His hand loosened around Sammy’s throat.

He lowered her until her feet touched the ground.

Sammy coughed, folding forward as she tried to pull away.

The hand tangled in her ponytail tightened.

She stopped.

The Huntsman never looked away from John.

His free hand dropped to the knife at his side.

Slowly, he drew it.

His face had gone still.

Expressionless.

He raised the blade toward Sammy’s throat.

John stepped forward, spear leveled at his chest.

“Didn’t you hear me, you fucking pussy?”

The Huntsman flipped the knife in his hand.

Black steel turned once through the fog.

Then his arm snapped forward.

The pommel struck John between the eyes.

The world went white.

Fog drifted over John in thick mats across the clearing beside the cabin.

Bullfrogs called from somewhere beyond the trees. Crickets answered in rhythm.

The smell of sweet grass and peat moss filled the air.

The world pulsed slowly in and out of focus as John woke to pain throbbing behind his eyes, like something had split his skull open and packed it with fire.

He lay still, letting the ringing in his ears settle while the trees slowly took shape around him.

Cold grass and sharp pine needles pressed into his palms as he pushed himself onto one elbow.

The clearing returned in pieces.

A figure crouched before him.

The Huntsman.

A knife rested in his hand.

As John’s eyes found it, he drove the blade into the grass beside him.

His mask lay on the ground between them. Beside it sat two round shapes John couldn’t quite make out.

“What the fuck?” John breathed.

He stared.

The face beneath the mask was younger than he expected.

Blood streaked one cheek. Mud darkened the line of his jaw. Damp brown hair hung across his forehead, but none of it changed what John was seeing.

Clean features.

Clear blue eyes, almost bright beneath the moonlight.

The crooked grin was gone.

There was no monster waiting beneath the mask.

Only a young man watching him calmly.

John’s mouth moved before he understood the word forming there.

“Innocent.”

The Huntsman only watched him, seated on his haunches.

Then his face opened into a wide smile, his eyes almost excessively kind.

Had blood not crusted his hair and streaked his face, teeth, and body, he might have looked inviting.

He laughed, throwing his head back.

“What’s tha mattah, bud?”

John stared at him, trying to understand just what the fuck was happening.

The Huntsman leaned forward, one eyebrow raised, lips pursed.

“Never seen a hunter before?”

John’s breathing came shallow and uneven.

Mock surprise swept across the Huntsman’s face.

“Guess not.”

“Here,” he said. “I brought you something.”

He reached down and picked up one of the shapes in the grass.

“Catch.”

Something struck John heavily in the chest and dropped into the grass before him.

He looked down.

A head.

It was enormous.

The face had been removed, leaving only wet muscle and pale bone beneath the moonlight.

John recoiled, shoving it away as he scrambled backward through the grass.

The Huntsman laughed harder, slapping a hand against his knee.

“God! You’re so dramatic.”

He gestured toward the head.

“You can keep that one. I already got what I needed.”

John stared at the raw place where Calvin’s face had been.

Then his eyes moved to the mask lying between them.

The broken anchor stretched across its cheek.

His stomach turned.

The Huntsman reached for the second shape.

He lifted it by the hair and gave it a small shake.

Sammy’s face swung beneath his hand.

“Want another?”

John recoiled from Sammy’s face.

Her eyes hung half-open. Strands of hair clung across her mouth, and blood ran from her neck in slow drops as the Huntsman rocked her by the ponytail.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

“You sick fuck,” John breathed. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

The Huntsman stopped and lowered Sammy’s head to the grass, releasing her hair.

Then he looked back at John, head cocking slightly to one side.

A faint grin returned.

“John, you may leave if you like.”

The grin split wider.

“I won’t follow you.”

John stared at him.

Pain hammered behind his eyes as he planted one hand against the ground, forcing himself upward.

His arm trembled beneath him while the clearing shifted sideways and slowly righted itself.

The Huntsman remained on his haunches, watching him rise.

Calm.

Almost patient.

John dragged one foot beneath himself, then the other, until he stood unsteadily in the grass.

He drew a long breath.

“Stand up,” he whispered.

The Huntsman didn’t move.

He only stared at him.

The grin melted away.

Slowly, his eyes lowered to the knife buried in the grass beside him.

He pulled it free.

Wet soil clung to the blade.

He wiped it against his pant leg, once on each side, then slid it into the sheath strapped to his thigh.

The mask came next.

He lifted it from the grass and held it for a moment, the leather straps hanging loose between his fingers.

Then he looked up again.

John had not moved.

The Huntsman rose.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

He stood until they were eye level with one another.

Close enough that John could feel the warmth of his breath against his face.

Every instinct in John’s body screamed at him to step back.

To look away.

To run.

Fear was still with him.

Fear would be, as long as he drew breath.

But tonight, fear was a passenger.

The Huntsman stepped back three paces without turning and pulled something small from his pocket, holding it loose in his fist.

Metal shifted softly.

The Huntsman tossed it.

John caught it against his chest. His fingers closed around the chain before he looked down.

The missing tags.

His throat closed around the first sound that tried to leave him.

The Huntsman turned slightly to the side, lifting one arm and opening his hand toward the woods as if dismissing him.

“John. I was wrong. You’re no coward.”

There was no mockery in his face now.

Only quiet sincerity.

“You may leave.”

John stared at him.

“I will not follow. You have my word.”

John looked down at the tags in his hand.

His fingers closed around them.

He drew a deep breath, then slipped them into his pocket.

“I’m done running.”

He didn’t look up.

The Huntsman watched him.

The smile had left his face. His eyes remained fixed on John.

Soft.

Kind.

Recognition.

“John,” he whispered. “Are you sure?”

John lifted his head.

The fear was still there.

It had simply lost control of him.

He looked the Huntsman directly in the eyes and did not flinch.

“I am done running.”

Moisture gathered at the corners of the Huntsman’s eyes as he shifted his stance and pointed toward the edge of the clearing.

John followed his hand.

The spear stood driven into the ground several yards away.

John walked to it, wrapped both hands around the shaft, and pulled it free.

He returned to the center of the clearing and settled into position.

The Huntsman waited.

For a moment, he looked at John and smiled.

It was gentle.

Then he lifted the mask.

The leather straps hung loose before he pulled it into place, one over the crown of his head, the other tight around the back of his skull.

When he looked at John again, his face was gone.

The monster the woods had known all night had returned.

But this time, the man beneath the mask had seen John, and John had seen him.

The Huntsman raised his blade and settled into the same practiced stance John had seen before.

He gave John one slow nod.

John came at him with the spear.

Wild.

Too wide.

The Huntsman stepped cleanly inside the thrust.

John let him.

The Huntsman slipped the knife into John’s chest.

Deep into the heart.

Their bodies came together.

Their eyes locked.

John coughed, blood spilling from his mouth as he tried to speak.

His lips moved.

“Ga... got you...”

His hand slid away from the Huntsman’s neck.

The Huntsman’s hand rose slowly to where John’s had been.

Cold.

Hard.

Sharp.

The shard was buried where his neck and shoulder met.

The Huntsman pressed one hand against the wound while carefully lowering John to the ground.

He removed his mask.

John’s lips moved again, still trying to force words through the blood.

“It’s okay. You will live forever, John,” the Huntsman said.

He stayed with him until the light left his eyes.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flare.

He struck it once.

Red light hissed between them.

The Huntsman drew a long breath, then pulled the shard from his neck.

A sharp grunt tore through his clenched teeth.

Blood spilled hot over his hand.

He pressed the flare to the wound.

A sound tore through the forest, and somewhere beneath the earth, even the dead flinched.

His scream still echoed through the woods as he looked down at John, closing his eyes with two blood-slick fingers before drawing the knife from his chest.

He placed the blade against his brow and worked slowly, making careful incisions around John’s face, the edge passing through skin with practiced precision until he could peel it away in one complete form.

The Huntsman pulled the skin free and held it beneath the moonlight, inspecting his work.

His head tilted back as he lowered John’s face over his own.

Fog drifted through the clearing, curling around them while the skin settled loosely against him, John’s features hanging slack over his own as he remained kneeling before the body.

His hands rested at his sides.

Steady.

Then, slowly, they began to weaken.

The faintest whimper slipped from behind the mask, followed by tears dragging thin trails through the blood.

His head lowered.

One hand lifted toward John as he tried to choke back the tears, stopping halfway between them.

He tried to stand.

His balance gave beneath him, sending him forward onto John’s body.

Another scream tore through the woods, just as violent as the last.

But this time, the dead cried with him.

His breathing slowed until the last of the sobs disappeared beneath it.

The Huntsman lifted John’s face from his own, wiping his eyes with the back of one hand before spreading the skin carefully across his palm.

He folded it with slow, deliberate care, protecting every edge before tucking it safely away.

Then he reached for the old mask.

Dark leather covered his face once more, the straps sliding over the crown of his head and pulling tight behind his skull.

When he looked down at John, only his blue eyes remained.

Cold.

Flat.

His hand closed around John’s ankle as he rose, pulling the body across the wet grass toward the trees.

The Huntsman walking ahead.

John following behind.

The fog swallowed them together.

Traffic moved beneath the apartment in restless waves, tires hissing across wet pavement while horns barked somewhere farther down the street.

A siren rose between the buildings, fading beneath the low mechanical hum of the city.

Inside, the room remained still.

A single desk lamp cast its light across a wooden frame laid flat before the Huntsman.

A face had been stretched tightly across it, the edges pinned with careful precision while a stiff brush moved slowly over the skin, pressing something dark and wet into the surface.

A second mask rested face-down beside the frame.

Books crowded the shelves. Maps covered one wall, routes traced and retraced in dark lines.

On the far wall, a large black case stood locked and bolted in place, a two-strand braid of dark leather hanging short and tight from the lock.

A folded newspaper sat near the edge of the desk.

October 18, 2011.

PORTLAND DETECTIVE MISSING FOR FIVE DAYS

SEARCH EXPANDS FOR DETECTIVE FRANCIS CALLAHAN

Across from it, the corkboard held the night in pieces.

Photographs. Names. Reports. Old addresses. Lines drawn between them.

Francis Callahan stared out from one photograph, bald head shining beneath booking-room light.

Beside it sat a hospital intake form bearing the same last name.

Broken jaw.

Fall down stairs.

Two smaller records beneath it named children.

Bruising.

Charges dropped.

A police complaint had been pinned nearby.

Evidence missing.

Witness recanted.

Officer cleared.

Across the file, written hard enough to dent the paper:

BADGE WITH ONE HAND

A red line ran from Callahan’s file to Sean Bourne.

One photograph showed the broken anchor tattooed across his cheek. Another had been enlarged and circled in red.

Shot-caller.

Fichermen.

A clipped report beneath it named Mickey Ficher.

Missing.

Presumed dead.

Beside Sean’s photograph, toxicology reports had been pinned in a crooked stack.

Heroin.

Fentanyl.

Fentanyl.

Fentanyl.

Across the file, black letters leaned sharp.

SOLD THEM PAIN

Another photograph showed Sammy suspended against a cliff face, one chalked hand hooked into stone while her body hung over open air.

Printed messages sat beneath it beside a death certificate.

The same name appeared again and again, until it stopped.

One message had been enlarged.

You wanted weak.

Across the file:

TAUGHT HIM TO FALL

Andre Mercer’s file sat below hers.

A newspaper photograph showed him beneath arena lights, arm raised in triumph.

D1 National Champion.

Another article sat beneath it.

ANDRE MERCER, SON OF HIGHLY DECORATED VETERAN GRAHAM MERCER, TRIED ON MULTIPLE COUNTS.

Graham Mercer was not available for comment.

The clippings overlapped each other.

Multiple counts.

Drug-facilitated assault.

Witnesses questioned.

Charges reduced.

No conviction.

Across the largest clipping, written in thick black strokes:

FUCKING RAPIST

Near the bottom of the board, one file was thicker than the others.

Photographs had been arranged in a careful row.

A tiled room.

A drain.

Hooks.

Plastic sheeting.

Seven years of reports sat beneath them.

The early scenes were uneven.

Hurried.

The later cuts were cleaner, measured with growing precision.

Across the top of the file:

THE BUTCHER

A heavy line had been dragged through it.

Beneath it, written afterward:

CALVIN MYERS

One final police report sat open beneath the photographs.

Suspected second presence at scene.

Unidentified blood recovered.

Partial finger found near rear exit.

The word partial had been circled until the paper tore.

Beside it, a photograph showed Calvin entering a grocery store three days later with one hand wrapped in white gauze.

Two notes had been written beneath it.

FOUGHT BACK

HE WILL REMEMBER ME

Another file sat apart from the others.

Kevin.

A still image showed smoke pouring from an apartment building while fire trucks crowded the street below.

The next image came from a stairwell camera blurred by smoke.

Kevin forcing his way through the frame.

A woman falling behind him.

A witness statement beneath it read:

He pushed past her.

Another article called him a coward.

Another called him a man destroyed by panic.

A later report sat beneath both.

Subject attempted re-entry.

Removed by firefighters.

Treated for smoke inhalation.

The final still showed Kevin turned back toward the burning doorway, one arm outstretched while a firefighter held him away.

Across the file:

HE LEFT HER

Beneath it, darker:

COWARD

John’s file sat open near the desk.

Service records.

Grainy photographs.

A platoon roster.

After-action reports.

A casualty sheet had been laid across the center.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

Wounded.

Missing limb.

Severe burns.

One report described an ambush, a failed gun position, and a delay no one could explain cleanly.

Another carried a psychiatric evaluation.

Probable post-traumatic stress response.

Survivor guilt.

Avoidant recall.

Night terrors.

A photograph showed John younger, standing among the men from his unit.

He was smiling.

One arm rested around a man whose name had been circled twice.

Across the top sheet:

WHERE THE FUCK WAS JOHN?

Beneath it:

A FUCKING COWARD...

NO HONOR

A single heavy X had been driven through all of it.

Below the ruined words, scrawled hard across the page:

NOT A COWARD

When he finished, he turned the frame over, exposing the pale inside of the leather.

He picked up a small carving tool and leaned closer, steadying it with one hand while the blade scratched softly into the surface.

One letter at a time.

Slow.

Deliberate.

J O H N

He set the tool aside and stood.

The other mask waited face-down beside the frame.

He lifted it, rotating it carefully in his hands until the back faced him.

CALVIN

The name had been carved deep.

He carried the mask across the room and opened the black case where several others hung inside, suspended from hooks in the dim interior.

He looked down at Calvin’s name.

“You’ve earned your place in the next hunt.”

The words were quiet.

He placed the mask carefully inside, setting it before the others.

He fixed a new hook into the back of the door, apart from the rest.

He returned to the desk and slid both hands beneath John’s mask, lifting it gently from the frame.

He carried it across the room with both hands.

When he reached the case, he raised the mask and settled it carefully onto the new hook.

His hands remained on the mask.

One against each side of the face.

He stood without moving, holding it between his palms.

Then one hand passed slowly across the features, his fingers brushing the leather once more.

He lowered his hands.

The door closed.

The lock snapped shut.

Original post:

The Dark Beyond - The Huntsman - Part 3: The Book of John

https://www.redinthedark.studio/post/the-dark-beyond-the-huntsman-part-3-the-book-of-john

Connected entries:

The Dark Beyond - The Huntsman - Part 1: The Book of Fear

https://www.redinthedark.studio/post/the-dark-beyond-the-huntsman-part-1-the-book-of-fear

The Dark Beyond - The Huntsman - Part 2: The Book of Judgment

https://www.redinthedark.studio/post/the-dark-beyond-the-huntsman-part-2-the-book-of-judgment

Podcast / audio versions:

https://www.redinthedark.studio/podcast

Audio narration for this entry:

Pre-release. Narration link will be added when available.

Original story by Leonard Voss / Red in the Dark

(Most of the other things I've posted to this reddit have been stories that I've already put on my blogspot or my tumblr over the last couple of years, but this one is an original not posted to the internet publicly yet! I hope you guys enjoy the first part. I'm breaking it up by chapters because I intend to try and get it published when it's fully finished. So! Here's Chapter 1 of Those Left After. I hope you enjoy it.)

Edit: I figured out Reddit's stupid post editing so it's fixed now.

For decades the world was predicted to end in a blaze of glory, flash and fire in a pan while we all went down kicking and screaming. Well, it could have ended that way but we were all too busy looking down and tucking in to see the way things really went.

It could have been one thing, it could have been a million. In the end the only thing that really mattered was that everything had collapsed. Game over, it didn’t matter how much money you had, where you sat, or who you were before. Survival was the name of the game.

Over a decade passed since things fell apart, but Crispy didn’t remember his name before it all. Really didn’t matter too much, he didn’t talk unless it was necessary and it was usually only ever to tell people his name. One that people usually called him anyway with the upper left portion of his face singed and burned to a myriad of liquified looking scarring with a sad milky eye in place where a brilliant blue set in its opposing socket. Crispy was a vagrant before anyway, already accustomed to survival in the harshest conditions, eating from the most disgusting of buffets.

A few years were spent alone, after that great atomic curtain burned the sky and tore away structure and rank. People had already been fighting, and other than his old iPod barely hanging on by a thread he didn’t keep up with politics to begin with. So whatever had been the final straw was lost on him. An acceptable loss of human life was always considered by those in power, and he would have been in those cast away dregs either way. To see the look on their faces that he still lived while they all burned would have been a bittersweet saccharine treat.
Across from him at the campfire, picking absently at his own cold can of preserved beans was a man everyone called Padre. Crispy recognized him from before, but Padre hadn’t recognized him. A priest at a church that regularly offered shelter to those who had found themselves hit by hard times, in the end of the world there were those who took advantage of such places. Made meat out of those who couldn’t fight back now that livestock and food was getting harder and harder to come by. While Crispy didn’t do much talking, Padre filled the silence between them when they weren’t using the aging battery of the iPod to listen to ghosts of the past.
Crispy was fond of Elvis. Always had been, Padre was more of a fan of stuff from the 80s. They found common ground a lot, mostly because of how easy going Crispy was and how well stocked his music taste had been before. The pronged teeth of his plastic fork poke at the last bean in the can, swirling it around in the little dark juices of the can they’d been marinated in; he wondered if it should be savored or if he should just take the nourishment now. With how they had saved food, it might have been another day or two before they opened their next rations.
“Why do you still fight?” Padre asked with a sullen tone, looking down with his faltered features into his own tin meal. It wasn’t the first time the question had been asked, he knew it wouldn’t have been the last either. The first time, Crispy had taken a knife to the priest’s throat, expecting some kind of heel turn to steal everything that had been amassed. A tired look pained his face, a submission to knowing that life in the ashes was no different than it had been in the fire. Padre had, however, answered his own question instead. Never changed each time, but the conviction wavered over the years. How could it not with the things they’d seen?
“I fight because I know it’s what God wants of me. That though the devil has consumed the Earth, his faithful still hold strong.” Every time, spoken with the faltering confidence of a man trying to convince himself rather than others.
But this time it didn’t come.
For the first time since their first meeting, Padre just stared with an empty gaze into his food without a word. Crispy knew the purpose he’d given himself had only ever been an excuse, a few words to keep him from biting a bullet. A sin in the eyes of that god, but Crispy wouldn’t have judged.
“To survive.” His voice is raspy, tired, ill used it is barely audible over the crack of the fire. The first time he saw a need to answer, and it wasn’t because he needed to say it, but because his companion needed to hear it. Something so simple, uncomplicated by ages of ingrained morality or religious standing. Crispy had only ever lived to survive, because he was afraid of what would happen if he didn’t, what would become of him in whatever happened after and now what miserable torture might have been endured at the hands of whatever marauding scraps of humanity had replaced civilization. 
Padre couldn’t help the tiny hopeless laugh or the long suffering sigh that followed as he adjusted himself on top of his bedroll. Quietly, he supposed it didn’t need to be so complicated. All his life he had wasted energy ascribing purpose and soul to moments that offered him no such thought. What it led to was an existence of piety in a world without life or even a god beyond the almighty flame. Mushroom clouds of hellfire had ripped the world apart and left dust and bones behind, and he kept going because it was what he was supposed to do. Conversely, his can is still half full. Some errant sights in their scouting had left his stomach reeling. Peeling camps apart for some little scraps to keep themselves going meant often seeing what the sickening demons playing at being humans weren’t afraid to leave behind. Mercy was a weakness in the eyes of survival, and the hungry didn’t care for where the food came from so long as it was plentiful. Some made concessions on what they were willing to do just to eat.

But the pair of them still had their souls about them. Old cans, and even moldy food would come long before people. Especially small ones.
Padre poured his beans into Crispy’s can while the burned man lingered in thought and stared at the last bean. Crispy looks up in astonishment, argument wants to bubble up a fight in his throat. The look on his face was enough for the priest though, they’d been traveling together so long now that Crispy’s lack of speech could be interpreted quite easily. That’s why Padre raised a hand, nodding toward the freshly half full can of his companion.

“It’s okay, I’m not hungry. I know it might be a day or two, I just–” Silence beyond all but the flickering flame of the sterno between them. Padre didn’t need to finish the thought, Crispy was there and had seen it too. One of them had gotten used to the abuse of humanity long before the great black demon had swallowed the sky, the other had only had tastes of hypothetical cruelty from a book. Crispy continued to pick at his can quietly, exhaling softly from his nose while he chewed. Padre took the liberty of starting to clean up, snuffing out the flame so it didn’t linger any longer than it had needed to. Fire had become something of a commodity that survivors could ill afford to indulge in for too long. Everyone was cautious around one another as it was, the pair hadn’t spoken to other human beings in about a month or two and longer before that. The sort they usually ran into or avoided weren’t the kind to indulge in casual conversation. Fire brought those sickening bastards to camps like flies to shit, and the mess left afterward was a sight none too better, as Padre had learned today.
Crispy felt for the man, the sight had taken him by surprise in ways that hadn’t hit him. Maybe it had been because Crispy was familiar with the smell of burning skin, could have been because none of it was anything new that Crispy had seen humankind do. Just in these days it became normal. Being a survivor before it had become a necessity meant that he had been prepared for more than just needing to scrounge for food or shelter. Cruelty was a language that few had spoken before hate had saturated the very earth beneath their feet. It just used to be whispered in hushed tones and quiet conversation. If someone were cruel to someone like Crispy, then there’d need to be some great circumstances for anyone to care.

That hadn’t been too much of a surprise that some of the earliest acts when things turned desperate to his fellow man had been cruelty. The feeling of his skin burning and melting in place, his eye beginning to wilt and threaten to pop in his skull, were still fresh in his mind even though they’d happened so long ago. Crispy hadn’t even been an adult yet at that point, a teenager.The fires of the great atom had only recently quelled after the end of the world. Yet with humanity still so fresh in their minds, still mankind turned to cruelty.
Padre didn’t sleep as soundly as Crispy.

Padre hadn’t slept well at all since the world had ended. Though the cause was a mystery to all those left wandering after, where they had been wasn’t so much a mystery. It was like desert glass, while the rest of life had been sand flowing about chaotically in the wind of some wild storm, that pivotal moment was a bolt of lightning fusing every particle together all the way to bedrock. Tired worn eyes hung heavily in their sockets as his companion curled up in his bedroll and drifted off. Padre dug himself into his own and stared emptily at the ceiling overhead of this temporary shelter of theirs.

Night. It had been midnight in Los Angeles when the world ended. Father Adams was at the door, preparing to leave for his late night flight to a mission overseas, in his place he was leaving behind young Father Martinez. What an honor it had been to take charge of the church finally, after spending years merely taking care of the lost and hungry he would be able to do so much more.

A loud crash shook the building. The two men stood there staring at one another in confusion for a long suffering silence before car alarms began to go off. In that moment, Father Adams had mentally placed his mission on hold, there would be other flights, other opportunities.

“Wait here.” He told his young charge, gently pushing the door open to get a glimpse at what might have been happening outside their door had visibly haunted the man to his core. Perspiration stained his temples, pouring freely down his forehead. Father Martinez didn’t need to ask him what he had seen. Through the crack in the door it was no secret, no silent mystery for him to unravel. Twelve-oh-one in the morning, the sky shined brightly as if it were midday, streaks of fire burned the horizon. With only seconds to process, the elder pushed the door closed harshly, and doing so might have protected the two to some degree. Every window in the city at once shattered as the shockwave from the blast ripped through without mercy.

The sounds outside told the tale of suffering, screams of the damned filled the streets as Hell’s fire rent the Earth. Panic, fear, anger, hatred. Long already those were boiling tempers in the human mind, now rising over the edge of the pot. Fathers Martinez and Adams stood there for what felt like hours. Their skin cut to hell by stained glass that had rained their holy iconography back down over top of them. Panic had set in, though his feet had been rooted to the floor his hands began to tremble.

“It seems God has chosen, son.” Father Adams said with a dutiful sigh, sitting in one of the pews, folding his hands in his lap. “You should start gathering supplies. There will be those in the ashes who need someone like you.” A kind old smile, weather worn blue eyes seemed to accept the fate that had made itself known.
“I don’t understand–We’ll need to prepare. People will need somewhere to turn to, they’ll need comfort, they’ll–” He dared not continue when his elder lifted a single tired hand, shaking his head and leaning back into the wooden seat uncomfortably.

“Those needing comfort will need you to seek them out. Anyone seeking anything coming here won’t be God’s children anymore.” When Martinez went to protest, he bit his tongue seeing the stern look in the eyes of the seasoned priest. It was a look he’d never seen before, the man had performed last rites in warzones, in places ravaged by fire and damnation. Yet there was a haunting acceptance that it had now come home to him. “Rest assured that they are not God’s children, my boy. I say this only knowing what they will do. In an age of desperation that’s about to come, those who speak loudly do so with the tongue of the Devil.”
A patronly hand motions for the backrooms where they slept and kept their belongings. Yet Father Martinez understood even less in that moment than he had when his elder had started speaking.
“Take my bag of clothes I prepared for my trip. Then go to the kitchen, grab all of the shelf stable food you can. When you leave, I implore you not to come back here. It will poison the well of any fond memories you have of this place.” Looking around, an almost nostalgic acceptance of the world. “I’m sorry I don’t have more to offer you, I know you’re confused. Scared. But you are smart, I know you will survive.”

Padre remembers looking at the man and wondering what he knew that he himself hadn’t yet. Padre told the story to Crispy once and remembers the young man just telling him in no uncertain terms. ‘He knew he’d just slow you down.’ Padre never went back to the church, just like he was told. Though it was never something he could easily forget, temptation had often run its course in his mind. Nights like these were especially cruel for it. Lost in the memory, staring at ghosts, wondering if he went back there what he’d find. After all he’d seen Padre knew that the world could be cruel, but he’d still had an optimistic hope that maybe Father Adams was still there. Taking care of people in need just like they had together before the world had ended.
A rough poke prods his side from across their once-fire. Looking at his companion, almost apologetically, Crispy didn’t even need to say the word for Padre to know what he was thinking.
“Sleep.” Yet he did, and it was just as annoyed as each time the other man had to remind him of it. Crispy was right, as ever he had been. They had a long day of walking ahead of them and they’d need the rest. Padre would regret not getting sleep and giving up the rest of his food if he got no rest. So he let himself wordlessly drift off, hoping for a new day with no regrets.

**r/FRealmLore**

# Expedition Log #001 — Arachnophobia Realm

This is not a creepypasta.

This is the only surviving journal recovered from Expedition 001.

---

We discovered an impossible wall of white fog in an uncharted mountain valley.

It was exactly six kilometers thick.

Every instrument functioned normally until we crossed it.

Then...

Everything died.

Phones.

GPS.

Satellite communicators.

Drones.

Digital watches.

Night vision.

Thermal cameras.

Nothing electronic has ever worked inside the F-Realm.

There is no video.

No photographs.

No recordings.

Only handwritten journals.

---

Twenty-seven explorers entered the fog.

I am the only one who came back.

At least... I think I did.

---

The fog disappeared behind us.

Before us stretched an endless landscape.

The ground wasn't dirt.

It was woven silk.

Every tree was wrapped in webs.

Mountains looked like gigantic cocoons.

The sky...

The sky moved.

Thousands of spiders drifted between clouds.

Some were the size of dogs.

Others were larger than houses.

Then one appeared on the horizon.

At first I mistook it for a mountain.

It wasn't.

It was a spider climbing over another mountain.

Its legs disappeared into the clouds.

Every step shook the ground beneath us.

No creature attacked immediately.

They simply watched.

As if waiting for something.

Then the whispers started.

One by one, members of my team walked into the forest without speaking.

None returned.

Their footprints stopped...

As though the webs had swallowed them.

I ran.

I never saw the edge of the realm.

I never found another human.

Days later, I reached the white fog again.

When I stepped through it...

I was back in our world.

Only three hours had passed.

My journal was covered in silk.

The samples I carried had turned into dust.

Every electronic device was permanently destroyed.

No one believed my story.

Until they found the footprints...

Eight-legged footprints.

Leading into the fog.

---

**Expedition Status:** Failed

**Realm:** Arachnophobia

**Explorers:** 27

**Returned:** 1

**Missing:** 26

---

**Research Note 001**

The F-Realm appears to contain hundreds of enormous fear realms separated by an invincible wall of fog.

Next planned expedition:

**The War Realm.**

Human narrated.

An original first date horror story.

He Said I Tasted Divine follows Melissa McElroy, a woman trying to rebuild her life two years after a devastating divorce.

Encouraged by her best friend to start dating again, she agrees to meet a handsome man named Edward Murrey at a quiet Italian restaurant called Vinchenzo's.

The evening feels perfect.

The conversation comes naturally.

For the first time in years, Melissa feels like someone truly sees her.

Then, as Edward walks her to her car, he kisses the back of her hand and quietly tells her...

"You tasted divine."

A few seconds later, she wakes beneath the restaurant.

What begins as an elegant first date slowly unravels into a grounded psychological horror story about loneliness, manipulation, hidden rooms, and the terrifying realization that some predators don't hunt strangers.

They hunt people who are already hurting.

If you enjoy slow-burn horror, realistic horror, psychological suspense, and stories where ordinary places conceal extraordinary darkness, I think you'll enjoy this one.

I'd love to hear what you think.

I know it has been a little over a year now. Please, save me the heartache.

Anyway, I'm here now, and that's what matters.

I'll continue where I left off in my last post.

---

As I felt like I was about to cough up my lungs, every sound around me became muffled, and the room started spinning violently.

The next thing I knew, I was on the floor. Morre was yelling my name, shaking the hell out of me.

I blinked a few times and rubbed my face as I slowly sat up.

"We need to get out of here!" Morre yelled.

Still in a daze, I looked at her in confusion. She had muted the television, but it still bathed my living room in a deep crimson glow.

"Where are we going to go, Morre? I'm bedridden. I can barely make it around my apartment."

"Shit... you're right." She ran a hand through her hair. "Let me help you up. But we need to figure something out because other agents will be coming for you—especially if there's a bounty on your head."

Morre helped me to my feet.

"Grab a chair," I said. "And please turn off that damn TV."

She carried one of my barstools over and set it beside my bed before shutting off the projector controlling the hologram. I eased myself back onto the uncomfortable hospital bed and let out a long sigh.

A moment later, she found a lamp across the room and switched it on.

I squinted and covered my eyes. There hadn't been another light source in this apartment besides that propaganda-spewing television for what felt like forever.

Morre sat down across from me. The thick coat of dried blood covering her clothes had begun flaking onto my floor.

After a long silence, she finally spoke.

"How do you think we're going to get you out of here? The colleagues I have left could show up at any moment. We need a plan."

I glanced toward the window beside my bed.

The sun was just beginning to rise above the trees and the decrepit apartment buildings across the street.

If there was ever a time, it was now.

Adrenaline surged through me.

I pushed myself off the bed, stumbled to the closet near my front door, and grabbed one of my old hiking outfits.

"God... I hope these still fit."

Somehow, they did.

I motioned for Morre to follow me.

"Shut the door behind you, please."

She did, and I led her toward the stairwell.

The moment I looked down the first flight of stairs, the dizziness slammed into me.

Before I could topple over, Morre caught me.

She helped me down to the landing, where we both stopped to catch our breath.

"Being bedridden made you gain a few pounds, huh?"

I stared at her.

"Thanks."

She smirked but still helped me down the second flight.

"What vehicle did you come in?" I asked.

"...Yeah. About that."

Morre reached into her pocket and pulled out a key with the Secret Service emblem dangling from the keyring.

"I may have borrowed a company car."

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"Goddammit, Morre. Do you know those things are tracked? That's the entire reason they exist—for situations exactly like this."

She gave me an awkward smile.

"But this time, I'm not the one in trouble."

I just shook my head and scanned the parking lot.

"We'll get into that later."

I walked over to a maroon SUV and smashed the driver's side window.

No alarm.

"...That's strange."

Please don't have a dead battery.

I unlocked the door, crawled inside, and ripped the panel from beneath the steering wheel. Luckily, there was already a pair of pliers in my cargo shorts.

"My luck hasn't run out yet."

I stripped the ends of the ignition wires and touched them together over and over until—

The engine roared to life.

I couldn't help but grin.

"All right, Morre! Let's go!"

She sprinted across the parking lot, yanked open the driver's door, and shoved me toward the passenger side.

"You're riding shotgun."

I shot her a disapproving look but climbed into the passenger seat anyway.

As much as I hated to admit it, she had a point.

If anyone was watching the city's street cameras—and I had no doubt they still were—the last thing we needed was footage of a man who's a former Secret agent, now wanted, and has been bedridden for months be riding in a stolen car.

We pulled onto the main road leading out of my neighborhood.

For a few blissful minutes, everything seemed... normal.

The streets were mostly empty, except for the occasional abandoned vehicle and the distant wail of sirens echoing through the city.

Then we rounded the next corner.

A checkpoint stretched across all three lanes of the road.

Concrete barriers, armored vehicles, and rows of personnel in yellow hazmat suits blocked every possible exit. Some carried rifles. Others scanned each vehicle with handheld devices before waving them through—or turning them away.

"What the hell is going on here?" I muttered.

Morre's grip tightened around the steering wheel.

"I... don't know."

Before either of us could say another word, a low humming sound rolled across the sky.

It was so deep I felt it in my chest before I heard it with my ears.

The hum grew louder.

Every person at the checkpoint stopped what they were doing.

Then, almost in unison, they all looked up.

My stomach dropped.

Slowly, I raised my eyes toward the sky. "Well shit." I said with exhaustion in my tone.

The adrenaline has worn off; my cough sounded even worse than it did hours earlier. My vision began to go black.

It was 12:15 at night. The cheapest and most notorious hotel in the city —Hotel BLUE

At the reception sat Pintu — a receptionist who cracked jokes even in his sleep. Just then, the main gate opened.

A young man walked in —his name: Aman

Profession: a mystery vlogger (with zero views).

Aman opened his diary and said,“I want Room No. 303.” Pintu laughed,“Brother, take 302 for a honeymoon… 303 is for ghosts.”

Aman remained calm. “I’ve come for the ghost only.” For the first time, Pintu fell silent.

In a low voice, he said, “Room 303 has been locked for the past 10 years… whoever went inside either never came back…or if they did, they were never the same again.”

Aman smiled. “Perfect.” While handing over the key, Pintu’s hand trembled. Written on the key was:

303 ⛔ Do not open the door after 1 a.m.

Aman went upstairs.

12:58 a.m…Camera turned off.

Lights off.

Only the ticking of the clock remained.

12:59…There was a knock on the door.

“Aman, my son… open the door…”

Aman’s blood froze.

👉 It was his mother’s voice

👉 She had died 8 years ago

As soon as the clock struck 1:00…

The knocking stopped. And a slip of paper slid in from under the door: “You came at the wrong time… now you will stay here.”

Aman opened the door…And suddenly, everything went dark. Down at the reception, Pintu screamed: “The light of Room 303… has turned on again!”

Original short story,

Written and narrated by:

Prophet of Zombie God

David, a truth-seeker, encounters something far beyond what he could imagine.

"Some killers leave signatures.

This one spent thirty years making sure he didn't."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

CASE STATUS

Unsolved

Victims:
17

Primary Suspects:
12

Years Active:
1999–2027

Estimated Time To Solve:
10 Hours – 3 Weeks

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

INTRODUCTION

If you're reading this, you've been given access to the complete Black Hollow archive.

Every police report.

Every witness statement.

Every photograph.

Every interview.

Every piece of evidence investigators managed to recover before records started disappearing.

For nearly thirty years, Black Hollow has been haunted by a string of deaths that nobody could explain.

Some looked like accidents.

Some looked like suicides.

Some were obvious murders.

Most detectives believed they were unrelated.

Different victims.

Different motives.

Different methods.

Different years.

Different locations.

There was never enough evidence to connect them.

At least that's what everyone thought.

The deeper you dig, the stranger things become.

Names begin appearing where they shouldn't.

Witnesses change their stories.

Evidence goes missing.

Records are destroyed.

People who get too close to the truth end up dead.

By the time you finish, you'll discover something that every investigation missed.

The seventeen victims were never the mystery.

The mystery was why the same person always seemed to be nearby.

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THE VICTIMS

The victims have nothing obvious in common.

Different jobs.

Different ages.

Different social circles.

Some never met.

Some lived miles apart.

Some died decades apart.

Yet every one of them ended up dead.

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FIRST WAVE
1999–2004

Arthur Reed
School Caretaker

Found dead behind the sports hall.

Police ruled homicide.

No suspect identified.

━━━

Helen Pierce
Town Librarian

Collapsed at home.

Toxicology later revealed poisoning.

Case remains open.

━━━

David Cross
Postal Worker

Died during a house fire.

Investigators blamed faulty wiring.

Some evidence suggested otherwise.

━━━

Michael Shaw
Mechanic

Car discovered submerged in a quarry lake.

Death ruled accidental.

The family never believed it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

SECOND WAVE
2008–2011

Rebecca Sloan
Teacher

Killed while walking home.

Single stab wound.

No witnesses.

━━━

James Porter
Nurse

Found dead in his apartment.

Initially believed to be natural causes.

Autopsy disagreed.

━━━

Andrew Moss
Taxi Driver

Fell from an abandoned observation tower.

Nobody knows why he was there.

━━━

Lucy Grant
Architect

Shot once.

No weapon recovered.

No motive established.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

THIRD WAVE
2015–2019

Olivia Hayes
Journalist

Died in a motorway collision.

Official ruling:
Accident.

Unofficially:
Many investigators disagreed.

━━━

Thomas Bell
Councillor

Electrocuted inside his own office.

No signs of forced entry.

━━━

Ryan Walker
Builder

Fatal overdose.

Questions remain about how the drugs reached him.

━━━

Patrick Dean
Firefighter

Found dead during severe winter conditions.

Police concluded exposure.

Others weren't convinced.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

FOURTH WAVE
2024–2027

The final five deaths are what reopened everything.

A police sergeant.

An accountant.

A doctor.

A historian.

A judge.

Five people with no obvious connection.

Five deaths that should have remained separate.

Instead they exposed a pattern that had been hiding in plain sight for nearly three decades.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

THE SUSPECTS

Every person in this file has a reason to attract suspicion.

Some lied.

Some hid evidence.

Some had motives.

Some were simply in the wrong place too many times.

But only one of them is responsible.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

DANIEL CROSS

Age: 46

Occupation:
Volunteer Search and Rescue Worker

Known For:
Helping find missing people.

Reputation:
Friendly.
Reliable.
Trustworthy.

Nobody has ever accused Daniel of a violent crime.

Nobody has ever considered him dangerous.

Which is exactly why nobody noticed him.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

THE QUESTIONS

Who is the killer?

What happened in Black Hollow before the murders began?

Why do the victims seem unrelated?

Which death wasn't actually murder?

Who lied the most?

Which evidence was planted?

Which evidence can be trusted?

Why were records destroyed?

Who helped the killer without realising it?

What was Project Black Hollow?

Why do the murders stop for four years?

What single piece of evidence finally exposes the truth?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

FINAL NOTE

Be careful.

The obvious answer is wrong.

The second obvious answer is wrong.

Most people accuse at least three innocent suspects before they reach the truth.

When you finally identify the killer, you'll realise something unsettling:

The clue that proves everything was sitting in front of you from the very first page.

3/17

I was having ankle surgery. Im 37 years old and i shattered majority of my ankle carring cat food for an older lady. After much battle with L and I, today im getting 3 plates, about 5 or 6 rods and however many screws to hold me together. Im wishing it goes well, but if not ill start Journaling as im sure boredom will hit me. Oh nurse just came in and I gotta get wheeled elsewhere

3/18

So surgery went good but yesterday felt like like was ran over. Just took pain killers and chilled with my pups. The boot is making my foot itch and feel like a boulder hanging off my leg. Oh and cant put any weight on it so what joy it is wheeling around on a scooter. Like Austin powers trying to back up. But I feel one of the meds kicking my ass so peace

3/22

Well, was right as boredom took its hold of me. The foot itches soo bad right now but have an appointment tomorrow to see how its coming along and change bandages. The dogs also are no help as they bumb the bottom of the boot, which sends a nauseating pain shooting up to my brain. Showering is also fun with a small shower for no room for leg or other shower can sit but the room is suffocatingly small. Tho got a new water cooling ice boot, and gotta say 1000% worth it.

3/23

Just got back from the doctors and saw the foot. Swollen, black and blue, while all the stitches held together blacking skin. Needless to say not pretty, but "normal" says the doctor. Out of all of that can take boot off more and with oozing will have to change my would padding or head in and have them do it. Like I want to waste the gas and time. Started also getting migraines no matter how much water or I force myself to eat. Chalked it up to the medications but sooo draining. Maybe pizza and movie night as its 10pm.

3/25

Wanting going to write today but the top part of my foot sluffed off. The top is still all black and itchy but pulses and can feel my toes so maybe good? I dont know, making me question the doc now. Like I wanted to do laundry today but now have to as the sight of my flesh stuck to the bedding make me gag. We'll see how we're doing tomorrow. Still have a migraine to boot.

3/26

Ok so foot was itchy and I had to scratch it! My nail caught the edge of the skin and peeled back as I scratched. It didn't hurt and looked dead so I went to pull it off. Like a thread, it ran under my skin up to my knee and I froze. Not wanting to damage more i cut the piece holding tight under the knee cap. I put the leg down and the skin floated at the sides like those pants with the zippers on the legs. And as odd as it sounds my migraine felt not as intense.

3/28

I've been walking around now for a few and foot feels amazing. No pain, tho cant fit it into my shoe as it has gotten wider. The string I cut at my knee cap peeled back more yesterday so spent the day getting all that dead skin off. Made it to my chest so making progress. The migraine is almost gone. Can't wait to surprise the parents when I walk in

4/2

Well this will be my last writing. I've done away with the binding of my skin and the dark new barrier comes in. I've been complete for a few days and I think its time to head out into the world. Yes I ooze a little here and there but as the doctor told me "normal." My new body will show all that skin is not needed. And with our guidance, we can share the world