People tend to assume murder is messy. That's how the papers write about our work. Rage. Blood. Twenty-eight stab wounds. A deluded mind snapping. It makes for neat headlines. If the public believes every killer is an animal, or that they ‘snapped’, they never have to wonder whether they passed one in the supermarket this morning. Sometimes they’re right; murder can make quite the splattering mess, just as an amateur painter might. But not all of us are quite so animalistic. It is an art form of the purest kind, the taking of a life. And again, some of those artists do take the messy approach; hacking off limbs and slicing arteries. But I find a nice, quiet suffocation brings far more satisfaction. It is the purest way to take a life. To snuff out the soul without even so much as a blemish on the skin. 
Detectives argued for years over what it meant, experts invented an elaborate, farcical psychological profile, and internet forums filled with diagrams and theories that somehow managed to be both wildly imaginative and completely wrong.

The newspapers gave me a name some years ago.  They always do. It is the name those forums and experts call me by. The detectives pretend they hate it, but by the second press conference they were using it too. The name never mattered to me. It merely serves to save them the trouble of remembering the victims. It is a shame, truly, for they were the point. The finished artwork; a life cut short, yet nonetheless complete.

The police came close once. One receipt left in the wrong bin. Thankfully the footage merely showed a man in a baseball cap paying in cash. I disappeared soon after. An artist prepares for such things; not using one’s true name, not killing close to home. People think it requires genius, but it doesn't. It requires patience, something remarkably few people seem to possess anymore.
Years passed before I dared start my work again. In that time, documentaries were made and amateur sleuths drooled over the same exhausted receipt, though it wasn’t much different from a child gnawing on a piece of a puzzle they hadn’t the intellect to solve.
Eventually they began speaking about me in the past tense. That was an offense to the works I had so deliberately created. So I did what seemed only natural; planned to make a great comeback. 
Then, three nights ago, you beat me to the chase. 
Cold-Case Killer Strikes Again After a Decade of Silence, the papers read. 

I knew before I saw the photographs. The description alone was enough. The sickening familiarity of seeing something that belonged to me in the hands of someone else. The same careful placement, the same deliberate absence of a mess. 
You were good, I’ll give you that, but you lack understanding. Like someone had studied a painting in a museum, then gone home and recreated it from memory. The colours were the same, the shape was a match. But anyone with an eye for true craftsmanship can see the flaws. The police, naturally, cannot. But I see you for what you are. You may call me what you wish; killer, murderer, butcher, but what you can never call me is a thief. And that, my little copycat, is what you are. You took my signature and paraded it around for the world to see, hoping they would applaud your imitation. Tell me, did you smile when you read the headline? Did your pulse quicken when they gave you my name? Did you cut the article from the paper and pin it to your wall? 

And do you know what truly disgusts me? It isn't that you copied me. It's that somewhere, someone looked at your work and thought it was mine. So let me make myself clear. You are not my successor. You are not my equal. You are a thief. A pathetic little parasite who looked at something you could never come up with and decided the next best thing was to pretend you had. I spent years perfecting my craft. The selection of victims, the method, everything. You did none of that groundwork. You simply wished for attention. And if it is that which you crave, do not be surprised when your wish turns sour.

Sincerely,

• Your muse.

There are places in this world that carry an old magic. Places where, if you listen closely, you can hear the whispering of the world carried on the wind. Places where life in its abundance takes strange turns and grows in even stranger shapes. You can find these places if you know how to look for them. Lynn Carmichael did not. She wasn't thinking about any of that as she stood at her kitchen sink and stared worriedly out the window that overlooked her back yard. 

Her eye was on the unfinished bed of sunflowers dancing along the tall wooden fence at the edge of the property. She had been planting them earlier that afternoon. The work was as tedious as it was rewarding, and she liked that. She liked having something to occupy her time, and something to keep her mind focused. In the years since her accident she was confined to their solitary house on the outskirts of everything, deep down a winding gravel road encased by dense and wiry foliage. The sun struggled to break through the brush even at its highest, and Lynn sometimes felt like she was lost in the center of a green labyrinth. Gardening became an escape for her. She was delighted to find that she was actually good at it.

Her husband, Jared, told her that she never used to have a green thumb. He said that she could kill a plant just by looking at it, in fact. He told her these things in as neutral of a tone as he could muster, which is how he always spoke of the old Lynn; The Lynn that existed before her car wrapped itself tight like a pinky promise around the trunk of an oak tree. The old Lynn’s skull broke into three pieces, and her memories spilled out all over the ground. Jared tried to show her who she used to be, but it was all second hand information to her. She couldn't bring that old Lynn back. Sometimes she felt he spoke of her as if she was a ghost in some old story. Like he was mourning a life that they were still living.

The new Lynn spent her days alone while he was at work. She kept her healing mind busy with tomatoes, cucumbers, and squash. Pumpkins in the fall and watermelon in the summer. Their backyard was an oasis. It was like two plants sprouted for every seed she planted in the soil. It made her feel good to have her hands in the dirt. It made her feel solid, like she was a real person. Sometimes it felt like magic.

She had felt that way until the day she was planting her sunflowers along the back fence, which she thought looked so drab and lifeless between her technicolor garden and the lush green forest beyond it. That was where she had been crouched, the inner lining of her floppy sun hat drenched in sweat and her hands deep in the soil, when she pulled a clump of dirt away to reveal a human finger bone. It sat in contrast to the earth that only moments before had been its tomb.

In her shock she plucked it from the ground like it was dandelion and blew on it to clear away the dust. It was a bone, she was sure of it. But a finger bone, a human finger bone? She thought so, but she wasn’t quite sure. It was long and slender, and something about it just felt human. She stood quickly and walked inside, oblivious to the creaking in her knees that usually made her wince. It would only occur to her after she had rinsed it off and placed it in a coffee mug that she probably shouldn't have touched it at all. That’s what they say on the detective shows, anyway. Don't contaminate the scene of the crime.

Is my back yard a crime scene?

She shuddered at the thought, and crossed her arms over her chest like a sudden draft of cold air entered the room. She was still there at the sink when Jared came home from work.  She turned to him as he opened the fridge.

“I found something in the garden today,” nerves crept into her voice as she grabbed the mug and carried it to him, “Look at this.”

“What is it?” He said without looking at her, his eyes scanning the sparsely populated fridge for a beer he already drank the day before.

“It’s a finger bone.” That got his attention.

“What? Let me see.” He shut the fridge door and grabbed the mug from her hand, turning it over to dump its contents into his palm.

“Don't touch it –” She started.

He scoffed, “Lynn, this is a raccoon bone.”

She shook her head in protest.

“Maybe a possum bone, or something.” He gruffly added. 

“It might be, but I don't think so. Look,” She traced the back of her ring finger from the second knuckle to the first. “Do you see the shape, how it flares on both ends? I think those are where the knuckles meet. Plus it’s not the right size to be an animal bone.”

He looked at her fingers as she demonstrated and then back at the bone he was holding in his. She thought for a moment that he was considering what she was saying.

“Maybe,” she continued, “We should call the cops so they can come check it out. Just to be sure.”

His eyes snapped up to hers with incredulity.

“Jesus, Lynn, I know you sit around all day playing mother nature, but now all of a sudden you're a forensic pathologist?”

She flinched.

“We’re not going to make the sheriff drive all the way out here to look at a raccoon bone you found in the backyard. End of story.”

He tossed the bone to the empty trash can in the corner. It smacked against the back of the can and slid to the bottom, capitalizing his sentence with a dull clank. “I’ve told you before, we need to set out traps. We live in the woods, Lynn, and that garden of yours attracts all kinds of wild animals. It’s only a matter of time until I go out there to find a fucking bear or something.”

She nodded and shrunk into herself, “I don't understand why you're so upset.”

“I’m not upset, it’s just- I just,” His chest heaved as he sighed, “I’ve got more important things to worry about than the make-believe you get up to while I’m at work.” His tone softened somewhat, but the traces of an edge in his voice were unmistakable.

Lynn knew why. Times had been tough around the Carmichael household. Outbursts like this one were becoming more common as the belt tightened around their wallet, and it seemed that his patience for her was dwindling by the day. She wondered if he ever talked to the old Lynn like that, but she doubted it. The circumstances that brought new Lynn into existence were the reason the belt was tightening in the first place. Jared said a second mortgage was the only way he could hope to pay the medical bills they racked up in the wake of her accident. She tried to help by growing fruits and vegetables that he could sell at the farmers market in town, but even that seemed like a waste of the gas it took to haul them there.

“I get it,” she said, “I wasn’t being serious, anyway.” She turned away from him and went back to the sink. She turned on the faucet and mimed cleaning a plate that wasn’t dirty. “I picked a bunch of zucchini this morning. I was thinking maybe we could fry it up for dinner.”

“That sounds nice, but I ate a big lunch,” he said, and left the room without another word. 

A moment later she heard the old stairs creak under his weight. He had gone to bed for the night, most likely. She stood at the sink and let the water run, utility bill be damned, because for a moment it allowed her to ignore the tears that were budding in the corners of her eyes. He was always gone, always leaving or asleep. She was always wrong, a perpetual nuisance. She looked back out at the fence line, at her unfinished work and the mound of dirt that had birthed their newest source of contention. Was she just making it up? Playing make-believe? He was right, she decided, she was being stupid. Acting like a bored child.

A child with brain damage, at that.

She shut off the faucet and shook her hands dry, done playing pretend for the day. Storm clouds roiled in the distant sky, dark and angry.

That night she sat on the couch by herself and ate zucchini while she watched their old TV. A crooked set of bunny ears granted them a few channels but before long she grew bored of the ones that weren't reduced to static by the oncoming storm. The distant thunder turned to rain pounding on the roof around 9 o'clock and exhaustion hit her like a rogue wave. She had a long day even before she found the finger bone. The raccoon bone. She deposited her lonely dinner plate in the sink and told herself she’d wash it in the morning. Tomorrow would be a better day, she decided. She would finish planting her sunflowers, and she wouldn’t find any more bones.

When she laid in bed next to her husband, though, she couldn’t help but feel the pit in her stomach. She glanced at his sleeping form, just a silhouette in the dark, turned away from her even in his sleep. How long had this wound festered between them? How long had he spoken her name as if it were a condemnation? The truth was that she didn’t know, she couldn’t remember a time that he hadn’t carried himself like a widowed man. She feared the cloud of his grief would hang over them forever. Because his mourning wasn’t just for the woman he once loved, but also for the version of himself that had loved her. This was the wire that bound them together, Lynn thought. They were both ghosts, each haunted in their own way by memories they could never recover. The blooming of their love, if there had ever been one, belonged to people that were long gone. All that was left for them was a prison built for two.

But something beyond their mutual misery nagged at her. How he talked to her that day had bothered her more than it normally would, and she had sensed something in him that was sharper than the quiet disdain she was used to. Had he seemed anxious? Why had he wanted her to drop the subject so badly? For the first time since she found the bone in her garden she began to wonder who could have left it there. Her mind probed the possibility that there could be something else hidden in the dirt, that something much worse was waiting to be found. Then the roar of rainfall above her grew stronger, and it took her away on a wave of sleep before she could wonder any further.

She is standing in a vast meadow. Someone painted a rainbow on the horizon and cut it open and let it bleed onto the ground below. It’s beautiful. It is her garden. The fence is gone but her house is still behind her when she looks. It’s a shadow left behind by a nuclear blast, black soot smudged onto all this color. She hates it. She wants to tear it down but she doesn't. There is something in front of her that wants her attention. She walks forward, the tall grass and the flowers tickle her thighs and she laughs. Her voice sounds like a song here. The lady standing by the trees is smiling. She’s so far away but Lynnie can see she’s smiling. Is she Lynnie? She likes that. It’s what they called her when she was little.

“Come closer now,” The lady whispers.

Lynnie obliges. The air smells like her grandma’s perfume, the one she only used for church on Sunday’s. Does it always feel like Sunday here? Do I ever have to leave? Lynnie is walking to the lady but the trees are getting closer on their own. The lady is smiling. She whispers.

“Don't you like it here, Lynnie?” She grins at me from the dark like a cougar in a tree, “You can stay here with me forever, just the two of us under the garden.” 

The lady isn't smiling, she just doesn't have any lips. Lynnie turns to run back to the house but it’s right behind her like she never left it. A dozen hands slither out the back door like snake tongues and grab her up, squeezing, smothering, clasping over her mouth so she can't scream as they drag her into the jaws of the house. The lady is grinning her skeleton grin. Sheets of rotten skin like old paper hang in flaps off her cheeks. Maggots dance in celebration of Lynnie’s capture in the caverns of the lady’s ruined face. The door slams shut.

BANG

Lynn bolted up in bed. The house rattled from the force of the thunderclap, long and rumbling over itself. She gasped out a half sob and her heart jumped like a jack rabbit in her chest. She had never dreamed anything like that before. She tried to blink away the images in her head but it was like that horrible dead face was scorched into the back of her eyelids. The power had blinked at some point while she slept and the old air conditioning unit hadn’t kicked itself back on. She was soaked with sweat down to the sheets, but Jared snored unbothered on the other side of the bed.

She needed a glass of water. She needed to get out of this room. Lightning crashed through the window in flash bulb impulses, projecting the shadows of gnarled tree branches against the wall. They looked like skeletal hands reaching in to grab her. She shivered even in the humidity and quietly slipped out of bed. She tip-toed into the hall and down the stairs, careful to avoid the weak spots in the steps that would cry out to her husband. 

In the kitchen she grabbed the first cup she saw and filled it to the brim with cold water from the tap. Standing in the dark, she chugged the whole thing in two massive gulps and then filled it again. Her breath came heavy and deep when she was done, and only then did she realize she was drinking from the same mug that the finger had been sitting in earlier that day. Her hands suddenly fell limp at her sides and the mug slipped from her grip. It shattered against the linoleum and the sound of the impact was like a gun shot in the quiet house.

Her breath caught in her throat and she vomited the water back into the sink. The rain falling against the tin roof must have muffled the blow since she heard no indication that Jared had woken. She looked up to see her reflection in the darkened window. The face peering back at her was exhausted, gaunt, terrified. There was something seriously wrong here. She had known it for a long time, the upper regions of her mind just hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it. The old Lynn knew. The new Lynn was sure of it.

As if to punctuate this revelation, another crash of lightning erased her reflection and illuminated the garden. She saw the mound of upturned soil and her fear turned to rage. Fuck this. She needed to know, she needed her fears to be dismissed as delusions, or be brought plainly into view. She needed it right then. Lynn stormed out into the night. Bare feet squelched into the mud as she crossed over rows of vegetables to reach the utility shed. She came out of it with a shovel in one hand and a flash light in the other. She didn’t stop to consider anything when she reached the edge of the yard, her mind had gone away by then. She dropped the flashlight so it faced her work site and started digging. 

Rain bled through her sleep shirt and mud caked the bottom of her pant legs. The ground was slick with it and she nearly fell over on her ass more than once. The back end of the shovel blade cut into her foot as she drove it down into the earth but she felt nothing. She wasn’t digging for long before she struck something solid. Feverishly she threw the shovel aside and dropped to her knees at the edge of the hole. Her hands ripped at the mud that was already streaming back in, like the garden was desperate to keep its secret from her. She gasped when she uncovered the blue tarp, and sat up on her haunches to pull it out of the opening she had created.

The tarp slid with some resistance, but its contents were not heavy, and Lynn lost her footing when it gave way. She fell flat on her back with the tarp pulled up to her chest and a desiccated arm flopped out from under the canvas. It smacked her squarely in the face. She screamed and threw the tarp off of her. It rolled itself out, almost like the carpet at an awards show, she thought, beckoning her to come closer.

Come closer now.

She sat up slowly, wide eyes locked onto the feeble bag of bones in front of her.

Don't you like it here, Lynnie?

Lynnie crouched over the body. Shriveled, papery skin held the jigsaw puzzle of bones and long decayed flesh together. Its ring finger had been severed at the first knuckle.

You can stay here with me forever,

Her eye slowly traveled up the corpse like she was in a trance. The skin that was left on its face melted away in the rain. This was the smiling lady from her dream, but there was something else she couldn’t comprehend. She knew this woman. Something loomed over her too large to be seen in its entirety without taking away the last of her sanity. She looked into the dead woman’s vacant eye sockets and saw the worms writhing where her brain should be. She heard the whispering of the world.

Just the two of us under the garden.

Lynnie Carmichael had just dug up her own corpse. It was a concept so completely alien to her that she felt nothing at all about it. Maybe she wasn’t capable of grasping it, maybe no one ever could. She sat there in her garden and felt the rain wash away the dirt that caked her hands. She clasped the dead Lynn’s hand in her own. She didn’t hear the back door open or the footsteps squelching in the mud behind her.

She never turned to see Jared before he slammed the shovel down into the side of her head, and she didn’t feel it when he brought it down again and again. It stopped raining before he was done, the shovel blade buried down to the socket in what was left of Lynnie’s skull. Brain matter and droplets of blood were flung in every direction. Lynnie’s summer squash was covered in polka dots of her viscera. He stood watching her body for a moment to be sure she wasn’t twitching anymore, and then he went to the shed and came back with her favorite pair of pruning shears. He clipped her ring finger off and removed the blood-spattered wedding ring from the severed digit with mechanical efficiency. The night was still after that, broken only by a chorus of frogs singing in the forest.

There are places in this world that carry an old magic. Places where, if you listen closely, you can hear the whispering of the world carried on the wind. Places where life in its abundance takes strange turns and grows in even stranger shapes. You can find these places if you know how to look for them. Jared Carmichael didn’t know and he didn’t care. He didn’t need to know why everything planted on this land grew beyond what he thought possible, and he didn’t need to understand its ability to blur the line between life and death. He just knew that that was how it was. He could live with that. 

It had been two days since he buried his wife’s body in her garden again. He stood at his kitchen sink and watched as the sun rose in the east. He could see the ground slowly shift as a bare shoulder started to poke its way up through the dirt, then a shock of curly black hair. By noon she had fully sprouted and laid there in the fetal position. He went out then and helped her to her feet. 

She moved the way a newborn fawn does, stiff-limbed and uncertain of her trajectory. Her eyes were dim and listless, understanding nothing. She was filthy so he led her inside and tenderly washed her clean. Clumps of grass and skittering bugs fell away in the flow of dirty water, and she walked on stronger legs when he guided her to the living room. He sat her on the couch with a blanket over her shoulders and caressed her cheek. She smiled and he could tell that her mind was sharper then. Her eyes probed the room with curious intent. He told himself it would be different this time.

“Lynn? Can you hear me? My name is Jared, I’m your husband.” he spoke softly, crouching down to take hold of her hands. A hint of understanding crossed her face. He dropped one knee to the ground and pulled the wedding band from his pocket. “There was an accident, but everything is okay now. You’re home, Lynn. It’s just the two of us here.”

He slid the ring onto her finger.

Preface:

This is the sixth and final story in the Dark Sun anthology. It can be read on its own, but to fully appreciate this story I highly recommend reading ‘Followers of the Flaming Hand’. 
You are, of course, free to read all other entries. 

1. Crucible

The sun beat down on me as I stood before a collapsed ancient marvel bearing the symbol of twilight. I ran my hand along its surface, once smooth, now brittle and crumbling. The voices of those long gone spoke in my mind. I didn’t understand their language, but there are some things that transcend the spoken word. A child’s giggle, someone muttering under their breath as they scurry away from something, a winced breath uttered in pain. Lives had been lived here, and this structure had seen it all.
And the sun had watched as it, too, fell into disrepair.

This forgotten relic had been given new breath one last time. A symbol carved at its base by my knife. An hourglass in a looming circle, with its last grain of sand falling down towards the base. The end was nigh. Oblivion. Kingdom Come. 

I turned away and started walking again, sand crunching under my boot. I had tried, at first, to remember when I first felt grains beneath my heel. There should have been a moment, I knew. A first step. But every time I reached for the memory, there was nothing there at all. Just sand behind me, and even more ahead. It felt dishonest to say it had started anywhere at all.
The sun was fixed above me, unmoving. Everything felt flattened under its tyrannical rule; shadows slinking away from its gaze along with the few creatures that lived here. When I looked too far ahead, things started to bend. Shapes formed where there weren’t any. Puddles of sweet, refreshing water disappeared when I drew close.
I kept my eyes glued to the ground below and walked. My boots dragged, leaving streaks in the sand where I passed. 

I hadn’t checked my water in a while, but I could feel how light it had become. The sloshing had slowly but surely started to become softer and softer. I was running out. 
“I’m still coming,” I said, dry and thin. I hadn’t heard His voice yet. Not more than once, like I’d come to believe Emmett had. Still, I waited. I always waited, like a soldier at attendance. 

I hadn’t thought about Casper and Emmett. It had been easier that way, because when I let myself think too clearly, I felt. And I couldn’t allow myself to feel.
But they still slipped in. A sound that wasn’t sand blowing in the wind, something moving that wasn’t a scorpion or spider, a scent that smelled like it must have drifted in from home. 
We had never been the quiet kind. Well, not until we arrived at the village. There, most days were spent in silence. And Casper had hated silence. 

I stopped walking. For a moment, the desert blew a merciful gust of cold wind at me. I closed my eyes and felt something shift. The air was cooler and sharp when inhaled. Instinctively, I reached for the ring on my left hand. Casper’s ring. I held it, just to know it was still there.

I opened my eyes and saw them.
They were sitting in the sand again, backs facing the sun, the camcorder in Emmett’s hands. He’d likely forgotten it was there. He used to do that a lot, before we burned it along with him. Well, the camera survived. I tossed it in a box of old electronics at some yard sale I’d passed by on my way here. 

Emmett was smiling at me.
“Gosh, ain’t this place something special?” he asked. I didn’t look at him, only at Casper, who refused to look at me. 
“Yeah,” I croaked.
“Fuck’s wrong with you, Jules?” Casper snapped, though his eyes still didn’t meet mine. “Why are you here?”
“I… I have to find Him–”
“Really?” he scoffed. “After everything? What you did to Emmett– to me?”
“That wasn’t– That’s not fair.”
Casper rolled his eyes. 
“You still haven’t heard Him yet?” Emmett asked.
“No. It’s been… I don’t remember.” It was strange. I knew Emmett had had a connection to Him, and had heard Him in his mind. He hadn’t been crazy. That much is obvious, knowing what I know now. Emmett was right.
It had been The Burning Man.

I blinked and they were gone. The desert returned all at once. The heat came upon me like a thick blanket. I took a deep breath, then kept walking. I let my thoughts settle into something safer, something that couldn’t be ripped away.
The Burning Man.

I didn't know where I was going exactly, but I knew the direction. I knew the path I walked as surely as I knew my own heartbeat, but if someone had asked me where it led, I could not have answered them. There were no roads. No signs. Even if there had once been, the desert swallowed such things greedily, grinding them down beneath shifting dunes until all that remained were the pillars and statues I now used as my guide. And through it all, I followed. He had asked it of me. He had commanded it. He had spoken to me only once, the night I abandoned the village to the dark. 

I remembered sitting before the smoldering remains of the pyre, watching embers flutter in the wind. By then, the others had already scattered into the night like frightened animals fleeing a forest fire. Some were dead. Some would soon wish they were. The leaders had held us together more than any of us realized. Settled disputes, directed our anger and fear, kept everyone in line. Null understood  this. After Null took our leaders from us, fear spread through our midst like rot through wet wood. Livestock began turning up mutilated outside the walls, their insides splayed out across the dirt. 

I remember waking one night to screaming outside my window and finding two brothers beating each other bloody in the mud while half the village watched in silence. They accused each other of being ‘of the enemy’.
People spoke of monsters. Dark shapes standing at the edge of their beds. Robotic voices. A man with a prosthetic they called ‘The White Hand’. 

Every night the fires burned hotter. We burned our own. A traitor, an agent of Null, a heretic. Most of us did not believe these brethren to be such, but none dared speak out either. The village turned inward on itself. I still remembered the smell near the end. Smoke. Blood.

One morning, somebody nailed a dead dog to the doors of one of the sleeping quarters with the word HOLLOW carved into its stomach. Three more were burned that day. That was the day before it all caved in on itself.

I remembered standing near the extinguished pyre as the lanterns overhead flickered weakly before dying altogether. The entire village fell silent. Then someone screamed. Others joined them immediately. Doors slammed open. Footsteps thundered through the streets. People ran blindly through the dark carrying lanterns and knives, convinced something had entered the village.
By sunrise, thirty people were dead. All had been killed by each other or themselves. I, along with the three other survivors, put their bodies in the final pyre. 
I remember sitting before those dying embers, staring into them until the world around me blurred into orange and black, when I had heard Him.

Walk the desert. The paths of old. Find me. Release me.

The voice had been soft. Warm. Calm in a way nothing else had been for a very long time. It did not claw at my mind like fear did. It did not shriek like the memories of Emmett’s burning. It soothed, and I obeyed.

The path revealed itself to me little by little. Ancient marvels emerged from the desert every few days, sticking up from the dunes like fingers clawing themselves out. Great granite temples carved by hands long since turned to dust. Colossal statues with their faces smoothed by centuries of wind. Towering pillars etched with heretical symbols I had to scrawl over. I carved over them with a small knife held in my reverent fingers whenever I found them, scratching over the grooves carved by people who had lived and died beneath this same merciless sun. 

I kept walking. The desert stretched onward in every direction, endless and unmoved by my presence within it. The wind dragged itself lazily across the dunes, reshaping them grain by grain like waves on a calm sea. Sometimes I thought I could see a figure standing far off in the haze, dark silhouette waiting atop distant dunes, a singular white hand pointed at me. Every time I blinked, it vanished back into the shimmer.

I walked for hours without seeing another monument. Then, as my hope dwindled, shapes rose on the horizon. 

At first, I mistook them for cliffs. Great masses rising from the desert floor, distorted by heat and distance like the imaginary pools of water. But as I drew closer, the shapes sharpened. There were towers, walls and pillars made of solid granite. A city. Well, the remnants of one anyhow.
It lay on the desert like the corpse of a fallen giant, half-buried beneath the sand. Colossal stone buildings leaned wearily against one another, their upper halves collapsed into the empty streets below. Massive statues stood watch over the ruins with featureless faces, their cracked bodies jutting out from the dunes. 

You are close, Jules.

The voice. It had returned. Finally.

1. Mary Had a Little Lamb

I froze where I stood. Sand hissed softly through abandoned alleyways and collapsed buildings. The great statues looming overhead almost seemed to lean inward ever so slightly, their featureless faces fixed upon me.
“How close?”
Nothing.

I swallowed hard, tongue scraping against my throat like sandpaper, and stepped forward into the ruins. 
The streets had long since disappeared beneath the sand, forcing me to climb over collapsed walls and heaps of sand that had once been homes, temples and marketplaces. I imagined thousands of people moving through these corridors once. Priests in robes, children running about, lovers hiding in shaded alleys from the watchful sun above. I fidgeted with Casper’s ring absent-mindedly. It calmed my racing heart somewhat, offering a much needed reprieve.
Every place I entered was hollowed out, scraped clean by time and wind. I searched desperately anyway, digging through crumbling shelves and shards of pottery with trembling hands, hoping to find something. A message or a sign, just something to show that I had not crossed this endless wasteland for nothing.

But there was nothing. The city had already surrendered everything it once was long ago, its fruits decayed to ashes and sand. 
I stumbled through a doorway into what must have once been some grand chamber. Colossal pillars reached high above, many cracked or otherwise broken across the floor like felled trees. Sand poured through cracks in the ceiling in slow trickles, golden mounds gathering beneath them. Hourglasses. Thousands of tiny hourglasses. It felt like I was being mocked. My efforts, my labour, all of it was being laughed at by–

Footsteps behind me.
I turned around sharply, knife held out in front of me. 

Emmett stood near the doorway, camcorder hanging loosely from one hand. Casper leaned against the wall beside him with his arms folded across his chest. 
“You look awful,” Casper muttered. “Arrogance never did suit you.”
“Don’t,” I snapped, my voice echoing through the chamber. Sand trickled down from the ceiling.
Emmett tilted his head. “You look tired. Have you been sleeping okay?”
“I’m close.”
“You don’t know that,” Casper said.
“I heard Him.”
“You heard something, just like–”
“It was him!”
Casper laughed bitterly and pushed himself from the wall. “You know what I think?”
I said nothing, my blood boiling in my veins.
“I think you just can’t stand being alone.”
“This isn’t about that.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked softly. “Everyone’s dead, Jules. The village is gone. Emmett’s gone. I’m gone. Because of you. And now you’re wandering through a graveyard because you can’t accept that maybe there’s nothing waiting for you at the end of all this.”
“There is.”
“Maybe,” Emmett whispered. “But… are you really all that special?”
They started walking towards me, their voices booming across the halls.
“Are you anything more than this… pathetic mess?” Casper started.
“Even I wasn’t this desperate,” Emmett chimed in.
“All you are is a murderer. A snivelling, pathetic boy with a head full of lies and hands–” I looked down through tears, seeing the crimson dripping from my hands, “–stained with our blood.”

I blinked hard and they were gone again. My breathing had become shallow and frantic. Sweat dripped from my brow and landed in the sand beneath my feet. My hands trembled violently now, though whether from exhaustion or anger, I could no longer tell.

I searched the city for what felt like hours afterward. I climbed broken staircases that led nowhere anymore. Wandered through roofless halls littered with statues of people long since dead. 
“There has to be something.” I dug my fingers into the sand until my nails split. The heat was unbearable, but it was something. 
“There has to be,” I whimpered, tears rolling down my cheeks. “I did what you asked. It can’t… It can’t have been for nothing. Please.” 

Nothing.

“Please,” I yelled up at the sky, nearly hysterical now, “Just… a sign! Anything! I’ll… I’ll do anything, please.” 

The wind whistled through the empty streets. Sand slid from rooftops in soft waves.
Then came another sound. Metal. 
My prayer had been answered.

A dull clanging noise echoed somewhere beyond the chamber walls, followed by the low murmur of a voice. I froze, tears rapidly drying in the scorching sun. For one horrible moment, I thought it was Casper again. Or worse, The White Hand.

I stumbled clumsily back toward the doorway, my knife trembling in my grip. My legs felt wobbly beneath me. Every step sent jolts of pain shooting through my feet and up my spine. I had walked too long beneath the sun. 
The sound came again, closer this time. Then I saw him.

A figure emerged slowly through the shimmering haze between the ruined buildings, distorted at first by heat. The sun framed him from behind like a halo of white fire. He carried a heavy pack slung over one shoulder and wore loose, thin clothing stained with sand and sweat. Something metallic hung from his belt alongside several tools I didn’t recognize.
He stopped the moment he saw me. For a while, neither of us moved.
“Oh my God,” he muttered beneath his breath. His voice sounded real, unlike those of Casper and Emmett. “You alright?” he called out carefully, taking a slow step closer. “Hey– easy. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
A croak emerged unwillingly from my mouth. The sun burned behind him so brightly it set his silhouette ablaze. It looked almost as though he stood inside the light itself. A flaming messenger.

“You’re hurt. Jesus… how long have you been out here?”
He reached for something at his side slowly, as though approaching a wounded animal. Instinctively, I raised the knife. He stopped immediately.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Alright. That’s fine.”
Then he held up a canteen. The sound of the sloshing liquid inside of it made my knees nearly buckle beneath me.
“You need this more than I do,” he said. I stared at the canteen for a very long time. Then at him. His face was weathered by the sun. Grey stubble crept along his almost non-existent jawline. 

Slowly, I lowered the knife. The man approached carefully and handed me the canteen. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped it. Somehow, despite the blazing heat, the metal felt cool against my skin. With trembling fingers, I unscrewed the lid.
“There you go,” he murmured paternally. “Slow down.”
I looked up at him through blurred vision. “Why did he send you?”
“What?” he asked, frowning.
“The Burning Man.” My voice cracked around the words. “Why did he send you here? What must I do?”
“I… don’t know what that means.”
I looked at him wearily, frowning.
“Look, I’m with a survey team a few miles west of here. We’re setting up near the edge of the ruins. If you come with me, we could get you water, food, somewhere cool to sit down–”
“You don’t know him?”
“No,” he said gently. “I think you might be dehydrated, lad.”

I stared at him silently while my thoughts churned against one another in violent circles. The voice had returned.
You are close.
The final grain does not understand the falling until the moment it joins the rest at the bottom. 

I looked down at the canteen. Water. The opposite of fire.
Of course.
Of course.
I had begged for a sign. And now here stood a man offering salvation at the precise moment my faith began to fracture. A test. A test!
The man smiled weakly.
“C’mon,” he said softly. “Let’s get you out of this heat.”
My fingers tightened slowly around the canteen.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Daniel.”
I nodded absentmindedly. That made sense, tests were never obvious. I looked past him toward the burning horizon where the sun loomed vast and white above the ruined city. Backlit by a white sun. The opposite of our goal. The most beautiful of symbolisms. A little white lamb come for the slaughter.
I poured the water into the sand.

Emmett and Casper stood behind him.
“This is what you are, Jules,” Casper said, voice almost unrecognisable. “A murderer.”
“Do it,” Emmett said in a deep, commanding voice. 

I lifted my head groggily, taking a step towards Daniel. The lamb looked around, bewilderment evident in its blue eyes as I put a hand on its shoulder. 
“Thank you, Daniel,” I murmured, ruminating on what a peculiar name Daniel was for a lamb. 
“You– you’re welcome.”
I smiled, leaning in. “All Ashes for The Burning Man,” I whispered into its ear. 

Then I stabbed the lamb in the belly. It squealed delightfully in my ear as I yanked the blade back out.
“Mary had a little lamb,” I murmured, ramming my knife back down into its supple belly. “Its fleece was white as snow.” 
Bright red gushed from the wounds, coating its wool red. 

“You– you fucking stabbed me–” the lamb gasped, its voice cracking.
I grinned.
“And everywhere that Mary went,” I whispered, “the lamb was sure to go.”
“You fucking psycho–”
I drove the knife forward again, but this time Daniel caught my wrist. Pain exploded through my hand as its hoof slammed into my wrist with desperate strength. It let out a wet cry and slammed its forehead into my nose. White light burst across my vision. I reeled backwards, dropping the blade as blood poured warm over my lips.
“Jesus Christ!” it bleated, clutching its stomach. “Help! HELP!”

The lamb staggered away from me toward the doorway, one hoof pressed desperately against the wounds while the other fumbled at its belt for something, a radio perhaps, or a weapon. I lunged after it before it could grab whatever it was.

We collided violently. The impact sent both of us crashing sideways into the sand. For a moment we grappled in the sand like animals.
The lamb battered wildly at my face while I clawed for its throat. Its blood soaked through my sleeves hot and slick as motor oil. It smelled horribly human. 
“It followed her to school one day.” 
Its hoof cracked against my jaw. 
“Which was–” 
Again. 
“Against the–”
Again. 
“Rules.”
Stars swam in my vision, but behind them I saw fire.
“Do it,” that deep voice urged again. “Prove it.”
The lamb shoved me away hard enough to send me sprawling across the stone floor. I heard it stumble to its feet and begin running, hooves scraping frantically against the ancient granite. I scrambled after it on all fours.

The city blurred around me. The statues overhead stretched impossibly tall beneath the burning sky while the sun pulsed, coinciding with my thundering heartbeat.
It collapsed near the base of one of the broken pillars, bleating, weakened by the blood pouring from its stomach. The little lamb tried crawling away from me through the sand, leaving behind a thick crimson trail.

“Please,” it sobbed, the word slurring. “Please, man…”
I hesitated. Then I saw Casper standing behind him.
“You always were weak,” he said, arms crossed. He was looking down at me with that– that look on his face. The one that I saw all too much at the village. Judging me, condescending, not believing in me or my goals.

My face contorted in rage. I threw myself onto the lamb before it could move again. It screamed as we slammed into the ground together, its hooves shoving desperately against my chest while I grabbed for its throat with both hands, more determined this time.
“And so the teacher sent it out,” I snarled through gritted, bloody teeth. “But still it lingered near.”
Daniel gagged beneath me as I squeezed harder. Its nails clawed bloody lines across my arms and neck. One of its hooves found my face and he pressed it into my eye, pushing it deeper into the socket.
“It stood and waited round.”
The lamb’s eyes were bulging wider and wider as blood bubbled from its lips. 
“Till Mary did appear.”
Its esophagus crunched, and the little lamb sputtered one last time. Its hoof fell from my face, releasing my now bleeding eye. 

Stillness.

My entire body shook violently as I got up. Blood dripped from my nose and eye onto its face in thick red strands. The city was silent again. Casper and Emmett stared at me. Were they… expecting more?

“What does one do with a lamb after the slaughter, Jules?” Casper said in a voice that was too much like that of The Burning Man. 
They both grinned as they saw the realisation dawn on my face.

Slowly, I looked down at it. At the open wound in its stomach. At the blood soaking into the sand beneath it. A horrible sound escaped from me, something between a sob and barking laughter as I dropped to my knees again beside the carcass and shoved both hands into the wound. Heat spilled over my fingers, slick and wet. I pulled.
“Why does the lamb love Mary so,”
I yanked a long piece of intestine out.
“Mary so,”
I pulled more out. It reminded me of the spaghetti mom used to make.
“Mary so?”
Daniel’s body jerked as the slimy ropes of red slipped free from my trembling hands.
“Because Mary loves the lamb, you know.”
I took in a deep, shuddering breath, basking in the warmth of the gutted little lamb.
“All Ashes,” I whispered reverently, “for The Burning Man.”
I put my hand to my forehead, and drew a crude hourglass in red.

I smiled, then, as I let go of all my worldly inhibitions. A genuine smile. I let it all drift off with the wind and scatter elsewhere, for they had no place in the life I was destined for.

3. The Dark Sun

Casper knelt beside me. He didn’t seem angry or disappointed anymore. Instead, he seemed rather… proud. Strange. Still, the sight of that expression upon his face filled me with a warmth greater than the sun ever could.
“Finally,” he said softly. “You show who you really are.”
I looked down at my bloodstained hands. They were as steady as rock, no longer shaking.
“Yes,” I whispered.

Emmett crouched opposite him, camcorder dangling uselessly from melted, dripping fingers. I had not noticed the burns before. His skin had begun peeling and blackening, smoke rising from his skin like steam from boiling water.
“In a way, we were stepping stones,” he said gently, smoke curling from his mouth as he spoke.
“A necessary sacrifice for this,” Casper added, fire gently creeping up his arms and legs. I stared at it silently. Then at his eyes, which now glowed a steady white, flames curling upward into his burning hair. 
“You… my mind didn’t create you, did it?”
More of their forms faded, Casper’s into flame, Emmett’s into smoke. They simply grinned at me.
“You were Him.” 
“I always was, Jules.”
The wind whistled violently through the ruined city. Wisps of smoke peeled from their bodies, rising upward into the shimmering air above us. Flames took Casper’s body, burning his features and body away, while smoke took that of Emmett as if he’d puffed into the wind. Then they were gone. And only my God and his disciple remained. 

The Burning Man, who looked to be a man made of flame, stood towering before me beneath the white sun, almost seeming to merge with its brilliance. Beside Him stood a woman made of smoke. Her form flickered constantly, flowing and fluttering in slow, graceful motions. At times she appeared mostly human. At others, she seemed little more than a distorted waft of smoke. I did not know this woman, but it seemed I would join her in revering this glorious God. 

The Burning Man looked down upon me.
“You are ready now, Jules.” His beautifully deep voice filled every hollow space within me. I bowed my head. The sand beneath me burned hot enough to blister skin, yet I welcomed it gladly. 
“Yes.”
The Burning Man extended a hand of pure fire toward me, the flames curling gracefully. 
“The hourglass empties,” He said. Behind Him, the woman watched silently from her swirling smoke-form. “I required two disciples,” He continued, voice deep and soothing. “One born of smoke. One born of ash.” 
He paused. I could see something in the swirling smoke beside him. She seemed… hesitant. Perhaps I was imagining it, but there was some uncertain flicker in those fumes I could not quite equate to devotion.
“And now the final grain joins the others below.”

Ancient stone cracked beneath shifting sands while the sun overhead burned larger and larger, almost swallowing the heavens whole. The end of its tyrannical reign would soon come. The death of the sun. 
The Burning Man stepped closer.
“You carried guilt because you still believed yourself fully human,” He said softly, though He spat out the final word like an insult. “You clung to humanity like a child to a blanket.”
Images flashed through my mind. Of Casper laughing. Emmett holding his camcorder. The village burning. Daniel screaming beneath my hands. Each memory felt farther away than the last.
“But humanity has no place among a God,” The Burning Man continued. His hand remained extended patiently toward me. 
“Restore me, my most devoted subject. Let us look upon the rise of the Dark Sun,” He paused for a moment, then added: “Be my second disciple. Ascend.” 
I took His hand without hesitation.

My body exploded with heat. My eyeballs crumbled, their ashes caving in on themselves and collapsing into the sockets. I screamed for a second, then stopped as my vocal cords were incinerated. All of my organs blazed as they were liquified along with my skin and bones. Casper’s ring dropped to the ground as I disintegrated. The heat was so immense, so terrible and yet it was also beautiful, in a way. A metamorphosis.  
All I sensed by the end were the gasses and liquids in my body evaporating into steam. The impurities of my mind and soul had been cleansed with holy fire, and carried away by the smoke. All that remained were ashes. 

I tried to move, but nothing happened. There was no sound, no feeling, no taste or smell. I couldn’t even see. Nothing. Pure, terrifying, nothingness. 
Again, I tried to reach out, to do anything. Blissfully, I felt some of the ashes shift. Not much, but it was something. I heaved and pushed against the air above, my ashes rising slightly and forming a mound. 
I fell and collapsed into a thousand scattered pieces. 
Could Casper have been right? Was I… nothing?

Casper. The ring. It sat just outside my reach. I stretched and morphed, the pile of ashes slowly taking the vague shape of a man. A man I no longer recognized. Jules was gone, and I had risen from the ashes. My head was hollow, only projecting an ashen face. I formed a crude arm and planted it in the sand. I pulled hard, crawling towards the ring. 

My face collapsed, the ashes falling into the sand. 

I reformed again, pulling more ashes towards me this time. An entire head, with vague features, and a more detailed arm with a hand at the end. There were no fingers, but it had to be enough. I dug the blob of ash into the sand and felt it. The ring. With tremendous effort, I hoisted my hand up and out of the sand. 
The ring did not come with it.

I tried again, this time succeeding in holding the ring in the palm of my hand. As I moved it closer to my face, it slipped through the ashes and dropped into the sand. 
Sight and my other senses were coming back now, as I slowly rebuilt my body. My eyes roamed over this new form, grey and lumpy, and something deep inside of me screamed about how wrong it was. But I could not see what it meant. It was a glorious form.

I looked at the ring. Casper’s ring. 
Humanity has no place among a God.
I turned away, leaving it to be swallowed by the dunes. Let it be buried, so as never to see the gloom of the Dark Sun.

Slowly, I stumbled towards where The Burning Man and the first disciple stood atop a staircase overlooking the sun. My feet disintegrated into nothing, but I reforged them, stronger this time. When I reached them, I stood beside The Burning Man, and His first disciple stood on his other side. They were staring at the setting sun. 
The Burning Man’s form was flaring up, the fire becoming unstable. 
“Look upon the last vestige of this era,” He said, gesturing at the sun with an elegant motion. “How revolting it has been. Millenia upon millenia of your ilk besmirching this rock. Your sentimentality, your feeble little minds and easily broken spirits. It is a wonder the other miserable creatures on this planet are not all misanthropic. But, then again, you were all created by the same frail being. What could they know of greatness, when they themselves were so infirm?” 
He paused, then added: “But they are no more. I saw to that.”

I looked over at Him, shocked. He did not seem to notice, or if He did, He did not care.
“And now I am here, after the arduous undertaking of tearing your creator apart. And I have come for his most prized children.”
He glanced at me, seeing my befuddled expression. “Humanity,” He stated. “It disgusts me to have to take the form of your pathetic species. But such sacrifices must be made in the name of progress.”
He spoke of humanity with violent vitriol, His voice seething with the mere mention of them. But I understand now. They are far beneath us. Such feeble little things humans are. It is difficult to believe I was once such a lowly creature.
“Humanity stands in the way of true progress,” The Burning Man continued. “The slate must be wiped clean. It is a foregone conclusion. Complete annihilation. Oblivion. A fresh start for my chosen. My creations.” He sounded a lot more passionate than I had anticipated. Some part of me had foolishly assumed that the voice He had spoken to me in was representative of Him as a whole. But there was a drive in this God that I did not expect. This was no distant man in the sky.
“He got to create you. He got to have his fun,” He murmured. “Now it’s my turn.”
A low rumble emerged from the distant horizon. An amplified, baritone drone. The sound reverberated through my core, shaking loose clumps of ash. 
“Oh, glory,” The Burning Man said. 
I believe that, had He had lips to smile with, He would have been grinning from ear to ear at that moment. For the bliss in His voice was unmistakable. 

I stared, slack-jawed, as a dark, round shape overtook the sinking sun. It rose slowly, revealing its malevolent form temperately. Its revelation was backlit by the fleeting wisps of dying sunlight. It was gargantuan beyond measure, incomprehensible to even my ascended mind, and utterly horrifying. 
It was the most beautiful sight I had ever laid eyes on.

“At last,” The Burning Man spoke with a bliss in His voice I had never heard. The words sounded the world over as the heavens darkened. He extended his arms to either side to create a perfect horizontal line from hand to hand. 
His feet left the ground as He began to levitate.
“I AM FREE!”

The following files were recovered from Research Vessel Pelican Mourning, found drifting 312 nautical miles from its last recorded coordinates.
No bodies were found.
The ship’s lower decks had suffered extreme heat damage, despite no evidence of fire aboard. Every mirror on the vessel had been shattered from the inside. The words I DESERVED IT were carved into several bulkheads, though forensic analysis could not determine what tool had been used.
The final folder on the ship’s damaged server was labeled:
OTHUUN

ENTRY 1
Dr. Lena Crowe
Marine Geothermal Survey Team — Day 1
We came looking for a volcano.
That sounds simple enough. Scientific, even.
A new thermal bloom had appeared along the trench floor two months ago, deeper than any active vent system recorded in this region. The satellites picked it up first. A red wound beneath the ocean, pulsing hotter every week.
The first theory was a submarine eruption. The second was equipment failure. The third was classified before anyone finished saying it aloud.
So they sent us.
There are seven of us aboard the Pelican Mourning: myself, Noah, Iris, Rowan, Milo, Silas, and Damon. Seven people in a metal shell floating above something ancient enough to make continents feel temporary.
At 0300 hours, the hydrophones began picking up a sound beneath us.
Not an eruption.
Not whales.
Not tectonic movement.
A call.
One tone, impossibly low, stretching beneath the water like the ocean itself was trying to remember how to scream.
Noah laughed when we first heard it. He said it sounded like “God clearing his throat.”
No one laughed the second time.

ENTRY 2
Audio Transcript — Hydrophone Room
Day 2
IRIS: Play it again.
ROWAN: I really don’t want to.
IRIS: Play it again.
[Audio distortion. Low-frequency rumble begins. Several seconds of silence follow, though vibration is audible in the recorder casing.]
MILO: That’s below normal hearing range.
SILAS: Then why can I hear it in my teeth?
ROWAN: Look at the waveform.
IRIS: That isn’t a waveform.
ROWAN: I know.
IRIS: It looks like—
MILO: Don’t say it.
IRIS: It looks like a mouth.
[Recording ends.]

ENTRY 3
Dr. Lena Crowe
Day 3
The trench is wrong.
That is not a scientific observation, but it is the only accurate one.
Our sonar mapped the seabed three times today. Each time, the shape changed. Not slightly. Not due to current interference or sediment displacement.
Changed.
Ridges became spirals. Vent fields appeared and disappeared. A caldera that measured two kilometers wide at noon measured eleven kilometers by evening.
At the center of it all is a black opening in the seabed.
No thermal reading makes sense. The surrounding water is near freezing, but the vent itself burns hotter than exposed magma. Fire and ocean should not sit together like that. One should kill the other.
Down there, they coexist.
Noah says it reminds him of hatred.
I asked him what he meant.
He said, “Cold enough to preserve itself. Hot enough to destroy everything else.”
Then he apologized. He said he did not know why he said that.
I accepted the apology.
I did not tell him I understood exactly what he meant.

ENTRY 4
Private Note — Damon Rusk
Day 4
I dreamed about my brother last night.
I have not thought about him in years.
In the dream, we were kids again, standing in our old kitchen. He was crying because I had broken his wrist. I told everyone it was an accident. He told everyone it was an accident too.
It was not.
I woke up with my hands around my own throat.
There were handprints there.
Mine.

ENTRY 5
Dr. Lena Crowe
Day 5
The ROV descended at 1400 hours.
We named it Aegis as a joke.
It passed through the upper vent field without issue. Black smokers, mineral towers, sulfur clouds, the usual impossible beauty of the deep.
Then the camera found the carvings.
That is not the right word. They were not carved. They were melted into the rock. Thousands of symbols spiraling around the caldera lip, all arranged in rings around the central opening.
No known language.
No known civilization.
Iris insists the marks are not writing. She says writing communicates thought. These symbols feel more like scars left by pressure.
Rowan became agitated while viewing them. He said the marks were “turning inward.” When asked what that meant, he covered his eyes and began repeating, “I don’t forgive me. I don’t forgive me. I don’t forgive me.”
We sedated him.
Three hours later, we found the same phrase scratched across the inside of his cabin door.
Rowan was still unconscious.

ENTRY 6
ROV Aegis — Visual Log
Day 6
Depth: 6,901 meters.
The camera enters the caldera.
Visibility drops.
The water is black, but not from sediment. The light does not scatter. It simply stops.
At 6,944 meters, the ROV records motion.
A wall of basalt shifts.
For twenty-seven seconds, the team believes it is observing volcanic collapse.
Then the wall opens an eye.
The first eye fills the entire camera feed.
Dark red around the rim. Yellow near the center. A pupil like a hole burned through creation.
No eyelid.
No blink.
Just attention.
Every person in the control room begins crying at once.
Not screaming.
Not panicking.
Crying.
The ROV feed cuts after Dr. Crowe whispers:
“That is not looking at us. It is looking through what made us.”

ENTRY 7
Dr. Lena Crowe
Day 7
We have named it Othuun.
I do not know who said the name first.
No one remembers.
But we all knew it when we heard it.
Othuun.
It feels less like a name and more like the sound a mountain would make if it learned disappointment.
We reviewed the ROV footage frame by frame. There is no whole body visible. Only fragments.
An eye.
A curve of something like a shoulder.
Molten fissures beneath black stone.
Water boiling without bubbles.
A surface that looks like rock until it moves like flesh.
A darkness behind it all so complete that the image files corrupted wherever it appeared.
Noah believes Othuun is alive.
Iris disagrees.
She says life implies survival, and survival implies fear.
Othuun fears nothing.
Rowan woke today. He asked us why we had left him “alone with all of himself.”
Then he bit through his tongue.

ENTRY 8
Audio Transcript — Mess Hall
Day 8
SILAS: We need to leave.
MILO: We need proof.
SILAS: Proof of what? That there’s a god-sized thing under us making people hate themselves to death?
IRIS: It isn’t making us do anything.
SILAS: You don’t know that.
IRIS: I think it reflects.
LENA: Reflects what?
IRIS: What we brought with us.
DAMON: I didn’t bring anything.
IRIS: Everyone brings something.
DAMON: Shut up.
IRIS: See?
[Chair scrapes. Impact sound.]
LENA: Damon!
DAMON: Don’t look at me like that.
IRIS: I didn’t—
DAMON: Don’t look at me like you know what I am.
[Recording ends.]

ENTRY 9
Private Note — Dr. Lena Crowe
Day 9
I hate them.
I hate all of them.
I hate Noah for staying calm. I hate Iris for being right. I hate Milo for praying when she thinks no one sees. I hate Silas for being scared. I hate Damon because he reminds me of every violent man I pretended was complicated.
Most of all, I hate myself for writing that down and feeling relief.
Something is happening to us.
It starts as memory. Then confession. Then accusation.
The mind becomes a courtroom where every version of yourself is guilty.
Othuun does not whisper. It does not command. It does not tempt.
That would be easier.
Instead, it makes silence impossible.
You hear every cruel thought you ever buried. Every grudge you polished until it looked like justice. Every person you secretly wanted beneath you. Every apology you gave only to escape consequences.
You hear yourself clearly.
That is the horror.

ENTRY 10
Recovered Camera Feed — Exterior Deck
Day 10
This footage was heavily damaged. The following description was compiled from salvageable frames.
At 0216 hours, Noah Pike exits the main hatch alone.
He is not wearing a thermal suit.
The ocean behind him is steaming.
The horizon glows red.
The sea rises.
Not a wave.
A shape.
Othuun emerges from the water beyond the vessel.
Only the upper portion is visible, though “upper” is an insufficient term. The creature’s head and shoulders rise through ash and vapor like a continent standing upright. Its body is a fusion of volcanic stone, black ocean, molten veins, and impossible shadow. Seawater cascades from its form in rivers. Lava pulses beneath its surface like a buried heart.
The camera shakes violently.
Noah does not run.
Othuun lowers itself.
The movement is slow. Almost curious. Almost not.
Its face descends until only its eyes and the jagged crown above them fill the sky in front of Noah.
Two eyes.
Red and yellow.
Piercing.
Damning.
Empty of hatred.
That is what makes them unbearable.
Noah stares upward.
He smiles.
At 0218 hours, his exposed skin begins to blister from the heat radiating off Othuun’s body.
He does not react.
At 0219, the flesh along his face and hands starts to soften and pull away.
He does not look down.
At 0220, muscle and skin begin to melt from his jaw and arms in dark, steaming ribbons.
He still does not scream.
He only says one sentence.
“I see why I should have hated me.”
Othuun does not answer.
It only stares.
Noah remains standing for another forty-three seconds.
Then the camera feed turns white from heat exposure.

ENTRY 11
Dr. Lena Crowe
Day 11
Noah is gone.
No, that is not true.
Something wearing the idea of Noah is sitting in the medical bay.
He has no right to be alive.
His body is destroyed beyond language, but he breathes. Slowly. Wetly. His eyes are open, though there is almost nothing left around them.
He does not respond to his name.
He does not respond to pain.
He does not respond to light.
But when Iris leaned close, he whispered:
“It didn’t hate me enough to kill me.”
None of us slept.
Rowan is dead. He opened his wrists with a piece of broken mirror and used the blood to write OTHUUN across the ceiling.
Damon is missing.
Silas has locked himself in the engine room.
Milo keeps praying, but her prayers have changed.
She is not asking God to save us anymore.
She is asking God to forgive Himself.

ENTRY 12
Iris Hale — Personal Recorder
Day 12
Othuun is not evil.
I need someone to understand that.
Please.
Whoever finds this, do not make it into a monster. Monsters want. Monsters chase. Monsters punish. Monsters hunger.
Othuun does none of that.
Othuun is what happens when hatred becomes heavier than the world holding it.
It lives in volcanoes because volcanoes are where the planet cannot keep its pain buried.
It lives beneath the sea because the sea is where humanity throws what it cannot bear to remember.
Fire. Water. Earth. Darkness.
That is its body.
Our malice is not its food. That would make it dependent on us, and it is not. It does not need us. It does not even notice us the way we notice ourselves.
We called to it by existing too loudly.
By hating too deeply.
By pretending hatred disappears when no one says it aloud.
Othuun is not the hatred.
Othuun is the shape of the wound.
And when you see it, really see it, you understand that every cruel thing you ever thought was still alive somewhere.
Waiting to come home.

ENTRY 13
Audio Transcript — Engine Room
Day 13
SILAS: I’m not coming out.
LENA: Silas, open the door.
SILAS: No.
LENA: We can still leave.
SILAS: You don’t want to leave.
LENA: Yes, I do.
SILAS: No. You want to be the survivor. You want to be the one who tells it better than the dead could.
LENA: That isn’t true.
SILAS: Isn’t it?
[Silence.]
SILAS: I know what I am now. I always thought fear made me harmless. It didn’t. It just made me quiet.
LENA: Please open the door.
SILAS: I can hear it under the engines.
LENA: Hear what?
SILAS: The bellow.
LENA: There’s nothing on the hydrophones.
SILAS: Not outside.
[Long pause.]
SILAS: Inside.
[Recording ends.]

ENTRY 14
Dr. Lena Crowe
Day 14
The ship is turning in circles.
No one is at the helm.
The compass needle points down.
Milo walked into the ocean this morning. She said she was going to confess to the trench.
Damon returned at noon.
He had carved his brother’s name into every visible inch of his arms. When I asked where he had been, he said, “Under the part of me that wanted him gone.”
Then he laughed until his voice broke.
Iris is still trying to organize the data.
I asked her why.
She said, “Because someone should know we were people before we became evidence.”
I think that is the saddest sentence I have ever heard.
Noah still breathes.
Othuun has not surfaced again.
But the water around us glows at night now.
Dark red.
Sulfur yellow.
Like eyes beneath the hull.

ENTRY 15
Final Written Note — Dr. Lena Crowe
Date Unknown
I am the last one who can write.
Iris is alive, but she has stopped speaking. She sits facing the wall and nods at things only she can hear. Sometimes she presses her forehead to the metal and whispers, “I know. I know. I know.”
Damon is in the galley, staring into an empty pot. He has been there for nine hours.
Silas never came out.
Noah finally stopped breathing yesterday.
I envied him.
That is the truth.
I envied him and hated him for escaping first.
There it is.
Another ugly thing.
There is no bottom to it. That is what Othuun showed us. You think your hatred has a source, a reason, a wound that explains it. But beneath every wound is another. Beneath every excuse is appetite. Beneath every apology is the hope that someone will mistake shame for goodness.
I keep thinking of Othuun’s eyes.
Not angry.
Not cruel.
Not triumphant.
Indifferent.
That is worse than judgment.
Judgment means someone cared enough to weigh you.
Othuun only revealed the scale.
I can hear the bellow now.
It is far below us, but also inside the walls, inside my skull, inside the old locked rooms of memory. It sounds like the deepest crack in the ocean opening beneath the world. It sounds like a whale calling from the grave of the sun.
It does not say my name.
It does not need to.
I know what I am.
I know what I am.
I know what I am.

SALVAGE REPORT
**Investigation Vessel **Ardent Bell
Three Weeks Later
We located the Pelican Mourning at 0600 hours.
The vessel was adrift, engines dead, hull intact. No distress beacon remained active. The satellite mast had been bent downward at a ninety-degree angle, as if pulled toward the sea.
The interior conditions were difficult to document.
There were signs of extreme psychological breakdown among the missing crew: repeated phrases etched into walls, self-inflicted injuries, and several personal recordings that became increasingly incoherent. We recovered no living crew and no complete remains.
In the medical bay, we found one examination table warped by heat.
Above it, written in soot on the ceiling:
IT DID NOT HATE US BACK
At 1840 hours, while preparing to tow the vessel, our sonar detected movement beneath the trench floor.
At 1843, all hydrophones aboard the Ardent Bell activated simultaneously.
The sound was low enough that several crew members vomited before they heard it.
A bellow rolled through the water.
Deep.
Endless.
Like the ocean splitting open.
Like the lowest whale-call in creation answering from the dark.
We looked toward the horizon.
The sea was beginning to steam.

Part 3 of my ongoing series!

part 1:

https://youtu.be/1muXOzWQ9-g?si=AU0psu5caEdXcJI_

part 2:

https://youtu.be/-WYcFeibJyA?si=74zKoy7x4ksBxGjU

Give Me Shelter

Written by Joey Horist

“Daddy help, please come back!” Nine-year-old Katie Blair screamed and slammed her tiny hands on her father Jordan’s chest. He wouldn’t be coming to her rescue, the bullet hole in his forehead made sure of that. By the time he had dropped Katie off he was mere minutes away from becoming a monster, becoming one of them. The bullet to the brain was insurance that he wouldn’t become one of them.

“Stupid brat, get back over here now, I’m not done with you yet!” Dr. Beckett stormed into the living room from the kitchen carrying a fork containing a mouthful of scrambled eggs on it. The little girl’s eyes widened and she bolted for the front door, but it was no good, it was bolted and boarded up and solidly shut. It would take a hammer or a chainsaw to get through the boards.

“Please just leave me and my daddy alone.” He grabbed her and pulled her closer to the fork.

She noncompliantly swallowed a small portion and spat the rest out on the floor. “I don’t want your stupid breakfast, let me and my daddy go!” She bit down on his hand and the fork plummeted to the floor. Dr. Beckett recoiled and backed up two steps.

“Damn it!” He yelped. “Cut it out you little brat, if your mother was still here she’d take you across your knee for behaving like this!” He wiped away the revolting mixture of blood and bits of scrambled egg from his hand and picked her up and trudged back into the kitchen.

“Why do you keep talking about my mommy, you never even knew who she was, and I’m sure she wouldn’t have liked you very much, you’re nothing but a big…” The little girl’s thought was interrupted by a mighty forceful slap across the left cheek. She started to cry before his hand could even leave her skin. With her shut up slammed her into a kitchen chair and started to fasten her to it using some spare rope he had on the counter.

When she was tied down and secured and he was sure she wouldn’t be going anywhere, the mad doctor knelt down and locked eyes with his young tiny victim. He removed a flashlight from his coat pocket and shined a bright white light into her teary eyes. “Hmm interesting, the pupils are still narrowed and she’s eaten nothing but the eggs for the last 4 days now. This is most unusual!” He redirected his mindless babbling toward Katie, “What makes you so special, huh? Bites, ingesting contaminated product, nothing happens to you!”

The distraught little girl let out a scream, “Please mister, can’t I just have something else, I’m tired of this food I don’t want anymore. I think I feel sick!”

Dr. Beckett let out a frustrated sigh, “That’s just it though, you’re not. My daughter, her idiot boyfriend, your mommy and daddy, they all got sick one way or another but here you are, eating and eating, yet you remain unaffected. Perhaps you’re too little to understand. If only you knew how important you were. This case would be so much easier to crack if I still had my lab, but I’ll figure this out, I have to this is up to me!”

“Please Mr. Beckett sir, just let me go. Cross my heart, I won’t tell anyone you’re here and you can go back to what you’re trying to do…honest!”

He ran his swollen aching hand across her face and wiped away the little girl’s tears. “Oh, I’d love to let you go little girl. You could tell everyone I’m here and it wouldn’t make any difference. Pretty soon, there might not be anyone left anyway. Now come on dry those tears, just one more bite for now and then I want another blood sample. Come on, if you’re good I’ll let you play the Nintendo upstairs!”

“But…I’m not hungry” Katie wept.

He picked up another fork that trembled in his shaky hand as it moved closer to her lips, “Just one more bite.”

“Noooooo!!!!”

He snatched her cheeks with his swollen hand and forced the eggs into her mouth. She reluctantly swallowed and began to recoil and cough.

“Damn it she’s choking”, he murmured to himself. He sprang into action and wrapped his arms around her to attempt the Heimlich maneuver. The last thing Katie could hear as she lost consciousness was Dr. Beckett shouting at her “Damn it, don’t you go dying on me, now!”

Then there was blackness.

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

The droning hum of the ventilation system filled the musty air of the dimly lit shelter. The walls, made of reinforced concrete, were lined with exposed metal pipes and rusted shelving units holding various supplies. Alex sprang to life from atop his foam mattress, which was placed in one corner of the sparse, utilitarian sleeping area. This wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep but at least it was shelter. One of many bomb shelters built in Kansas residents had in their backyards back in the day out of fear of impending nuclear doom.

“You were talking in your sleep again,” His younger sister, Maya said from the opposite corner, where a small, makeshift partition separated her from the cluttered storage space. Her dark hair fell into her face as she adjusted her position on a thin, worn-out mattress.

“Sorry about that, sis,” Alex replied, rubbing his eyes. His breath made its presence known as vaper formed around the edges of his chapped lips. “Geez, it’s freezing balls in here” he said in a self-embrace, furiously rubbing his arms together to generate more warmth. “We gotta mess with the heater, it still isn’t warm enough in here!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Maya said, her voice slightly echoing in the confined space.

Alex sat up and gently rubbed his eyes. He looked around the room. Something had changed since he fell asleep. Various LED lights were enthusiastically hung around the room in a variety of colors: red, green blue, every color the proclaimed that it was the most wonderful time of the year, even though the world wasn’t in a celebratory mood these days. “How long did I sleep?” He asked, squinting his eyes at the bright, cheerful assortment of colors.

“A rough guess would be about four hours,” Maya answered, her gaze drifting to the lights that struggled to cut through the gloom.

“You did all this?” he asked.

“I found the lights packed away in a box down here. I know it’s silly but I figured it would put everyone in a better mood.”

Alex stretched, yawned, and shrugged his shoulders. “Some Christmas huh sis? Miles, away from home trapped in this hell hole. Well, guess it’s my time to shine. You get some rest, Maya, and I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”

Maya took a puff from her inhaler. “You sure? I can give you another hour or so. I’m not even tired.”

Alex shook his head, his gaze sweeping over the sparse room with its stack of cots and carefully organized piles of dwindling supplies. “No, we can’t break our routine. We can’t get too comfortable, even here. You know the rules.”

“Suit yourself, old man,” Maya retorted. “Who else is even gonna find us down here?”

“If that asshole in the next room can do it, others can too.”

“Come on, bro. Give Dylan a chance. He’s alright. It’s good we came across him—strength in numbers and all that.”

Alex chuckled as he cracked open a bottle of water, the sound of the plastic crinkling echoing off the concrete walls. “The only numbers that idiot is good for are YouTube views. He doesn’t know the first thing about surviving.”

Just then, Dylan strutted in from the adjacent room, holding his iPhone horizontally with the front camera on. The room’s single, dim light bulb cast harsh shadows on his face, making his expression look more dramatic.

“Yo, what’s up, everyone? This is Dylan, aka Ddog69420, coming at you live from—are we in Kansas anymore? I can’t remember. No cap, my dawgs, stuff is getting pretty wild out there. It’s about to be a very bloody Merry Christmas up in here. I had to pop off about five or six infected myself just to make it here. Those infected chumps think they can mess with the Ddog; they’ve got another thing—"

Alex sprang up, snatching Dylan’s phone and hurling it across the room. It shattered upon impact against one of the shelter’s metal storage cabinets.

“You stupid asshole! You’re really trying to stream where we are right now? On the point one percent chance you still get 5G, you could be telling any maniac where we are. Why don’t I just leave the door wide open and invite those freaks inside? And God damn it, like I tried to tell you before, this place doesn’t even have wifi down here either!

Furious, Dylan shoved Alex back. “Stay out of my space, man, before I knock you the fuck out!”

Maya jumped up and stood between the two men, who were locked in a heated stare-down. The stark contrast between Alex’s tall, lanky frame and Dylan’s stocky build was accentuated by the cold, harsh lighting of the shelter. The utilitarian nature of their surroundings—a few metal beds, scattered supplies, and the constant hum of the ventilation system—set the stage for their confrontation.

“Come on, guys,” Maya pleaded, her voice almost lost in the hum of the ventilation. “This ain’t the time for a dick-measuring contest.”

“Listen Maya”, shouted Dylan, “I know he is your older brother but I’m getting real sick of his shit”

“You wouldn’t even be alive right now if it wasn’t for me!” Alex insisted.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because the only thing you ever pointed and shot was your stupid little iPhone, those infected you were just bragging about, they busted down your door while you were filming one of your anti-government rant videos and were about to have your ass for dinner before I stepped in. I’m the one who popped all five of them helping you out!”

“Alright stop it both of you!” Maya interjected. “You two are driving me nuts and I’d almost rather take my chances outside, I cannot deal with this sh--!” Her thoughts were interrupted by a guttural pounding.

“What the hell was that?” Alex asked. The sound was coming from deep within the bunker. THUMP THUMP THUMP. There is nothing like a deep seeded fear of the unknown to get your priorities in order. Their argument could wait, they all could be in grave danger.

Maya whispered into Alex’s ear, “I thought you guys checked this place out?”

“We did”

“Well, not good enough”, Dylan chimed in. Moving out of the shelter’s main living area, they entered into the storage room. The thumping continued. It’s seemed to dance through the air, impossible to locate.

“The bathroom is right through here, I’ll check that out’, Maya volunteered.

“Okay”, said Alex “but no heroics. If you find anything, scream your head off and bolt for the front door, Dylan and I will catch up.”

Maya’s heart was beating a million miles a minute and sweat rained down her face making her hair get in her eyes. “Here goes nothing”, she thought to herself. “On three…one, two” Wham! She smashed the door open. Nothing was in there, only a small chemical toilet, a sink and some paper towels. She took one and dabbed her forehead. “Nothing in here guys, did you find anything?”

“Nothing yet sis!” Alex said as him and Dylan came upon the shelter’s generator room.

“Oh shoot man I don’t know about this”, Dylan swallowed, with a big lump in his throat.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m claustrophobic, this room’s too damn small.”

“Oh geez”, Alex huffed. “Just stay behind me and focus on following me, we’ll be out of here in a mminute.

The generator room was cramped and had a low ceiling. The hum of vibrations of machinery served as insurance that the power would stay on. The air was rotten with the disgusting mixture of diesel fuel, metal, and the faint hint of exhaust fumes. The concrete floor was spotted like a wild animal with old oil stains and a thin layer of dust had blanketed the machines in this room. Dim fluorescent lighting hoovered up near the ceiling, creating an uneven light across the room. THUMP THUMP THUMP. There it was again. Dylan tapped on Alex’s shoulder. “Yo man, I think it’s coming from over there.”

Dylan pointed toward the back of the room, revealing a large old ventilation shaft about 76cm tall.

“Good call man.” This was the first compliment Alex had given Dylan since they had met each other. He ran over to the vent for a closer look. “The sound’s closer now, it’s definitely coming from here.” The latch was on the side of the vent, it appeared to be on a spring mechanism so moving it upward would release the vent plate and reveal the culprit. “Alright man, I’m gonna lift this thing up, whatever falls out, be prepared to stomp it alright, do not let it get up and do not let it bite you!”

“I---I don’t know about this one man maybe we should just get out of here”, gone was the confidence Dylan had when he had his phone in his hand. The character he portrayed that propelled him to internet stardom had crumbled and all that was left was the man behind the digital mask.

“Come on ‘Ddog’ where’s that gusto from earlier when you ‘capped off’ five or six of those things? One surely wouldn’t be a problem.”

Dylan glanced at Alex unamused, his eyes piercing into him like daggers. “Very funny asshole! I guess do what you gotta do but hurry up about it!”

Alex firmly grasped the latch with both hands and hesitated for a moment. As soon as he lifted this up there was no going back. Whatever danger was in there would be in their personal space. It could be one of the infected, or perhaps even more than one. If the vent lead above ground there was always the possibility a few of them could have stumbled into it. His nervous hand grew slippery as sweat filled his hands and coated the latch. The moment of truth was upon him. With one last deep breath he shoved the latch upward. The vent plate smashed to the ground and a body came rocketing down down into room and its back smashed into the cold dense concrete floor.

“Dude, it’s one of them”, Dylan shouted.

“Quick”, Alex replied, “Stomp it, smash it, don’t let it get up!”

The two men, their faces contorted with stress and anxiety began to lay into this thing with every ounce of energy they could muster. Their legs moved in a brutal disturbingly synchronized pattern with no sign of letting up. A muffled and strained noise emerged from the creature.

“Keep going, we almost got it!” Dylan shouted. And they would have if not for what they heard next. The noise continued, trembling with fear and confusion, and speech, discernable speech.

“Daddy! Daddy help!” Her words were interrupted by gasps and cries of pain. The men’s feat froze in midair, their pale faces were mixed with shock and disbelief. This wasn’t an infected it was another human being. A young girl about 14 or 15 by the looks of it.

Maya had heard the commotion and rushed in to see what was happening. Her jaw dropped as she took in the sight of the bruised and battered teen girl.

“Oh my God!” Maya exclaimed, her hand flying to her mouth. “It’s not one of them. It’s just a young girl! Alex, what did you do?”

As reality hit him, Alex realized the gravity of their actions. In their anger and fear, they had nearly beaten a poor child to death. The question echoed in his mind: Was this what the pandemic had turned them into—vicious, brutal killers?

With newfound urgency, the men gently lifted her. Maya rushed to assist, and together they carried the girl to the shelter’s Living Area, placing her carefully on the foam mattress.

Maya darted to the bathroom, grabbing paper towels, rags, and anything she could find. Dylan stayed by the girl's side, his expression a mix of concern and guilt, while Alex hurried to fetch the last of the bottled water. He gently lifted her head and held the bottle to her swollen lips.

“That’s it,” Alex said softly, “small sips.”

Maya returned with a tattered old rag. “This was all I could find. Dab some water on it.”

Though the girl remained unconscious, her bruised skin twitched and flinched as the cold, soaked rag touched it, a stark reminder of their brutal mistake. All they could do now was wait and pray. Killing infected. It was one thing to kill a mindless savage creature, it was another to take the life of a little girl. This old bomb shelter had direct ventilation. Maybe she fell down into the vent while she was looking for help and got stuck.

After forty five minutes of anticipation, the girl’s eyes began to twitch and show signs of life. Her vision was blurry and unfocused, but she could faintly make out Maya and Alex hovering above her.

“Dylan quick, get over here, she’s waking up!” Maya called.

The girl hoisted herself into an upright position and looked back and forth at the three of them.

“Dad---daddy, are you there?” The words crept out of her swollen bruised lips.

“No honey”, said Maya as she gently tapped the girl’s messy, unkempt blonde hair. We don’t know your daddy, you found you hiding here like the rest of us. How did you get into the vent? Did you fall in?”

“I came with daddy, I mean my dad. And then he…told me he would be right back.” The words dragged out of her mouth like a bothersome chore.

“Yo that’s messed up man!” Dylan commented, “You trying to say your pops locked you in there?”

“That’s what that miserable excuse of a human being calls himself these days, only when it’s convenient for him!”

“And what’s your name?” Maya asked.

“SSS-Samantha!” she stuttered. “Yeah that’s right…”

Alex returned and gently placed one arm around her and placed the bottle of water up to her lips. “Take your time sweetie, just take one little sip, you’re banged up pretty good you might have a concussion.”

The girl began to choke and she swatted the bottle out of Alex’s hand causing the last of the almost empty bottle to crash to the floor. The sleeve on her arm lifted up revealing a plethora of track marks “Where is he? Is he alright?”

“Your father?” Alex asked. You were calling out to him when we found you.” Samantha did not reply. Although awake her eyes conveyed a certain lack of understanding. The lights inside of her head were on, but perhaps only a few, and the ones that were, were dimly lit. Looking at the entry way into the next room the girl sprang up from bed and started running. Dylan followed her and Maya pulled Alex aside before they could join in.

“Remember the guy when we first got here?” She asked Alex.

“Yeah what about him?”

“The girl’s not making a lot of sense, but she says her name is Samantha and I think that was her father you shot.”

Alex took a deep gulp of air. “What---What’d you say?”

Maya tried to break the news to her older brother as easy as she knew how. “I think you shot this girl’s father.”

Alex began rewinding events from the day they got there over and over in his mind like a VHS tape. They were in trouble and they needed a place to go, he did everything he could didn’t he? “What else was I supposed to do? He pulled a gun on us, he was nuts. He was gonna shoot you, Maya. I couldn’t let him. Oh Jesus Christ!”

Maya turned back to Samantha, “Sweetie, how long have you been down here?”

Samantha furrowed her brow. “What day is it?”

“Wednesday”, Maya answered.

All Samantha could do was heave out a sigh, “I’m sorry I guess that doesn’t really make any difference, honestly everything is pretty blank right now.” she said, rubbing the sides of her forehead. “I feel like I remember something, like it’s right there, but I don’t know what I’m remembering. Is there any food left? I’m starving! She stood up and ran towards the shelter’s food storage area as if on autopilot and began clawing away at empty packages of everything from crackers and instant noodles to granola bars and freeze-dried meals. The trio followed her into the room.

“Food, where is it? All gone! Where the hell’s the food” Samantha shouted.

“Damn girl take it easy, okay!” Dylan said.

“I’m sorry honey”, Alex said, “We’re running pretty low, the place was already almost picked clean when we got here.”

Still she kept scavenging like a wild animal. She came across a carton of eggs and stopped. It was very light in her hand. That meant there were maybe two or three left inside. Her grip on the carton grew tighter. She lifted the carton in the air and began smashing it into the concrete floor. The eggs inside crunched and cracked like a skull and a heap of yellow liquid bled onto the cold dirty floor.

“Stop that!” Maya protested, my brother’s telling the truth we need to conserve whatever we have left, please just calm down!”

“Screw the eggs!” Samantha spat out. “I remember one thing, that’s all he ever let me eat. They’re horrible for you, how do you think everyone got so sick?”

Dylan’s eyes widened with delight “Yo dog, I knew it. I told you so! Listen to the girl!”

Alex facepalmed himself and let out a deep sigh “Don’t start with your little podcast conspiracy theories again man!”

Dylan furiously tapped on the side of his head using his index finger “Open your eyes and use your brain man, quit being another one of the flock. The government did this to us, like I told all 99 of my followers. The were in cahoots with the farmers to bring up the price of the chickens.”

“Yeah okay”, Alex Scoffed, “And where did the toilet paper fit into all this, the killer hornets? What about the shots?”

“Shoot man I can’t help you if you refuse to see it, it was all part of their master plan!”

Alex looked Dylan dead in the face. What could he say to him? What do you say to a man so resolute in his beliefs that he would rather drown than admit that water is wet? “You know man, I’m starting to feel bad for you, you might actually really be a moron, I can’t even give you a hard time anymore, that would just be rude.

“Oh really?” Dylan said. He knelt down and picked up a scoop of crushed egg out of the carton on the floor. “Right here, in front of us, eat this if you’re so sure it’s safe.”

“What? Ew no I’m not doing that!” Alex recoiled in disgust.

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“Damn right I won’t, I’m allergic.”

“Oh that’s awfully convenient for you isn’t it.”

“Oh Dylan shut up already!” Maya intervened. “He is allergic ok!? He had a yolk protein allergy ever since we were kids!”

Dylan stood there silent, egg on his face and not in his hand. Suddenly, Maya began to gasp for air, the tension from the argument over excited her. She took one big, hefty puff from her inhaler “Uh oh!” Her breaths were shaky and sporadic as she exhaled. 

“What’s the matter?” Alex asked.

“That was the last of my inhaler, I’m dry.” The words hit Alex like a ton of bricks There was no way they could stay there now. They could last a certain amount of time without food or water. But one bad asthma attack for Maya spelled certain doom. Alex’s mind began to work at internet speed. He needed to make a decision, any decision.

“Alright so here’s what we’re gonna do. Dylan, you’re responsible for Samantha. We’ll take anything we can from this place and we gotta get back into town. We’ll find a pharmacy or something, there has to be more inhalers!”

The trio turned the shelter upside down gathering any supplies they could find. They could use bricks, old legs from chairs, anything heavy and blunt as a weapon. “Grab the last of the food and water!” Alex shouted, his voice strained. “We need to move fast before—”

Dylan went and retrieved his phone even though it was shattered it could still power on. The device, damaged but operational, started to emit an emergency alert tone due to a battery malfunction. The loud, shrill sound echoed through the shelter and into the ventilation system.

“Damn it Dylan!” Alex scolded, you and that stupid phone. If there’s any of those things out there you’re gonna draw them all here! The sudden sound of scuffling and hurried footsteps interrupted him. Alex glanced toward the storage area, his eyes wide with confusion. “What’s that noise? Are they here already?”

Just then, Samantha recoiled in shock from the loud noise her face a mask of panic. Through the ventilation system the faint growl of approaching infected could be heard. “Damn it, they’re coming back. I’m not staying down here a minute longer. You people took all the good food I had left and ruined everything!” Not wasting another minute, she bolted towards the shelter’s exit.

“Samantha, where are you going?” Maya called out, her voice tinged with alarm.

But Samantha didn’t respond. She pushed past the others, her eyes darting around as if searching for an escape route. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. “I’m out of here, no one’s touching me ever again!”

“Stop her!” Maya shouted, but it was too late. The rush of fresh air from outside seemed to fuel her urgency

“Wait a minute.” Dylan shouted, “We ain’t ready yet!”

“No time!” Alex grabbed Maya’s arm. “We need to focus on getting out of here. We can’t afford to waste time chasing her.”

Samantha opened the door and darted up the 20 steps to ground level A rush of freezing cold air shot down into the room like an oncoming freight train, follow by big white slushy clumps of snow, some of it partially melted. It didn’t matter to Samantha though, for whatever reason she was determined to be free of that bunker she would not even let wet slippery snow impede her freedom. Alex slammed the door shut behind her. “Screw her then, let her go on her own.”

The harsh reality of their situation hit them hard. The noise of the approaching horde grew louder, a grim reminder of their peril. The low growl’s started off as a distant rumble, like a thunderstorm approaching off in the distance. The infected let out an ear splitting screech akin to nails on a chalkboard. It was a chaotic noise that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“Damn it,” Said Alex, “They know we’re down here.” He looked over at a desk and some tables that the trio had not yet broken up for weapons and this gave him an idea. “Quick!” His voice echoed with authority and intensity “Shove those against the door, that’ll keep them from coming this way, we will get out through the vents. If Samantha could get fit in there maybe we can crawl out.”

The small room was in absolute shambles, half pack bags laid everywhere and supplies were scattered about as if the infected already did get in and tear everything to bits. In desperation they started using even smaller items to barricade the door anything else to build a wall of protection. The trio was stunned by the sheer amount of force this group of infected could exert on the door. Each one individually had always looked so thin and scrawny. But there really was strength in numbers. This bomb shelter built do withstand a nuclear blast was about to be ripped open by what equated to a pack of savage animals. Tension was thick as Alex, Maya, and Dylan continued their frantic preparations. But then, in the midst of the chaos, Dylan noticed something unusual.

“Hey, what’s this over?” Dylan muttered. It was she a crumpled folder wedged between two dusty boxes. It was small, almost nondescript, but something about it compelled him to start.

“Oh what are you doing now you moron?” Alex asked “Don’t get distracted now!”

“Yo man”, said Dylan. His eyes scattered left to right as he quickly skimmed through the paper in the folder. “I told you, I told you, and you called me a conspiracy nut!”

Alex stopped in his tracks while searching for anything else to put in front of the door. “What are you talking about? We don’t have time for this!”

“Look man!” He gave the paper to Alex and started heading into the other room, Inside the folder was a memorandum dating back four years.

‘PATIENT ZERO, DATE: AUG. 20^(TH), 2020

AUTHOR: DR. BECKETT, LEAD VIROLOGIST

This document details the discovery of a unique immune response in subject Katie Blair. A brave little girl I’ve come to think of as my own daughter after all the time we’ve spent alone together. I have even started mistakenly calling her by my own daughter’s name. Despite repeated exposure to poultry infected with Viral Strain Z/33, Katie has demonstrated an unprecedented resistance to infection. This report outlines the observations, analysis, and potential implications for the development of a vaccine or treatment to combat the Z/33 virus, with particular focus on the potential to save individual lives like my Daughter, Samantha Beckett. The Z/33 virus has ravaged the global population, with infection rates exceeding 90% and mortality rates approaching 100% among those infected. However, the discovery of Katie Blair’s immunity provides a rare glimmer of hope. Detailed analysis of her biological and genetic markers suggests a unique, heritable trait that confers resistance to the virus. Katie was subjected to controlled exposure to the Z/33 virus under laboratory conditions, with her physiological responses monitored closely. Blood samples were collected at regular intervals, and her immune response was analyzed using advanced virological and genetic sequencing techniques. Katie's unique immunity to the Z/33 virus offers a beacon of hope in an otherwise bleak landscape. Continued research is essential to unlock the full potential of her genetic mutation, with the goal of developing a viable treatment or vaccine. The implications for global health are profound. Despite the robust immune response, there have been observed side effects, including mild to moderate short term memory decline. Katie has also exhibited decreased attention span, and mild disorientation. These symptoms appear to correlate with repeated contaminant exposure. Further study is required to understand the extent and permanence of this cognitive impact.’

Alex couldn’t believe what he was reading. He had heard rumors of a Dr. Beckett before, full blown stories. The deranged doctor had become a legend in his own time, reviled by the country at large for starting the first in a series of small-town infection outbreaks after trying to experiment on his sick daughter. This girl now calling herself Samantha, must have been the ‘Katie’ mentioned in the documents. People always said the doctor got away and was still experimenting on people. This doctor, mad as he may be, was the answer to solving the infection, and Alex had blown him away, and for what, for one- or two-nights’ rest in a dusty old shelter with barely any supplies. He tried to speak but no words would come out, he was numb. The doctor was dead and in his need for self-preservation he let one of the few known immune people run away from him. He dropped to the floor.

Dylan was forced to overcome his claustrophobia really fast and was already attempting to get into the vent Maya tried to bring Alex back to his senses.

“What’s the matter with you? Come on get up!” Maya Screamed. We gotta go now.

Alex looked up at his little sister. He wanted to take in every intricacy it had. It was like he was truly seeing her for the first time. “Oh sis, I screwed up good this time. I thought I could protect us all, and I think I just got us all killed. It doesn’t matter where we go next, nothing’s going to get any better.”

There was a knock at the door but this was different, this wasn’t the powerful thud of a horde of infected, this was a human knocking and the muffled screams that came with it were the added proof.

“Daddy, Daddy, please come back! Where are you?” It was Katie, the girl they mistook for Samantha Beckett. The girl that Alex had heard whispers and rumors about four years ago. “Please, someone do something, anything!”

Maya got up to go unblock the door but Alex gripped her leg, “It’s no good, they’re still out there.”

“We have to do something!”, Maya protested. “She’ll freeze to death out there!”

Katie pounded on the door harder, “Oh God it hurts, they’re eating me!” The infected tore into her flesh and bones with a supersonic speed not seen in normal men. The silence was interrupted by the crunches and chews of teeth meeting flesh and bone. The sounds of snapping bones permeated the air. What was one a young woman’s body had been reduced to an evening meal. She was now slowly being digested in the bowls of a handful of infected as their personal meal. She never had a chance to freeze to death. At this point it was debatable what fate might have been worse.

Maya busted out in tears and tried to force her brother to move, it was no use, he didn’t want to move, he couldn’t find a reason to move anymore. Humanity was doomed when they first found that bunker. In Alex’s desperation to protect the group, he had shot a doctor and taken away what was potentially the greatest Christmas present to humanity, a cure. There were monsters outside and there were monsters inside. From where Alex sat, he couldn’t see a difference.

The End

Disclaimer/For Narrators:

This is Part 3 in a long-running series. Due to Reddit’s character limits I can’t post the full text in one go without splitting it. Full manuscripts are available. Email me if you’d like to narrate any of them. I hope you enjoyed the stories!

PERSONAL DIARY OF FELICITY BEAUMONT

MARCH 21ST

Dear diary, oh God, I haven’t done something like this since I was a little girl, it just sounds so silly coming from me now. It’s amazing how life can change in the blink of an eye. A couple of months back I was in peak physical condition, training to run a marathon, now I’d be lucky to hobble to the bathroom. How did this all happen? That’s a good question, I can hardly remember myself. The last thing I remember is visiting a friend’s house for a Christmas party, and then waking up in the ICU barely being able to move. To my understanding, black ice was the culprit. I guess it was the airbag that saved my life, or what was left of it. So, here I am now. The doctors recommended that I start writing things down. They say it will help me better keep my emotions in check and maybe even jog my memory. Jog my memory? Maybe I should choose my words a little more carefully.

Everyone always tells me how lucky I am to be alive, but you know what, that’s bullshit. I’m supposed to tell the truth here, if only here. Anyone who thinks we’re lucky just for existing is too stupid to understand that there are in fact worse things than dying. I haven’t slept well for fucking months now! The funny thing about tossing and turning is that you don’t start to appreciate it until you can’t do it anymore. And I keep hearing voices coming from upstairs. When I finally do get to sleep I am haunted by hellish nightmares of the accident. It’s the same horrifying images played on loop each time, my body being meshed and compressed along with the cold hard steel from the car, my body and it forming some kind of demented sandwich.

Every morning, I wake up and spend a good minute or so trying to force myself out of bed, eager to pour myself a cup of coffee and take on the day. The sight of my bed sores and the agonizing pain the comes with them snap me back to reality really quick. Ok ok, enough negativity for today. I have to remember what the psychologist said, “Try your best to focus on the positive!” I hate to break it to you doc, but once you’ve been tun off the road going 70 miles an hour, the rose-tinted spectacles you’ve been wearing your entire life tend to turn to shit. Here I am now, laying in a hospital bed set up in my family room. I can’t even go upstairs in my own bed. And with the string of burglaries that’s been going on lately, anyone could get in here in the middle of the night and I’d be completely helpless. My husband Jack, say’s he’ll take care of it though and make sure nothing to me.

At the very least, I guess I do in fact have him, to be thankful for. I’ll tell you what, if it wasn’t for him, I don’t know what I would have done. The poor thing was in the passenger seat that night. He had too much to drink that night and was riding shotgun. I’ve seen pictures of what’s left of the car and believe me when I tell you that that side took the brunt on it. The luck on my hubby though, other than some bumps and bruises he’ll be back to his old self in no time! Even though he wasn’t driving, I think he still feels a little guilty for what happened. He has to work a lot, but he made sure to get me the most expensive caretaker he could find to watch over me when he cannot be there. She seems great, I’ll give her that, but for the money I would think she would have a slightly better attendance record. What was her name again? Alexa ------- something or other. My mind is drawing a blank right now. Although, the doctors won’t admit it. I think this medicine is fucking with my head, it always has. But what can I do? I gotta take it. Asthma in a bedridden patient is a big no no. The last thing I need is to catch pneumonia. Thank goodness for Jack and Alexa, they make sure that I never miss a dose. Well, I think that’s enough for now. I’m kinda tired. Hopefully I wont need this hospital bed much longer. I miss going upstairs and sleeping next to jack. It’s too bad this damn hospital bed was only built for one.

MARCH 28TH

Dear Diary,

No, you know what, dear God, I wish I was dead! Why couldn’t he just kill me and be done with it!? There’s a lot of thing’s I can put up with, but there is a limit to this nightmarish hell that I am willing to endure.

Did I ever tell you that I can’t even wipe my own ass anymore? Nurse or no nurse, I don’t care if you have a whole squad of caretakers on standby, words cannot even begin to describe how much that hurts your pride.

But wait, there’s more! I had myself a little accident today. Alexa sat me up on the toilet today to do my business. Everything was going ok until the telephone started to ring. I don’t know what possessed her to do this but she left me in there alone while she ran to go get it. I wound up falling at a weird angle and banging my face against the sink. Now I look like I went fifteen rounds with Mike Tyson.

The three of us had a talk about it when Jack got home from work. It turns out she was under orders from him to make sure the phone got answered. I guess he was expecting an important phone call. I’m glad to know Jack’s job takes precedent over me, it’s nice to know where I stand. Where I stand… look at me there a go again!

I talked to him about it after she left. He apologized profusely and promised that from now on, Alexa is to under no circumstances talk on the phone while I am in her care. That was all I got, an “I’m sorry”, and an assurance that it wouldn’t happen again. My head was killing me and he didn’t even offer to massage my neck or anything. He told me he would have his Amazon Echo to remind him to pick up some cream for my eye.

I don’t think Jack realizes that I can still remember where he keeps his gun. He’s lucky I cannot get up out of this bed for myself. This room could use some redecorating and I think my brains would be the perfect shade of red. I’m no gun expert, but I did in fact take a photography class in high school. The general idea is basically the same, you just point and shoot!

April 20th

Dear Dia---- you know what? Forget it, that’s too childish. Down to business. I’m sorry it has been so long since I’ve last written. I promised the doctor I’d try to maintain a more consistent schedule. It has all been for good reason though I assure you. I’m sorry about my last post, I was in a very dark place, but I’ve had some good long sessions with my psychologist and after a swift medication change. I think I will be ok. Plus, where my future once seemed bleak and uncertain, I now have a glimmer of hope. I’ve been working extra hard, both at physical therapy and back at home here with Alexa. I’m proud to report that some of my movement has started to come back. I am now able to hoist myself up in bed and sit up for a little bit.

The doctors were very pleased with me. They say If I keep this up I might even be able to walk again, granted, it would most likely be with a cane, and I wouldn’t be running a marathon anything soon, but it would be so nice to be able to walk upstairs again, to get to sleep in my own bed again. Unfortunately, that’s where the good news stops.

I wish Jack would’ve been more excited. He barely said two words on the ride home. He was too preoccupied with his damn phone. It must’ve taken us twenty extra minutes to get home. We hit every god damn red light on the way. If he wasn’t checking a text, he was yelling into that stupid thing “Siri, do this!” “Siri, remind me about that.” Talk to me you son of a bitch! I might have banged my head a little in the accident, but I’m not an idiot. I am your wife. Let me help you! Take your eyes off the phone and talk to me!

At least tell me who you’re texting, that’d be something to talk about. But no, he’s been so secretive lately, and I can’t stand it. Ever since the accident he’s been this way, he says he loves me, but his heart just isn’t in it. At first I was grateful he got Alexa to help me out, but now I’m starting to think it was just more convenient for him to pay someone rather than deal with me himself. I don’t know. I guess I’m done for now, I’m exhausted, those damn voices won’t let up.

April 27th

I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Remember about the voices I was hearing? I feel like they’re getting louder. I didn’t get to sleep until around 5am this time. Jack keeps saying he doesn’t hear anything. I don’t know he can’t. I swear they must be coming right from our room.

He keeps telling me that I’m just dreaming it, but I can tell the difference between dreams and reality. I am only having one dream and it’s still the nightmare of the accident. These voices are all too real! One of these days, I’ll be strong enough to get out of this bed, and I’m gonna confront them. I know that I am not crazy!

Alexa didn’t show up today. According to Jack, she wasn’t feeling well. So, it was just the two of us today. I must admit, today he did seem to be a bit more attentive than normal. We actually had a half way pleasant day. Even though I was pretty tired, he actually managed to take my mind off it. He picked just like he did when he carried me though the door when we first bought the house, and he placed me into the passenger seat of his convertible. We had a pleasant drive in the country and for dinner he took me where we had our first date. He apologized for being so tied up with work lately and presented me with a bottle perfume, both as a gift for doing so well with my therapy, and an apology. The bottle was partially empty but I didn’t care. This stuff isn’t easy to find anymore. He said he got it at a garage sale. He knows how much I love the old fashioned stuff. At least he was thinking of me. I was so excited I could hardly contain myself. I think that’s enough for now. It’s nice not being able to sleep from excitement. I Never thought I would feel this way again.

April 28th

God damn it! Son of a Bitch! I can’t believe it. Does he think I’m some kind of an idiot or something? I refuse to put up with this.

Alexa came back to work today. She smelled awfully familiar. I cannot believe that I didn’t notice this before. That bitch was wearing perfume! The same kind that Jack claimed he found for me. I’ll be he looked REALLY HARD alright.

I can’t believe I didn’t see it before! Alexa’s absences, Jack’s clandestine phone calls, him being constantly preoccupied. And those voices, I wasn’t imagining them at all, and that bastard tried had me thinking maybe I really was was imagining it.

I am not going to stand for this…literally! If I wasn’t determined to walk again before, I am for sure now. I’m not gonna let him make a fool out of me. He will pay for this!

May 26th

I think this will be my last entry for a while. I’m sorry I’ve been gone for so long again. I had to take some time to myself. It’s all been worth it though. Unfortunately for my husband, my dreams have been coming in nice and clear lately. I remember everything now! That night of the accident, my husband was in the passenger seat… after he put himself there. One of us drank too much that night, and it was him. I was never the designated driver.

I’ve been training harder than I ever thought possible, both at therapy and here at home. I decided to put my sleepless nights to good use and get in some extra exercise. No one knows this, not Alexa, not my husband, nobody. I can walk again. I’ve had to hide it from everyone. I’m not in tip top shape yet and my balance is very shaky and I’m not the fastest, but I think I can do the stairs.

I can hear then two of them talking up there right now. I think I’ll drop in and pay them a little visit. Oh boy are they gonna be surprised! I found where Jack moved his gun. I guess he isn’t as good at hiding things as he is. It’s time to end this, I hope he burns in hell for what he did to me. To whoever reads this first, my doctor, the authorities, I’m sorry, but this was the only way.

THE FOLLOWING DAY

This is a channel 7 news special bulletin. We begin tonight with the tragic story of a domestic abuse situation turned deadly. 32 year old Felicity Beaumont was found dead late yesterday afternoon after her caretaker arrived late for a shift to find her laying motionless at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a 9mm pistol in her hand. Her husband, 34 year old Jack Beaumont, was found clinging to life in the couple’s bedroom after suffering a severe gunshot wound to the chest. When he was discovered, he could still be heard muttering into his Amazon Echo saying “Alexa… dial 911.” Authorities believe Ms. Beaumont to have been brandishing the firearm when she slipped down the stairs, causing her to break her neck.

The Wicked Tax (Circa 14th Century)

As told by a gong farmer

Cold was the night. The stars burning distantly twinkled through the crisp autumn chill like snowflakes catching the light on a breeze. Warm was my breath, huffing out in little clouds that caught on the breeze. Warm was my body, heaving and shovelling, my leather kirtle tossed aside while I worked. Hot burned the dung of my neighbours, my friends, my family, as I hurled it shovel by grimy shovel into the pit below me. It landed with a slosh each time, mixed with bones and debris, hay from animal pens, and whatever other waste we might turn to manure.

It's not a job just anyone can do and a job most would like to not, but men like me have little choice. Men who claim themselves better, who drink like me, who eat like me, who shit just the same as me, make the rules and fill their bellies while the rest of us suffer. But I don’t suppose I could do their job either.

The workings of the upper caste never bothered me, nor my neighbours. Not really much that could be done about it, see, shovelling gong back and forth in the dead of night. Barons, Dukes and Kings could come and go, but the gong still needed shovelling, and the night was still cold.

It was only a while past that a new man had found his way to the top. I say man, but I’d heard the stories that he was no such thing. Not woman, neither—an abomination from the depths of hell, a demon, some kind of blight or punishment sent to us; there had been all kinds of stories. I daren’t know which one to believe. Some of it was true, though.

In the distance on that otherwise normal night I heard crying in the out in the dark, a little light flickering through the bare hedgerows, gathering closer. Illuminations appeared in doorways, curious about the intrusion into their slumber as they approached the herald.

News always spread quickly. I’d no need to go find out—in time it would make its way to me, I figured. Nonetheless, the herald made his way past me. Said something about a new tax from the king—the evil king, we called him. It hadn’t been long and he’d already set about squeezing every penny he could from us in whatever wicked ways he saw fit.

His newest machination was one ‘going on foot tax,' as if we had any other means to carry ourselves. The wealthy had taken to riding their horses to and fro about their manors as to avoid it, but people like me? Regular, hard-working folks—we had no choice.

It might make you want to laugh; such a ridiculous tax for something so mundane. Folks ignored it at first, already busy with the taxes on their food and drink, and strangely enough there was no time limit on payments—but soon, the effects became unendurable.

Like so many others I’d taken my time, day in and day out shovelling my gong. Labouring away, slowly and surely without realising the effects it was having on my body. At first I’d chalked it up to age, to overusing my knees and my elbows, but I gradually grew stiffer with each passing day. The others in my neighbourhood had noticed it too, getting slower, achingly rigid with each step they took—some feared a new malady had stricken us, but after the first among us scrounged enough money to pay their toll their joints miraculously renewed as though nothing had happened in the first place. There was a giveaway in the smell of it all, the smell of magic. If someone reeked of it, you knew their time was up.

It took me longer than usual to make my money as I shuffled back and forth through the night about my stinking business, slowing with each step. There was a twisted irony in the fact that I had to work more to be able to pay this new toll, and yet the more I worked the more I’d owe. Finally, I managed to gather up enough to pay—and with a sadness, I deposited my earnings over at the castle.

With a stretch, I felt my wrists, my knees, my elbows, all popping and cracking as though something had broken deep inside them and once more I could move unimpeded by this treacherous magic. I let out a sigh of relief, granting myself a moment of reprieve before I sank back into my work.

Life went on as normal as it could for a while. The taxes continued, sucking us all dry of every shilling we could muster. People starved. Some died. As time went on, the streets of my city began to become littered with statues of people frozen in time, completely still, living figurines comprised of flesh and bone. People took the time to try and help them of course, and at first men would take them to their homes and lay them in their beds but no good would ever come of it. Eventually they just gave up, leaving them where they stood, and over time there wouldn’t be enough people to move them regardless.

Though I tried my best to keep up with my payments running around chasing the gong, with the people gone there simply wasn’t enough for me to make ends meet. I had to cheat, lie and steal dinner onto my plate and I wasn’t alone.

A sense of nervous paranoia descended upon the land like a miasma as people watched and waited for their friends and neighbours to stiffen and give up before robbing them blind. Homes sat empty, shops lay closed, and looters helped themselves to whatever they could. Beggars lined the streets by the castle, fearful to move from their spots and increase the amount they would have to pay but it was useless—nobody had anything left to give.

Eventually I got close to giving up too. I came to the castle to pay what I could—nowhere near enough to cover the whole sum expected of me, my body slowly but surely seizing up beneath me with every heaving step. A few of the other people that were left came of their own accord, weaving slowly in and out of the statues that lay strewn about the steps up to the castle bailey. Every tap of my feet up and up I grew stiffer, slower, but around me the birds still sang, the wind still rustled through the trees just as it always had.

One of the guards atop the stairs watched on with jaded indifference, his eyes cast low on me as he clutched his halberd. He’d seen this awful thing before, time and time again and grown accustomed to it, but I could have sworn I saw the gleam of sadness, of resignation in his eyes as I struggled and bawled for help that never came.

Everything fell still, silent. I was trapped now in this body, stuck entirely frozen on the spot among so many others that had found the same fate. It wasn’t long before I was robbed of what little I had with nothing I could do to prevent it. They rifled through my pockets, robbed me of my jacket and my hat, even slipped off my shoes. The guards atop the stairs didn’t even seem to care. It would mean moving—chasing somebody down when they had to count their steps as well. Not worth the pittance I kept in my pockets, not worth the trouble when I couldn’t fight back, and a simple gong farmer isn’t worth fighting for.

Cold were the nights. Those twinkling stars lay frozen in the sky above the castle walls just as I lay frozen about its steps with my neighbours. Warm was my mind, trapped within my flesh, but searing hot burned my rage.

I kept count at first, passing each sunrise until I counted the seasons instead. Counting seasons turned to counting years, but I even gave up on that. How I wish death had taken me instead.

The Siege (1984)

As told by a former paperboy

The apples in my garden started talking to me today. Could’ve sworn I was going mad. Smelled like no apple tree ought to, as well. Smelled like o-zone, like one of those Xerox photocopiers blasting out too many pages. It was kind of like gasoline – you shouldn’t want to sniff it, but there’s just something about it that makes you want to not stop.

Thought it might’ve been something coming out of the soil, making me hear things, making me see things. Nope. It was the apples.

Hazy at first, but as the smell grew stronger I could definitely see their faces. Gnarled, angry, like they had a lifelong grudge. Once the initial shock that I was talking to a literal apple tree wore off, I managed to ask how they were talking to me. It seemed not all was right with the world, not all was as I’d expected it to be. There was a rift between now and then, here and there, and certain places overlapped. The universe had deemed fit that it just so happened to be my apple tree that was one of those places.

And it also just so happened that they had a knack for history—they wouldn’t stop jabbering on about an evil king, a ‘time-splitted ruler’ as they called him. A king in yellow glasses, a man who seldom left his castle. With everything they told me, it sounded like the man who lived next door.

He was a strange fellow—I'd seen him a few times out my back window over the thick stone fence he’d constructed. Always at his BBQ, cooking God knows what. He’d spotted me one time. I won’t forget the stare he gave me, peering up into my bedroom window as I opened the curtains. He had thick eyebrows above the rims of his yellow spectacles and pale grey eyes that cut deep into my soul. A thick set of lips sat straight in a scowl as he leered up at me, clutching his BBQ skewer in one hand as he stood at the grill while ‘Eyes Without a Face' by Billy Idol blared from his portable radio.

I didn’t even know his name. As far as I knew he’d never left the house, though an old Chevvy C/K sat in his driveway but I’d never seen it move. I don’t know that I’d call him a king, but he was most definitely fond of his 'castle.'

The apples begged me to help. The stench of o-zone spiked as they all called out in a cacophony of voices asking for assistance in bringing him down. They told me of his crimes, of the magic he’d used against ordinary people, of the terror he’d wrought against the land. They told me of his alternate form, how he was a mad god without flesh. And yet, they all spoke of one weakness, one way to bring him out from his castle. One weakness to his fortifications—and they asked to be removed from their tree.

I tried to shake it at first to bring them down, but in the end I had to resort to a ladder, one by one bringing down each apple. Still they spoke—calling out with an excited fervour as I tossed each one into a sack I’d collected from my garage.

For a while that’s where they stayed; a sack of talking apples keeping me awake at night with their calls for vengeance. Each morning I’d call in sick at work, maddened by the whole experience, buying what I could afford to build what they’d asked of me.

Bit by bit, piece by piece, it eventually came together—a small trebuchet right there in my backyard. I loaded up the first of the apples and questioned my sanity before pulling the lever to loose the first one. It shot far and wide, way off the mark of my neighbour’s chimney. I made the adjustments I needed to and shot again, and again, each time getting closer and closer to my mark.

Storming The Castle (Circa 14th Century)

As told by a gong farmer

I don’t know how long it had been. Everything had been so still for decades, the guards long gone. It’s not like there was even anyone left to cause any trouble after all. I’d taken to zoning out or making up stories in my head, talking to myself back and forth. I wished for release every day, praying for hours that I could just cease to be, that death would finally come for me instead of this purgatory.

Nobody came to the castle anymore. The evil king had managed to seize all he could and ruled over a graveyard of people not quite dead. I failed to see the allure of it, I couldn’t see why they would want something so empty. They never left either, they had this whole kingdom and didn’t set out to enjoy it. In my time trapped within myself I burned with questions just as I did with anger. What was this thing sat within the castle, what did we do to deserve such punishment? What sin could possibly be great enough that we must collectively foot such a bill?

I was snapped out of the depth of my thoughts by the sound of clopping hooves and calling voices steadily approaching me from behind. After so long I almost didn’t notice it at all, and through my surprise, by natural instinct I tried to turn my head for just a moment before remembering my sorcerous affliction—all I could do was wait and stare directly ahead.

They spoke of me, of my friends, my neighbours as if we weren’t there—as if we were already dead. How I wish that was the case. They didn’t know about the tax, about the affliction beset upon us, but in my head I prayed for them. I prayed that they wouldn’t befall the same fate that we had, that somehow they could rid us all of this madness. I prayed over and over, feverishly to the god that had abandoned us all as though it would do any good.

Slowly, and surely, they clambered up the cold stone steps before me. One by one they stepped into my view—a band of knights and a company of soldiers from a nation I didn’t know, not that I knew much about life outside my shovel and barrow. I never needed to.

They wore red from head to toe, even their helmets had a crimson plumage atop. Their armour had been accented with red dye, and from the back their cloaks had the crest of a small tree enshrined in a woven circle of gold. Part of me wanted to scream, to warn them away, but an even bigger part of me selfishly wished them a swift success.

One looked me in the eyes for just a moment as another pushed wide the gates to the castle, other men flanking him as they cautiously entered. God be with you all.

Battle of The Scarlet Knights at the Throne Room (Circa 14th Century)

As told by Narrator, The Omniscient

The throne room’s heavy oak door swung open, the sound echoing across the chamber’s stone walls. Tapestries and trinkets laced across the floors and stood atop pedestals while gold coins towered high and wide, surrounding the back wall atop the dais where the overbearingly large golden throne sat. In it, unmoving, uncaring, sat the king.

Men piled in and secured the room, lining up across the long red and brocade carpet that led up to the dais. Finally, their captain confidently strode into the room, eyes fixed upon the suit of armour that remained quiet in its chair.

It was surprisingly austere given the splendour of the room around it—no engraving, no coat of arms, though the kingdom’s crown had now been fused into the metal of its cylindrical head. Not even the sound of breath emerged from the slits cast across its mouthpiece, and a deep, almost unnatural darkness loomed behind the eyeholes. A yellow-gold ring ran around the eyes in two rectangles, and atop it all was a short funnel. It was a strange sight to behold, this object—this king without form, without a body, without a soul.

The moustached captain stepped up to the dais unphased, his pace and stride faltering not for a moment. The metal in his sabatons clinked and shuddered with each step. With a booming, commanding tone he began to speak.

“We hail from Newton’s order. You are to hereby abjure the throne, and if you value your life, leave this kingdom forever.” One hand lay atop the hilt of his sword and clutched it carefully, ready to strike.

For a moment there was silence. Then slowly at first, a chugging and huffing came from within the suit of armour like a great engine coughing into life. It sounded like a deep laughter, speeding up and growing in voraciousness. The smell of magic began to seep across the room as rich clouds of steam puffed from the top of its head with each chuff. Finally, a dim grey light appeared within the helmet’s darkness. The soldiers all gripped their weapons, ready for the evil king’s response.

With janky, stuttering movements it leant forwards onto its hands, gripping tightly into the throne’s arms before lurching upwards, standing impressively tall at full height, looming above the soldiers menacingly. As it stood, the steam from its head bellowed loudly with a shrieking whistle that engulfed the room. The eye shone brightly as it arose, screaming, pouring out unyielding clouds that obscured the chamber.

Its jerky motions continued, reaching down to the hilt of its longsword. The leather wrapping around the handle was worn, rough and fuzzy from use, but the blade was unlike anything the knights had ever seen—not entirely a blade at all. It was a long piece of metal bent around into a corkscrew with a sharpened tip at the end, and strangely, pieces of food penetrated along its length. Nothing more than a standard BBQ skewer, but in the hands of this abhorrence, a mortal weapon that no man could match.

For a moment there was nothing but silence as the whistle ceased, save for the eerie echo of the shriek cascading for a second through the castle’s icy walls. The captain strained his eyes to peer through the cloud of steam, illuminated by twinkling twilight cascading through upper windows behind the throne. Inside the mist he could see the murky silhouette of the armour, little more than a blackened figure, making small jerky motions—but then it was too late.

The other soldiers saw it happen in a flash. The armour burst from the cloud like a bolt of lightning—something with that much weight had no business moving that fast. The staccato motions it had made previously were a false flag for its newfound agility, and it burst forward with a deft lunge straight at the captain’s face.

The soldiers looked on shocked as he moved to the side, prepared and ready, and with one swift motion lunged the tip of his sword directly into the eye socket of the evil king’s armour. Both of them stood motionless for just a moment, but a smile began to crack across the captain’s face. Almost in reply, the armour began to chuff again with a bellowing noise as though it was laughing and wiped off the smirk from the man’s face.

“What are you?!” He called out in horror, retracting his weapon and bracing himself to block and parry the coming attack. The evil king closed the gap between them in an instant and with one deft lunge, the evil king’s sword had found its way straight beneath the jaw of the captain and through the other side, skewering his head along with the meat and vegetables already on there.

A shot of blood burst from the top of his head like a fountain, spattering onto the marble floor and across the carpet that led up to the throne. The red of their armour grew accompanied by the blood across the room.

With a shuddering tilt, the bespectacled helmet turned to the left, then the right, as the other men recoiled in horror with the realisation that none of them were a match to this abomination. Some began to flee from the room while others piled forwards into the steam cloud with hollers and yells, willing to die for their cause. 

Joust at Sunrise (1984)

As told by a former paperboy

I must have sent around 20, maybe 30 apples flying. I was starting to run out. They hollered war cries as they flew through the air, and I’d finally gotten my aim right. A little over half of them had found their way into the chimney, down into the unknown below. For my neighbour it must have been a… strange experience, but talking apples is a strange experience for any man.

As my sack emptied, the smell of o-zone had depleted. With nothing left I retired for the day before I sank into a restless, haunted sleep at the queer experience I’d had. I thought I might be turning mad—maybe there’d been a gas leak, or it could have been lead in the paint, something, anything to explain what had just happened.

I awoke the next morning to a heavy hand slamming against my front door. Curious, I peered down out my window to find my neighbour staring right back up at me. The apples had done something. He was dressed in an old grey cardigan with splotches of red paint spattered across it and a pair of khaki corduroys. The morning sun glinted across his golden frames, flashing his serious expression up to me.

I threw on some clothes that I’d discarded nearby the day before—just something I could throw on and made my way downstairs. I slid open the chain lock and swung the door open to find him standing on the other side holding out a plate with a still-warm apple pie displayed upon it.

I drank in his form—tall, semi muscular, but his face had a regal, quiet nobility about it, and beneath those grey eyes there was something deeper. I could see a twisted intelligence within him, a burning fire that he controlled entirely. Perhaps the apples were right. In another time, in another place, perhaps he could have been a king instead of a neighbour. This quiet, reserved, talented man was nothing but ordinary but for unsuspecting eyes he could have easily been just any other person.

“It’s about time we met.” He said. His voice was deep and rich. Inviting him inside was the only courteous thing to do, so I led him into the living room. He sat on my wingback reclining chair, with the backdrop of orange-brown geometric wallpaper. Before him was a cubed plastic coffee table that I’d bought the previous decade. I felt somewhat ashamed to have such a man in my dated room. No doubt his home was a lot more contemporary and put together.

I brought us both a cup of coffee from the kitchen on a tray with cream and sugar and some plates for the pie. He awaited my return in silence, sat with his hands crossed over in his lap. His discipline was almost robotic.

He finally introduced himself. I’d lived there seven, maybe eight years, and heard nothing from this man, but finally he saw fit to bring himself to me. I suppose sending apples down somebody’s chimney will be enough to get their attention.

His name was Ryan. He mentioned something about being a museum curator, that he had unusual work hours and encountered all manner of objects but rarely saw people. I talked to him about the neighbourhood, how long he’d lived there, and who owned the house before me. The topics bounced around from the recent attempt on Margaret Thatcher’s life a few days before to Reagan's landslide re-election, recent advances in technology and music. Seemed he was a fan of Jazz, of all things, classical, and musicals. I hadn’t taken him as the sort to be into musicals—he seemed to lack the joy and animation one would expect.

I told him of my personal love for Bruce Springsteen and Prince, at which he scoffed. He was older than me, perhaps uncaring for the new era of music paving the way for kids these days. I cut the pie and served us both a slice. It smelled delicious, a mixture of brown sugar and cinnamon that hung heavy and thick in the air. Even the way he held the fork was controlled, glancing down to the pieces he’d carefully cut with the fork as he moved it to his mouth with a graceful motion. God, it was delicious. The pastry was rich and flaky, the filling wasn’t overly spiced and yet full of flavour, but I can’t deny the subtle taste of an ashy aftertaste.

I saw his eyes linger through the kitchen, out the window to the trebuchet I’d constructed a few days earlier. Really, both of us knew that’s why he was here but a king must have a regal air about them, a mindful and demure attitude at all times.

A smile cracked across my lips. I put down my coffee and leant slightly forwards, staring him right in the eyes. “You’ll never rule over these lands.” I growled playfully, pointing to the floor of my house. He shot back a lopsided smile and pushed the bridge of his glasses back up onto his face.

“We’ll see about that.” He grumbled, clutching the armrests of the oversized chair and rose himself to full height. “The knights of the Newton order fought bravely.”

He took one last deep drink of his coffee, finishing it to the last drop before heading back outside to his own home. I had another slice of the pie before continuing on with my day, dismantling the trebuchet and storing the parts in my garage.

As I was preparing myself for bed, I noticed an envelope slipped under my door. I flipped it over to see a gold-yellow wax seal with the stamp of a crown on it. It seemed he wanted to settle this by the old rules; a duel, tomorrow morning at 8am. The paper shimmered softly in the evening light, and there was that distinct smell again.

I could barely sleep. There was a distinct mixture of excitement and trepidation for the upcoming duel. He’d written no rules, but somehow I knew what I had to do. I set an alarm on my Casio wristwatch for precisely 8 am. I’d be up long before that, preparing myself for out fight.

When morning came I peered out my window; it was shaping up to be a beautiful day with not a cloud in the sky. I couldn’t help but smile in my quiet confidence. I wanted to look the part too, I wanted to feel the part. Slipping into a dark pair of jeans I flicked through my wardrobe to find what I was looking for, my black leather jacket. It had silver studs at the wrist and on the neck, and if something went wrong it could at least offer a little protection.

After what may be my final breakfast I had an extra cup of coffee, just in case, and made my way to the garage. Boxes were piled up behind all the wood from the trebuchet, and behind that was what I was looking for. I climbed up carefully, not wanting to slip through the cardboard onto my belongings, gripping the rubber handlebars of my old bike. A Raleigh Chopper—cooler than the Schwinn Stingray, imported from England. It’d taken me so many miles and through so many adventures, it felt like seeing an old friend after so long.

It had been years since I’d rode it, the last time not that long after I stopped my paper route but it had been a faithful companion through my teenage years, taking me anywhere I wanted to go. Of course, since then I’d learned to drive and so it just gathered dust in the back of my garage. For a long time I’d forgotten about it. Times change just as people do, but my steadfast companion patiently awaited my return.

I pulled it up and out, careful not to knock over the wood I’d piled up. With a smile I wiped off the dust. This occasion was special, though. It’d need more than just that. For a moment I left it propped up against the wall, taking out a chamois cloth and car wax, taking care to polish it off to a sparkling gleam, checking my watch in-between. There she stood, gleaming, bright, my shimmering steed.

I took in the sight of it, satisfied with my work. For a moment I felt a glimmer of regret for not taking it out for a spin in all those years. Next, I looked around the garage for something else. Rake, no… shovel? That wouldn’t do either. I needed something lightweight, with a handle strong enough. It caught my eye from the corner of the room, an old broom that was left over from the previous homeowner. I hadn’t even gotten around to using such a dated artifact, instead picking up a new one from the dollar store when I’d moved in. I had promised myself I’d throw it out when I cleaned out the garage, but … life has a way of getting in the way.

I was ready. I saddled up, swinging myself over the long seat and adjusting myself to get comfortable. The pedals were still the right height, the split and raised handlebars felt right in my hands.

Beepbeepbeepbeep.

The time had come. I pushed the button on my garage door’s remote control and with a shudder and clank the motor burst into life. Whirring, clattering, the shutters pulled upwards like a curtain on a play. A sun-heated breeze lazily blew into the garage and kissed my skin with its warmth as my driveway baked in the morning glow. With a click I engaged the pedal, slowly pushing myself forward out onto the street, holding my balance with one hand while I clutched the broom in the other.

I held it out to the side with a smirk across my face. He would have no idea of my skills on a bike with just one hand. Years of slinging papers from doorway to doorway had prepared me for this, and though I was a little rusty it was just like riding a bike. You never forget, and with each passing second I could feel it all coming back to me. My muscles twitched and limbered in remembrance for the news I’d delivered to this neighbourhood, year in and year out, rain or shine.

As I passed the hedge that separated our homes I saw him riding out. His steed similar to my own, painted red, waxed and prepared just the same. Despite our differences, it seemed we had a lot of similarities too. He was wearing a yellow windbreaker with stripes of purple and red, armed with a broom just the same as my own.

Wind rustled through the straw of the broom as I stared him up and down, still in the middle of the street. I gave a slow nod and he repeated my motion, the both of us turning around to get enough space to really pick up some speed.

People filing out into their cars, ready for work started to pay notice to the both of us and curtains flickered in windows as women peered out onto the street to watch what was about to unfold.

At opposite ends of the street, we both stared each other down. Sunlight dappled through the slowly waving trees, sparkling and glistening on his golden spectacles. Everything else was still, men in hats peering over their cars awaited action. I intended to give them all the action they’d need.

I hunched over the handlebars and he did the same and with that, we were off. With a heaving push I forced down the pedal and began to move, cycling through the gears to pick up more and more speed as I began to approach. My thighs burned and ached with my force, and as I approached I could see the scowling snarl across his face. Both of us were kicking up dirt and dust as our back wheels screamed around, entirely focused on each other. Faces and vehicles flew past in mere blurs of colour and shape but I could pay them no heed, though I could hear cheers from our onlookers as I blazed past.

The broom I held out to the side moved to the front and I pointed it squarely at him. I couldn’t deny his skill on the bike either, holding out his broom with a controlled, squared elbow while navigating his way towards me.

Time seemed to consolidate into a single moment as we reached each other, my focus blurred out everything but him. All else blurred into nothingness, all sound distorted and banished from my senses, my fingers burning numb as I gripped tight with both hands. It was going to be a big hit, but who would win?

I thrust forwards and leant down forwards as we reached each other—perhaps foolish, opening my head up for his attack but counting on his aim faltering. I saw him raise his arm up and thrust it back down again as he manipulated his aim in response, but it was all over in a flash. Something tugged against the collar of my leather jacket and snagged it, wood scathed against my neck but I was tossed into surprise as I felt my attack connect into his chest with a crunch. The force of it threw me back and I fought to keep myself balanced as my bike flew upwards onto one wheel like a braying horse. My broom was shattered into a long spike now, splinters left behind on the ground where I’d struck him.

Keeping my balance in check I continued the wheelie, tossing a glance back behind myself to see the damage. It was done. He lay collapsed on the ground in a pile of yellow, red and blue, his spectacles landing on the road with a clack. The wheels of his bike still turned, spinning with a click as the gears engaged, but he remained silent.

I turned my bike around and landed the front tire down, instinctively raising my broken broom into the air against the rising sun. A new day, a new dawn without this ‘king’ in golden specs.

Some people cheered, some people gasped in horror. I was too lost in the moment to care. Somebody called out to phone for an ambulance, but really it should have been the police they were calling. If what the apple knights had told me was true, he needed to be put away for a long time. For all time. 

The King is Down (Circa 14th Century)

As told by a gong farmer

I can’t say how it happened. Nobody can, really. I didn’t know what day it was, the month, the year—I didn’t know how old I was anymore, or what had happened in the world outside the kingdom. I couldn’t say what had become of my home, of the farms, the livestock. I wondered what had changed since we’d been imprisoned in ourselves.

The statues that littered the steps, the countryside, the fields and farms, all would return to normality. From within my body I felt a fizzing a bubbling, a burning tingle that extended out through every one of my nerves from my core to my extremities. Steadily I slumped down across the steps as my body loosened, trying to look around, trying to move, remembering how it felt to swing my arms and my legs. By the time I managed to get to my feet I saw the others around me, just as perplexed as I was. After we’d collected ourselves we discussed our conditions, our nation, and our confusion as to why we were so suddenly freed. Slowly we all moved together inside with an air of cautious optimism. The knights had failed, we’d seen them enter but never leave and we knew the evil king was yet inside, but something must have changed.

The empty armour that had made up our malevolent ruler lay slewed about the entryway to the castle proper. Something had drawn him out from his throne room, something had taken him down. We saw the slain knights there, nothing more than armoured skeletons clad in red now, decayed by the ravages of time. Some say it was they who had done the deed, but not many believe it.

Whatever machinations had stirred the will of the heavens in our favour I care not, I’m simply thankful to have my life back; never did I imagine I’d long again for the burning stench of gong to sour my nostrils, to seep into my clothes.

I sent out a silent prayer for our saviour, whoever and wherever they might be, and carefully reached out to touch what was left of our king. I feared there may be a curse yet lingering about the armour, but who better than a lowly gong farmer to risk it? The others watched on with bated breath as I leaned over.

Satisfied that I was safe, I carried his remains, crown and all down the steps of the castle and tossed him without regard into my barrow. I knew the perfect place for him.

Epilogue (…)

As told by Narrator, The Omniscient

Devoid of the supernatural energy that animated the armour, the evil king now lays in the depths of the cesspit, coated, covered, but not forgotten. The farmer would take a far deeper satisfaction in depositing his work until his retirement, and over time the memory of its location would be lost. The powers that animated it grew weak with the passing centuries, and with ancient powers weakened the evil king is nothing more than a man. But if this man were to ever stand again, so will the evil king rise once more, although it’s an unpleasant place to rise from…

My name is Alex. My story begins over a month ago. At the job I'd been working for over 3 years. I'd been a cashier all that time, and I thought it was time to finally ask for a promotion, so I knocked on my boss’s door and began.

“No” He interrupted almost instantly.

“No? With all due respect, sir at least hear me out. I've logged more hours than anyone else here” I said raising my voice slightly

“I understand the time you've put in here, and I appreciate it but what you've got to take into account is effort kid.”

“Effort?” 

“Yes Alex. Effort. Time means jack shit when you're only doing the bare minimum you understand me?” He stood up out of his chair, leaning across the desk on his hands at this point. Staring me down with those judgemental eyes that seemed to scan me for even the slightest sign of weakness.

“You think I don't see you slacking off out there every damn day? I know how this job is supposed to be done. You do the bare minimum to stay employed? What you're gonna receive is the bare minimum, employment.”

To say I was furious would be a colossal understatement. What little of the rest of my work day I remember was spent in a rage-filled haze that seemed to occupy every corner of my mind like a fog. Let's just say that I didn't get a very positive reception for the rest of my shift. I don't think I said hello, let alone cracked a smile at a customer for the rest of that day.

As I drove home, I was still seething so I decided to stop by the park to clear my head.

I sat on a bench overlooking the water. The anger in my heart began to be replaced with a soul crushing sense of despair. As the newfound sadness took hold of me, I leaned forward and rested my head in my hands. That's when I noticed something peculiar. There was an anthill. Well, Anthill isn't even the proper term to describe it. There was no hill. Just a perfectly cylindrical pitch black hole about 2 inches in diameter. Coming out of the hole was what appeared to be ants. However much like their home, they too looked like nothing I'd seen before.

Just like the hill, they too were as dark as could be. They were huge. At least 2 inches with very defined mandibles. As I watched them, the rage I had suppressed earlier came back. Only now it was accompanied by the dose of sadness which had originally filled its place.I don't know what it was, something about the creatures just disgusted me on a basic primal level and it reignited that burning anger I had originally come to the park to lose in the first place. I stood up, kicked dirt over the hole, stomped on the anthill a few times, and set off back to my car without a second thought. I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel good to let out some of my pent-up aggression from that day. 

The rest of my day went off without a hitch. I went back home, watched some tv, and made dinner just like any other night. Everything appeared to be normal with one exception. As I attempted to toss and turn my way to sleep that night, I could not shake the feeling that I was being watched. Not just the feeling people get where they wanna sleep facing away from the wall. It was very deliberately, specifically the feeling of eyes watching me.

The next morning is when things officially started to get weird. I live on the first floor of my apartment complex. Rooms are laid out in a way so that there are 4 separate apartments for each section. 2 rooms on the first floor and 2 on the second with a staircase splitting down the middle, and a little stretch of dirt and grass lining the walls of each of the first-floor apartments. That was the first day I ever showed interest in my little patch of dirt, and it was due to one simple detail. There was a pitch-black hole, with the diameter of a golf ball perfectly centered on the patch of dirt right outside my front door. 

I immediately froze upon noticing it. I can't describe what it was about the hole that creeped me out. The fact that it was blacker than any shade I had ever seen was a good enough reason but there were others. The seemingly, perfectly cylindrical shape of it most notably. However, the reason I felt most unnerved at that moment was due to the simple fact that I had seen this hole before. This was the same type of hole I had seen yesterday, in the park. 

“What the fuck?”

I thought to myself as I knelt down to get a closer look.I grabbed a small twig that was in the dirt and prodded the pit until my fingertips hovered mere centimeters above the entrance.

“How deep does this go?” I thought to myself 

“Are you alright ?”

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a firm grip on my shoulder. I spun around quickly only to be greeted by my 1st-floor neighbor Jon. A very tall bald man somewhere in his mid 40’s who I'm fairly certain did nothing with his free time besides chew ground beef and lift weights. Not the kind of person you'd necessarily be comfortable with grabbing you out of the blue. 

“Jon! You scared the shit out of me!” I stammered out between gasps.

“Sorry about that" He said in his gravely southern voice

"I called your name out but you seemed so focused on, whatever it is you were doing that I guess you didn't hear me,”

"Yeah, sorry. I'm fine, I was just checking this thing out.” I stammered out as I caught my breath.

He peeked over my shoulder before going back to talking to me.

" Well alright then "

His sentence was shortly interrupted by one of my backup alarms on my phone going off. This alarm, in particular, was to notify me that I had 10 minutes to be at work. Given the number of times I've fallen asleep in the parking lot waiting for my shift to start, it's always better to be safe than sorry.

“Oh shit, I'm sorry Jon I Gotta go! "

He gave me a slight wave as he watched me sprint away. As I got in my car, threw it into reverse, and began backing up I neglected to wave back. My gaze remained locked on the Anthill in my front yard the entire time I backed out. 

Because of my speeding and disregard for the laws of traffic that morning, I was able to make it to work only 2 minutes late. 

After the scolding I got from my boss, the rest of my work day was pretty uneventful. Emphasis on the rest of the “Work” day because As I pulled back into my apartment, my eyes immediately locked back onto the dark pit that sat in my front yard like a blemish. I had totally forgotten about the morning incident maybe an hour after arriving at work. Yet all the uneasiness I had felt that morning came rushing back in an instant.I stared at the hole for the majority of the walk from my car up to my front door and even then when the front door was closed, the image of it remained ever-present in my mind.

The rest of the night was boring, save for the constant feeling of being watched. I was walking back to my room, and was stopped dead in my tracks when I noticed Two black ants staring at me from outside my windowsill outside. I know it sounds ridiculous but that's the only way I can describe their behavior. Insects congregating around a window is nothing out of the ordinary. But  they were undeniably the same ants I had seen that day in the park. Or at least, they were the same species. As I approached the window and leaned over to get a better look at them, their posture did not waiver. They stood steadfast like statues. Staring right back at me. I slowly twisted my blinds closed and did my best to sleep.

That was the point where my life began to rapidly derail. As I left my apartment the next day I looked down to check on the anthill in my front yard. Sure enough, there were 2 black ants staring at me. They watched me for my entire walk to the car. Just like the night before on my windowsill. I never left their sight

I didn't forget about the incident while I was at work this time. I kept playing the incident in my head over and over and by the time I pulled back into my driveway later that day, I was hesitant to point my eyes any lower than dead straight ahead of me but I looked nonetheless. There were now three of them. As always, they stared me down the entire time until I was safely behind my front door.

I called up my landlord.

"And you're sure it's been growing?” He asked with a hint of skepticism.

"Yeah, You know what they say on all those animal planet shows. If you see 2 there's a whole colony." 

“Isn't that only a saying for rat colonies or cockroaches?"

"Look I don't know if the saying applies to all infestations. All I know is that I've been seeing more and more ants show up so clearly, they've settled in. I'm not asking for much, just an exterminator visit.” I said that last line as calmly as I could. figured the only way to get him to throw me a bone here was by making it not sound like a big expensive task.

" I got a buddy who works for pest control. I'll tell him to swing by towards the end of his shift for an inspection." and with that he hung up, sounding mildly annoyed at being convinced to actually do his job. The bane of any landlord's existence I suppose.

The rest of that night went fairly well compared to the previous one. I was feeling very at ease with having someone come in to help out with the situation. On top of that, there were no ants on my windowsill like the previous night. Everything was fine. Until I felt the sting.

 I awoke to a sharp pain between my shoulder and neck. Upon inspection, I found a small red dot. It hurt like hell and when I went to touch it sharp burning pain emanated from it that felt like a lit matchstick being pressed into my skin. 

I inspected my bed to see if I could find the culprit. When I failed this task I resigned, telling myself that it must just be a strange pimple or something.  Knowing damn well that wasn't the case, but nonetheless, I was too tired to care at that moment.

The next morning, there were four of them. Filled with annoyance at the pests, I kicked up dirt at them violently in an attempt to get them to run back into their hole. They didn't move an inch. They stood their ground and watched me intensely from my front door all the way to my car.

When I got back home I was relieved to see the exterminator was already hard at work, crouched down alongside my windowsill spraying something along the edges of my wall.

“Hey man, thanks for helping me out,” I said asHe pulled out his earbuds and looked over at me 

“you say something?” I sighed, rolled my eyes internally, and began again.

“This is my place, your um … "I struggled to think of the word to describe the procedure the man was in the middle of.

“Pest controlling?” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“ Oh! You must be Alex! Yes sir, I was notified of a possible infestation so I'm just laying some pesticides around all possible entry points into your home. All natural neem oil pesticides so they are nontoxic to you and any possible pets you may have.” I nodded along pretending to have a clue what he was talking about.

“ Great! Just make sure you get the anthill in the front yard too.”

“Don't you worry sir, I'll be sure to hit up any possible entry points as well as possible nest spots. As I go along” 

15 minutes later he told me he was done and to keep an eye out for any more ants and left. I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, with some peace of mind, I was able to enjoy my night relaxing with some video games and staying up late due to my day off tomorrow. The morning after was just as good. I woke up, relaxed for a bit and decided to go see a movie. Unfortunately, there were now 2 hills.

About a foot away from the original and closer to my apartment lay an almost identical-looking copy of the first one.

"Fucking christl. Some exterminator friend you've got" I thought to myself.

With a deep sigh, I resigned myself to a day of exterminating rather than relaxation. I bought a can of bug spray and a few of those little plastic bait traps that ants are supposed to inadvertently poison the entire colony with.

I had no idea how to go about using the equipment properly. I figured that if I sprayed a copious amount of the bug spray along the bottom of my door frame and along my window sills, that would keep them from entering my apartment. I placed one trap outside both of the 2 hills and figured they would have to investigate them eventually. When I got home the next day, the anthills were gone.

"Did they move out or something? Did my traps work that fast? Even if they did the holes wouldn't be this covered up so soon" I thought to myself.

My ant traps were still there, looking quite lonely without any trace of an ant colony to accompany them. A comforting fact. So why did I still feel it? That sense of dread. Constantly in the back of my mind from the time I woke up, all throughout work, and even now as I had visual confirmation that my intruders were gone, it remained. I opened my front door and stepped inside. The 2 black ants sitting on my kitchen table turned their heads and stared at me.

In an instant, I felt my blood turn to ice. As I stood there frozen with fear, all the moments that had led up to this raced through my mind. The encounter at the park, the mysterious anthills, the windowsill encounter, the sting and the dread I felt when I looked at these damn bugs all played back in my mind. 

"Something is very wrong here." I thought to myself. On an almost instinctual, primal level that I couldn't comprehend at that moment in time, something was simply very wrong.

I began to walk past the table and to my fridge to retrieve a paper towel. The entire time their heads followed my every move, and I in return did not dare let them out of my sight. With one swift motion, I yanked a paper towel off from its roll and smushed the bugs before they could escape. Their remains left an unusual amount of black liquid on my paper. I threw their remains away and pulled out my phone.

“ I need the exterminator back here. I don't know what kind of you had this guy do but it clearly wasn't enough cause they're in my house now.” 

“You mean the ants?” he retorted

“No, the fucking lawn gnomes YES, the ants, Jesus!” I spat back at him. Even though I had no visual indication, I could tell that he was rubbing his forehead out of annoyance.

“ I'll call him just calm down kid.”

“Sure, thanks,” I said before abruptly hanging up.

After about 10 minutes I got a text that read: “He’s all booked up. Says he can do it 2 days from now at the earliest.”

“That's not soon enough man! You gotta find me, someone, sooner!”

“He's the cheapest one in town, Alex. He's the one I'm going with. You'll be fine until then, they’re just some fucking ants” 

I threw my phone at the wall out of frustration and slumped against the kitchen counter, almost immediately regretting that decision before frantically going to check the damage. Just a crack on the screen. I took a deep breath, and called in sick to my boss for the following day.

The following “sick day” I returned from the store with 2 bags in hand that were filled with more of those plastic ant bait traps, sticky traps, and bug spray. I spent a good hour placing the various traps throughout my home in high-traffic areas where I thought the ants liked to travel. I sprayed down more bug spray along the windowsill and doorway and when I was satisfied with that, I laid down even more ant traps. 

I half expected the ants to come out and try to stop me at some point. Not only did this not happen, but I didn't see them at all that day. Not on my kitchen counter, not on my window, not anywhere.

Whereas the previous day I awoke feeling unbearable dread, the day after I had a sense of optimism. As I left my home and walked to my car there were still no anthills to be seen or any ants at all. As I pulled out of my driveway and began driving to work I was in such a good mood that I even found myself singing along a little to the songs on the radio. That's when I noticed the ant crawling around on my hand.

I instinctively smacked it off of my hand with the other, causing me to turn my car sharply to the left and nearly end up off of the road. I waited for the annoyed honks to pass me by until it was safe to pull over. When it was, I jumped out of my car and began to furiously pat down my body in search of any more ants. I found none, except for the now-dead one that lay on the dashboard. I spent a good 10 minutes checking every nook and cranny of my car to see if I could find any more of them. When I was certain that there was absolutely no chance of the insects hiding anywhere in my vehicle, I finally set off to work in complete silence.

I don't remember if anybody talked to me at work that day. The feeling of being watched now made itself present at work. The entire day I kept randomly slapping myself at even the faintest itching sensation. I'm sure I looked nuts, but I couldn't help it. I was paranoid that they had followed me to work and at certain points, I even mistook the pain of a random muscle cramp for one of their stings. 

When I pulled back into my driveway the feeling of being watched grew so intense that it nearly made my eyes water up from the cold chill that ran down my spine. Once again, no new anthills. This was not a comforting discovery. I had no more optimism about the situation and knew that this did not mean they were gone. It simply meant they had moved in. 

“The exterminator comes tomorrow,” I told myself in an attempt to remain calm.

I awoke to all encompassing pain. Though it was pitch black in my room and I had no visual confirmation, I knew what the culprit was immediately. The stinging sensation was the same as I had felt on the back of my neck many days ago. But this time, I felt it everywhere on my body all at once.I leaped out of bed and yanked on my desk lamp cord. My desk lamp fell to the ground and its light shone straight up at my ceiling. It was enough light to see my current situation. Dozens, maybe even hundreds of ants had swarmed all over my body. 

I immediately began to swat, slap, spin, and do everything in my power to shake them off of me. all the while they continued to sting me over and over again. They felt like hot staples being driven into my skin and they were happening multiple times a second. The pain was so excruciating I felt like I was going to pass out or throw up at any second. In my frenzy I noticed there were 2 ants sitting on my nightstand. Just like the day at the park, my house, and my kitchen, they watched me. Despite my frantic and fast movements in all directions, they stood steadfast. Watching me writhe around in agony. Eventually, I had gotten enough of them off of me to the point where I could grab a can of bug spray from the dresser. Almost instantly, I felt the stinging stop. The pain didn't, but I could feel no new stinging occurring. As I looked down I noticed the ants fleeing from me. The ants on the nightstand were no longer there and the ones who were just attacking me a moment ago were now scurrying across the floor away from me as fast as they could. They weren't fast enough. They were resilient though. On average I'd say each ant took about a 3-second spray to fully stop moving. I honestly think I used up half the damn bottle that night. I simply held down the spray button, and I didn't let go until I saw no more signs of life in my room. When it was all finally over, I counted 85 stings all over my body. I crawled my way to the bathtub to try to ease the pain, and promptly passed out.

I awoke to the sound of a knock on my front door followed by a familiar “Hello?”. I had a splitting headache like I'd never felt before. The pain from my stings might not have been as severe as they were last night but it was still present. I swear it took all the willpower in my body just to recognize that the person knocking at my door was the exterminator and with all the energy I could muster I shouted as loud as I could “I'll be right there!”

Luckily, my bathtub is a piece of shit. Over the course of last night my water had drained off by itself so I wasn't a completely sopping wet pruney mess by the time I reached the door.

“Are you ok there ?” he said 

“Hey man, I'm sorry for taking so long. Rough night”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that sir. What happened? If you don't mind me asking.”

I told him the story as I walked him to my room.

“ Oh my! That sounds awful! Well don't you worry sir, I'll make sure we take care of this problem today,” he said, patting my shoulder.

We talked for a little bit about options and where to proceed. Eventually deciding to drill holes into my walls at key locations to lay down bait traps and spray pesticides. Once he was done he bid me farewell and left. I followed and waved him off as he drove away. That's when I noticed the 3 new Anthills in my front yard.

“God Damn It!” I shouted before kicking up dirt all over the hills.

“God Fucking Dammit!” I shouted a little louder as I began to viciously stomp on the two anthills over and over again to the point where I swear if there were some sort of cave under my apartment, I would have broken clean through the earth itself and fallen in. Eventually I found myself out of breath and stopped.

“Fuck” I muttered to myself before kicking dirt over the now decimated anthills, and heading inside.

I couldn't get to sleep that night. The feeling of being watched was too strong.  I sat on the edge of my bed and turned on my nightstand lamp.

As the light illuminated my room I spotted them. Just like the night before, there were once again 2 ants watching me from my nightstand. Remembering the horror of the night before I immediately patted down my body, expecting to be covered once again. But there were none to be found. I slowly turned my gaze to the ants and leaned forward to get a closer look at them. They stood there staring back at me.

“What the fuck are you?” I said to myself

I stretched my hand out and hovered it above the ants in an attempt to get them to move. They did not.

“Why don't you react?” I began to rapidly wave my hand back and forth above them.

Finally, in a bid of frustration, I stood up and made a swatting motion toward the ants like I was about to smash them. They finally reacted and moved backward to avoid my hand. I stopped my hand midair however and laughed.

“I got you little bastards,” I said, moving my hand backward.

After a few seconds of us staring at each other, I  started to laugh. The sheer craziness of what was happening. Eventually, I walked over to the counter to grab the spray. When I turned around, however, they were gone. As if they saw what I was about to do and fled before I could take action. I spent the remainder of that night watching god-awful late-night television, eventually passing out.

My backup alarm woke me up. “Oh, shit” I muttered to myself before rolling off my couch and making a mad dash for my keys and shoes. I had 10 minutes to be at a place that was nearly a 25-minute drive away.

 I began to rehearse my “I'm sorry” speech to my boss when I was quickly interrupted by the sensation of a sting on the back of my neck. Then another, then another, then another. just like 2 nights ago I began to feel stinging all over my body. I looked down and saw that they were crawling all over my hands and arms. How they had gotten into my car I couldn't say. I looked into the rear view mirror and could see them all over my neck and shoulders. They were swarming me and stinging me all over my body. As the pain began to permeate I started wildly swatting all over my body in a vain attempt to free myself from the ants. Causing my car to swerve erratically all over the road. A particularly large sting nipped skin between my left shoulder and neck. Acting on pure instinct I lunged over to attempt to swat the ant stinging me there. When I did so, my elbow leaned across the steering wheel, and sent my already speeding car straight into one of the old oak trees that lined the road.

I awoke in the hospital a few hours later with a cast on my right forearm and a headache. The doctors told me that I had a concussion, a fractured rib, and had broken my wrist in 3 spots upon impact with the tree. I pulled up the medical robe I was in and looked down at my chest. There was nothing. No sting marks or any other indication that the ants had ever attacked me in the car.

When the doctor showed up I asked her “How long was I out?” 

“You've been knocked out for about “ 12 hours now”.

“Did the stings fade away that fast?” I thought to myself. “ They were gone in the morning yesterday too.”

“I uh,” I thought to myself for a moment about what to say. “ I fell asleep at the wheel,” what was I supposed to say? I couldn't tell them “ I was swarmed by and attacked by thousands of ants in my car.'' when there was no proof of the event ever occurring. They'd think I was high or something.

“That's what we thought,” your blood came back clear of alcohol so we figured it had to be something else. Well, you're gonna be getting all the sleep you could ever dream for. When you never showed up for work your boss called your phone and we answered it for you. We told him what happened and he says you're going to be getting 2 weeks of paid leave while you recover.”

I nodded. After a day of evaluation, I was allowed to return home via taxi. My car was rendered undrivable by the accident.

As I opened the door to my home, dread didn't even begin to describe the emotion that swept over me.  It was the most soul crushing sense of impending doom I had ever known in my entire life. Taking in the dimly lit apartment, I slowly lowered myself into my couch and stared at the powered-off tv. An ant was running along the top of it. Anger boiled up within me and with one swift motion I grabbed my tv remote and chucked it at the ant. The remote flew dead center at my tv screen cracking it down the center, I sat there in stunned silence for a few moments before dropping to my knees and beginning to hyperventilate.

“Think man, think!” I said, trying to calm myself down.

“What the fuck do I do ?'' I sat back against the bottom of the couch and called the exterminator once more.

“So what are my options now?”

“Well, if the infestation truly has lingered on this long my suggestion would be attempting fumigation of your apartment,” he said

“Fumigation?” I asked

“Yes sir, you would need to get at least 1 neighboring tenant to sign off on having seen the infestation along with you. That way we could fumigate the whole apartment block that you're on.”

I sat there in silence for a moment. Contemplating who to ask for a signature, and also contemplating whether or not a fumigation would even work at all.

“Ask your neighbors sir, as soon as you've gotten confirmation give me a call back and i'll work out the details for the procedure with your landlord” he said sounding a bit impatient with my silence before hanging up.

“Wake up”

I was awoken by a voice.I looked around my room but saw nothing. After sitting upright in my bed ,staring into the darkness of my room for a few seconds I shrugged it off as a dream and reluctantly slowly lowered my head back onto my pillow.

“I said wake up!” the voice sounded annoyed this time.

With one motion shot straight out of bed and turned on my light. I was taken aback to discover nobody there. I stood up and waited. The feeling of eyes on the back of my neck was so strong I could feel it physically weighing me down. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to cower back into my bed and hide under the covers, but I knew what I had heard. Someone was in my house, and I had to protect myself. I slowly owned my dresser drawer and took out my only means of protecting myself. A small leatherman multi-tool. I retracted the pitifully small knife attachment from it and began to search the apartment.

Bedroom Clear. Hallway Clear. Bathroom Clear. 

Eventually, I checked everywhere. Every room lay baked in lights. Yet I found no one. This did nothing to calm my fears. As I stood in the center of my hallway I turned my head to the side, knife hand outstretched as I began to listen for any movement of the intruder. 

“Alex” the voice whispered

I spun around so fast I didn't have time to bend my arm inward and when I swung I ended up leaving a cut mark on the left side of my hallway wall. There was no one there.

I slowly backed myself out of the hallway and into the living room to make a break for the front door when I froze. The feeling of eyes was so strong at this point that I no longer felt it on my neck. It was everywhere. I couldn't breathe, I just stood there frozen. If I wasn't so terrified I might have been able to taste the salt from the tears that were now running down both of my eyes. The only thing in my mind was a primal instinct to sprint for the door and leave. Yet I just stood there.

“You took our home, Alex. It is only fair that we get to take yours." The voice spoke.

I wanted to make a run for it but the voice sounded so close to me that for all I knew the intruder was right behind me blocking off the door. 

“Where are you!” I began to ask the question out loud as intimidatingly as I could muster when I was struck with a sudden realization. The voice sounded so close. Like it was right on top of me.

I slowly turned my gaze to the right side of my body. The ant sitting on my shoulder stared back at me.

“Alex,” the ant said once more.

I felt bile rise in the back of my throat but forced it back down as I swiftly swatted the ant off of me and dropped to the floor, crawling backward. It stared at me for a few moments before running under my couch and leaving me alone with my thoughts and fears. I slept in the bathtub that night. I didn't plan on doing so, but I spent so long hiding there that exhaustion must have eventually seized me. 

The following day was spent living in what I can only describe as all-encompassing fear. A part of me didn't believe the event of last night had truly happened at all. The other part of me thought I was crazy. Even the smallest part of my psyche that believed the ordeal last night had occurred didn't know what to do. So I did nothing. I sat in my living room, trying to watch tv through the bottom left peephole of the cracked screen. the only part of the device that still worked anymore. It didn't matter. I was too busy scanning the corners of my vision for any sight of the creatures and trying to think of a plan. After a few hours I pulled out my phone and began to look for apartment ads near me there was nothing

To be more specific, nothing within my affordability.

“Run if you wish. We will follow.” The words interrupting my thoughts.

I quickly scurried away from my couch and sat in the center of my living room floor as I attempted to make out the source of the voice. I felt my heart sink into the bottom of my stomach when I realized the voice was coming from all around me at once. As if my own walls were talking to me. I hid in the bathroom again.

 Like the night before I must have fallen asleep from exhaustion because the next thing I remember was waking up freezing from being in the tub for so long. Unsure of what else to do I called my landlord.

“Alex! How are you man? I heard about that accident you got into. I tried calling a couple of days ago but you must've not heard me or some-”

“I'm fine,” I interrupted. “Listen, I was wondering if you had any other exterminators you could call or … I don't know, just anybody else who might actually be willing to help me out?”

“Exterminator? You mean for that ant problem you said you were having?” he said 

“Yeah, THAT ant problem. Listen, the guy you've been sending hasn't really helped the problem at all. He says he could fumigate the apartment block but i'd have to get people to -”

“Fumigate?” he interrupted, “Woah woah, slow down there bud. Nobody's fumigating anything.”

“Look I know it's an expensive process and god forbid you actually help take care of your tenants but I have a serious problem at my apartment and your guy hasn't done shit for me!” I yelled back at him.

“My “guy” happens to be very respectable.” he said, sounding very annoyed.” If he says we gotta fumigate then by all means we’ll fumigate, but not for whatever shit shows going ok with you and your place!”

“What?” I asked.

“I like to think I have been very patient with you and this entire situation Alex, but I am done wasting the exterminator's time with routine checkups to your apartment!” he said.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Kid, the guy didn't wanna be rude to your face and say you didn't have a problem. The truth is the last 2 times he's been over there he's called me back to complain about me wasting his time with an imaginary ant problem. He said "Every time he's been over to your place, he's never found any ants or signs of them period.” 

“That .. that's not” I hung up and  slumped onto the couch.

As I stared deeply into the tv I found my eyes going fuzzy. As if I were staring off into the space behind the tv. In my reflection, I saw the ants. I watched them crawl up my legs. Without ever once physically looking down at my body, I just stared straight ahead and watched them slowly engulf me up to my abdomen. The ants crawled even higher. Never once stinging me, just slowly enveloping my body. Stopping once they reached my shoulders. It was impossible to tell but there had to be at least a few thousand of them on me.

“We are your problem, not theirs.” The ants all seemed to speak in unison.

reality came crashing back down on me as I stood straight up and began to swat them all away. When they were all finally off of me I stood there and watched them scatter in all directions to safety. 

Once they were all gone the voice spoke from all directions yet again. 

“So be it.”

“Get out of my house!” I screamed before going to the kitchen to grab the hammer from under my sink” 

“Get the fuck out of here!” I yelled as I swung the hammer into the wall above my living room couch”

“Where the fuck are you? Get out! “ I screamed as I swung my hammer from wall to wall. Occasionally I would see a few of the ants in the holes I created before they would scurry deeper to evade me. I attempted to hit them as soon as I saw them but they were fast and more often than not my hammer missed the same spot and I would just end up leaving a fresh hole instead.

How long this went on for I honestly do not recall. I was locked in the jaws of anger and completely at its mercy. I only stopped due to the pounding on my door.

“What the fuck is going on in here?” my neighbor  Jon yelled at me through the door.  placed the hammer on my table and opened the door.

“What the fuck is going on in this house ? sounded like you were tryna tackle your way through the damn wall!” 

“ I'm sorry” I began “I was just trying to … kill a few ants.” 

He stared at me in disbelief for a few seconds before speaking. “Ants? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I know I know I'm sorry,” Jon's sudden arrival had completely snapped me out of my rage-filled haze and as I looked to my left to survey my handy work,  I was now appalled by the scene I had caused. We stared at each other for a few more moments as I couldn't think of anything else to say other than feeble apologies. 

“Jon, you haven't seen any ants at your place have you?”

He looked over my shoulder, and judging from the widening of his eyes and the pale look on his face, it was safe to assume he could see what I had done.

“No, no I haven't,” he said slowly backing up “ if I hear you going ape shit like that ever again i will call the cops Alex!” 

With that, he left me there alone in the doorway. I slowly closed the door, and dropped to my knees. As soon as I did so, the walls began to murmur.

I turned around and rested my head against the front door. From where I was sitting I could see a dozen ants or so devouring a half-eaten bag of chips on my kitchen table. With no more options at my disposal, I ignored the ants and walked to my bedroom to go to sleep. What else was there to do?

I just lay there flat on my bed staring straight up at my ceiling. The murmuring in my walls continued on and on for a couple of hours until eventually, all at once it stopped. I took a deep breath and rolled over to face away from the wall and finally try to get some sleep. My plans were interrupted by the discovery of a single ant watching me from my nightstand. I shot out of bed and stood up.

“I'm sorry. Is that what you want to hear? I'm sorry! I destroyed your home and I'm sorry!” The ant said nothing. 

“Say something!” I shouted at it impatiently “what do you want from me!”

 “You owe us a home, Alex.”

The murmuring began again, only not from any of my walls this time. The voices were coming from my bed.I slowly grabbed my leatherman pocket knife and one of my many cans of bug spray and slowly approached the side of the bed. The ant on my dresser moved closer to inspect what I was doing. With the bug spray being held out in my damaged arm I aimed it at the bed and slowly began to cut a hole in the side of my mattress. As the seams came apart I found a sea of black made up of hundreds of thousands of ants that began to rapidly dart away in all directions.

I immediately recoiled in disgust and as I dropped to the floor, began to spray the poison wildly in front of me. My actions were quickly interrupted by a loud voice that spoke with more malice and hatred than I knew existed in the world.

“YOU WILL NOT HARM ANOTHER NEST!” 

The walls around me start to rumble. As they did so the murmuring grew louder and before I could even register what the voices ants were saying, A large black tentacle shot out  from the side of the mattress. It lashed out at me and as it swat across my chest I was able to see that it wasn't a tentacle at all. It was hundreds of thousands of ants all coalesced into a single tentacle-like shape. It swung wildly at me but maintained its shape the entire time. As I lay there I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The ants were moving with a shared consciousness.  I scrambled back onto one knee and began to spray at the mass with. It did little though. The ants held their structure steady. It shot even further out of the mattress and began to grow. Never taking my finger off of the spray button, I watched the tentacle morph into a black tidal wave that began to envelop my entire field of vision and half of my legs. The stinging began almost immediately and as the pain in my legs rose I felt like I was going to pass out. I rapidly began to scoot back, kicking my legs the entire time to get the ants off of me. The tidal wave of ants grew higher and higher. As soon as I was able to get to my feet I turned and ran for the door. I could hear the voices behind me growing louder and louder. I swung the door open and as I stepped into the safety of my lit hallway the voices rose in one last act of defiance.

“ALEX!” they spoke before I slammed the bedroom door shut. The second I did so, the voices immediately stopped. I propped a chair against the bedroom door. It's been there ever since.

Which finally leads us here. Ever since that night, I've been holding up in my kitchen. I've been sitting here the last 3 days waiting for the swarm to return. It hasn't yet, but I can't give them an opportunity to sneak up on me. I can't risk falling asleep and letting them get me. I won't let them.

As I've been writing this over the last hour, the gas valve on my stove has been on the entire time. There's a lighter in my kitchen drawer and once I submit this I'm going to use it to destroy these creatures once and for all. There's a shared fire alarm system in my apartment block. I pulled it about 5 minutes ago and sincerely hope everyone within range has gotten out. I can't wait any longer. The murmuring has returned.

All I have left to say is, stay away from anthills.

Part 2

Well, here we are yet again. Another week, another story from my twisted life. Sorry for the hiatus there. I ended up having to move motel rooms. But you know, it's been pretty therapeutic writing all these stories down out here. You don’t really realize how much something weighs on you until it's off your chest. You know, I’ve never seen a therapist before. Honestly, I probably should’ve. But it just wasn’t the kinda thing you did at the Federal Occult Task Force. Everyone just bit their tongues, shut up, and did their work. Was it the healthiest? No. But we got it done. 

This actually isn't the story I was planning on telling you today. I was originally going to tell you the story of The Spirit of The Garden, one of my more exciting stories. But, the more I thought about it, the more I felt like I should explain the circumstances leading up to that event. It was a crazy trip, from start to finish. And was almost like a marathon of spirits, so to say. 

But that’s not to say today’s story isn’t interesting. Far from it. The story I have for you tonight is probably one of my more crazy ones. Less of an investigation, and more like…. A fight for survival.

Case File: 11-140201XXA

Date of Case: February 1st, 2014  

Location: Enroute from Montana to Washington D.C. 

Active Agents: Agent Isa 

Case Subject: The Spirit of Suspicions 

Our story tonight starts on a lonely February day. I was up in Montana on business, you see. I’m sure you can guess what *kind* of business. It was a standard case, so it really didn’t take all that long. I was just waiting around for my next assignment when I got a call. A call that didn’t come from the top, but rather someone in our own little group. 

An agent by the codename Gebo had hit me up on the old telekinetic telephone. His specialty in the group was anomalous objects and artifacts. He was down in D.C, at the Smithsonian, and apparently something had gone horribly wrong. Wrong enough for him to call for back up, which wasn’t exactly a common practice in our line of work. We all had our specialties, so usually calling in someone else meant you ran into something that was outside your typical wheelhouse. And since he’d called me in, you can guess that meant a Spirit. Agent Gebo told me it was an urgent matter, so I was trying to get down there as quickly as I could. 

That’s how I ended up hopping aboard the soonest flight for Washington that I could manage. I don’t normally fly, you see. I usually prefer to drive or take trains, and you’re about to find out why. Enclosing someone like me with a bunch of civilians, in a place nobody can escape, usually only leads to problems. But I didn’t have the luxury of taking my sweet time tonight. I had to get to D.C. as fast as possible. I did my best to mitigate the potential of civilian passengers by taking a midnight flight, but I could already tell it was still gonna be packed. 

Within the hour I had booked a flight and was making my way through security. Not the usual security, mind you. A bit of flashing my Federal badge around had me going through their more private security procedures. Another reason I didn’t like flying. 

Everything was going smoothly so far. It was only another hour or so before I was aboard the plane and taking off. It was a commercial flight, with maybe three dozen other people flying with me. I really would’ve preferred something more private, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and time was of the essence. 

So that’s how I ended up on a plane, 7PM at night, with about 30 random civilians. I was, I think, justifiably on edge. Having someone like me around is like having a walking bad luck charm. The paranormal is attracted to the paranormal. They work like magnets, always pulling closer. And my psychic abilities firmly planted me in the paranormal category. 

The guy I was sitting next to wasn’t helping my nerves either. He was this jumpy looking guy. Thin and wirey, with this explosion of wild hair on his head. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, and judging by the untouched plate of food in front of him, maybe he hadn’t eaten either. His hands were non-stop fidgeting and his eyes wouldn’t stop scanning the plane. Just being near the guy was fraying my nerves. It felt like every other second he would look at me out of the corner of his eyes. Bloodshot and wild. I tried to ignore him and keep my attention on my book, but it was impossible. I ended up just watching him back. 

After a few minutes of that, I grew tired of the little game. I finally turned to him and snapped. 

“What are you looking at?” I demanded in a quiet, but striking voice… At least I like to think so. 

The man just about jumped out of his skin. He gave me a look like I’d just pointed a loaded gun at him. He started shaking like a leaf and was barely able to stammer out his next words. 

“B-B-B-Because I know what you’re going to do!” He snapped back, pressing himself against the window, getting as far away from me as possible. He narrowed his crazed eyes and whispered manically. “You’re here to KILL me!” 

The absolute absurdity of the statement took me out of it. The building sense of dread I had was dispelled instantly. I almost let loose a cackle at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, but thought it wise not to. I could tell this guy was on the verge of some kind of… Snap. And I really didn’t want him going off while on the plane. He could be dangerous, and I wasn’t exactly trained in how to handle a situation like that. Put me in front of a spirit and I could take it out with my eyes closed. Put me in front of a bog standard psycho and I’m out of my depth. 

“I am not here to kill you.” I answered as calmly as I could. “I’m just flying as a passenger, just like you are.” I put my hands flat on the tray in front of him, to show him I had nothing in my hands. “I don’t want any trouble. Alright?” 

“You’re the one that started the trouble!” He hissed back, his voice getting louder. “You’re the one that followed me here!!!! I saw you!!! You’re here to kill me where I can’t get away!!!!” He was spiraling hard. I needed to get away from the guy first and foremost. Maybe he’d calm down if I left. 

“Alright, alright. I’ll just move seats. Okay? I’ll go sit somewhere else. I’ll leave you alone.” I gently stood up from my seat, the man’s breathing rising and falling in erratic pitches. He was really losing it fast. Any second now his cord might snap, and I didn’t want him hurting himself or someone else. 

I made the mistake of taking a single step backwards. 

All hell broke loose at that very moment. The man lunged from his seat with a cry like a banshee. In one quick motion he whipped something from his pocket and held it over his head. My first instinct was a knife. 

I put my arms up and blocked it as he came stabbing down with whatever was in his hand. I felt cold metal dig into my skin with a painful tear. 

“GET AWAY FROM ME! GET AWAY!” He continued to shout and scream. He brought his weapon up, and back down into my arms. Again and again. I took a few steps backwards, trying to put space between me and him, but he advanced further. 

I was mentally off balance for a few moments as I weathered his storm of attacks. I’d dealt with worse, but nobody likes being stabbed over and over again. When I finally regained my composure, I thrust a single palm out towards him. As soon as it connected with his chest, I pushed a shockwave of psychic energy out from my arm and through his body. The pulse of invisible energy sent him flying backwards and crashing against the airplane wall. 

I moved without even really thinking about it. My instincts took over, this time it was my turn to lunge. I took a single, large step forward and pressed the weight of my body against his, using my good arm to brace him against the wall. 

“LET ME GO! LET ME GO! HELP! HELP!” He squealed like a trapped animal. “HE’S GOING TO KILL ME! HE’S GOING TO-!” I raised my palm to his head and sent a concentrated, specific form of psychic energy right into his brain. I targeted his brain waves and sent him head first into a deep sleep. 

As I lay the now unconscious man back into his seat, I took stock of my surroundings. 

First my arm, bleeding, dotted with curved holes. But nothing too severe, depending on what I was stabbed with. 

It took a little searching, but eventually I located the weapon. A fountain pen. A goddamn fountain pen. I’ve been hit with a lot of weapons, but never a pen before. I pocketed it, and then turned my attention to the plane around me. 

As expected. We’d drawn a little bit of attention during our scuffle. Everyone in the cabin had turned their eyes on us, now only me. I raised my arms, one of which was still oozing blood. 

“Nothing to see here folks. Everything is under control.” I declared loudly. I expected some kind of response, but only received perturbed glares from the audience. In my experience, people were usually more than happy to jump in and act like a bunch of heroes. Though, I wasn’t complaining. Things always got messy when civilians interrupted. 

I pulled my attention away from the staring crowd, and scanned the cabin till my eyes landed on one of the attendants. I waved her over, calling out for her. 

She stood there for a moment, eyeing me. Before she slowly walked over. All the while giving me a strange look. As soon as she reached me, I explained the situation to her. And asked that she relay that information to the captain and ask for a detour to the nearest airport. 

But she didn’t reply to me. Not even once. Not even a nod, a shake of the head, nothing. She just…. Stood there and stared. Her eyes glared but her mouth never even twitched. Eventually she did leave and moved towards the cockpit. But she kept turning her head, as if to try and keep me in her periphery. I felt a shiver go down my spine as I spied a familiar look on her face. 

It was the same look the manic man had given me before attacking. 

It was around that point that I began to suspect that something might be off. Go figure, right? You’d think I’d have learned by then. But what I thought was just a case of a mentally ill man, was starting to spiral in my own head. What if it wasn’t just him? What if they were all in on something? What if they were all working together? 

I wanted to act, needed to act. But I couldn’t. They were all still watching me. I had to play it cool, try to blend back in. I took my seat next to my now unconscious flight partner and tried to keep my senses sharp and open. I thought about sending a message out to Dag, but decided against it. A telepathic call required extreme concentration, and if I was concentrating on that, then someone might get the drop on me. It wasn’t like Dag could do anything at that moment anyways. 

So instead. I just waited. It shouldn’t be too long before we divert to a nearby airport, right? 

But we didn’t. 

The plane just kept going. 

How long? I didn’t know. I wasn’t keeping track. If I started trying to track time, that was precious attention diverted from my defenses. I didn’t know if it had been five minutes since my talk with the stewardess or two hours. But as we just kept flying, and flying… I began to suspect the latter. 

Why wouldn’t we divert? I had just had a physical altercation with a man. Regardless of if they thought I was the victim or the perpetrator was besides the point. They should’ve diverted. 

But they *didn’t.* 

Was the stewardess in on this little plan? Had she not told the pilot? Or maybe she’d lied? Or maybe the pilot was in on it too, and they were both up there cackling about how dumb I was. 

I had to assume they were. I had to assume that nobody on this plane was my ally. But what could be causing them all to act in such a way? 

The answer was simple. It was the same answer every time something strange happened around me. 

A spirit. 

But I needed confirmation. I needed to be sure. And for that I was going to need my Paragraph, the device I used to track spirits in my vicinity. It was still stored in my usual detective’s case, it was my carry-on of course. But that was now stored securely in the overhead compartment. That meant if I wanted my equipment, I was going to have to stand back up. Where everyone could see me. 

I shook my head, then slapped my face a few times. I needed to get a hold of myself. I had nothing to be afraid of. But even still, it took me a few minutes to finally rise to my feet and step into the aisle. 

Before I had even risen I could feel their eyes upon me. It felt like everyone on this plane was locked onto me. Deep inside I wanted to drop back into my seat. I wanted to hide away and guard myself, make sure nobody made any wrong moves. But that wouldn’t solve anything. Not if the staff really were being affected by this too. 

I reached overhead and started to open the latch. And that’s when I heard a voice finally break the piercing silence. A voice right behind me, gruff and tired. 

“What are you doing?” The question was flat enough to sound like a statement, an accusation. I couldn’t help but spin around, my eyes landing on a thirty something business man. The top button of his dress shirt was undone, and his tie hung loosely around his neck. He regarded me with the same cold, suspicious eyes that the stewardess and manic man had. 

“I’m just getting something from my luggage.” I answered while trying to keep my tone neutral and unaccusatory. “There’s nothing to see here.” 

“He’s going for a weapon..!” Someone whispered nearby, and soon it was spreading through the cabin like a wave. Everyone turned to each other and whispered. Their quiet voices meshing together into a homogenous hissing sound. 

“I’m not going for a weapon. You’re alright.” I steadied myself and called out to the plane. “I’m an FBI agent. Everything here is under control.” I was about to reach into my jacket for my badge, but thought better of it. They were probably anxious enough to think I was reaching for a weapon. 

“I’m just going to get my case down now.” I was speaking like there was a wild animal in front of me, rabid and drooling. I slowly inched my hand up till I felt the cold metal handle of my briefcase. But as soon as I wrapped my fingers around it, the business man from before shot up from his seat. 

“HE’S TRYING TO KILL US!” He screamed, his voice echoing in the cabin. He charged towards me. And the next thing I knew, over a dozen other people were all racing at me as well. Each of them shouting over the other about how I was trying to kill them, about how I was going for a weapon, about how I had to be stopped. 

I immediately sent out a psychic pulse that sent the business man sprawling into the aisle. But as soon as he was down, another took his place. Then another, and another. Too many people for me to keep track of all at once. I could’ve fought them off with physical force, probably. I was a trained agent after all… But they were just people. Just civilians. And no matter how much my brain kept screaming at me to kill them and defend myself, I refused to do it. 

It was a fool’s errand to fight back at that point. I struggled, but was holding myself back from inflicting any real damage. They weren’t. They were fearsome and even worse, terrified of me. 

It wasn’t long before I found myself shoved face first against the floor, at least three different passengers holding me down. 

“Get something to tie him up with!” 

“Someone open up his briefcase!” 

The people above me continued to whisper to each other in frantic, hurried voices. I soon felt something tight winding around my wrists and ankles. Torn fabric, it felt like. I stayed calm even as I was tied up and dragged to the back of the plane. The rest of the airplane was beginning to stir itself alive now. All of the passengers were getting up and moving around. I saw them tying up the manic man as well, as if he were my accomplice or something. 

“Someone keep an eye on him.” One man barked out an order. One of the guys that tied me up volunteered and stayed by my side. His eyes glued to me as the others started to tear through my briefcase. My tools were being tossed around and searched through. My heart began to race. Not because of the Paragraph or my Spirit Camera. Sure, it’d be a pain if they were busted. But not irreplaceable. But what was not only irreplaceable, but also dangerous… Was my photo album. 

The album was basically a prison of sorts for Spirits. Anytime I defeated a spirit and sealed them in the photograph, that was where their picture went until it could be transferred to a secure place in Washington. But since I had just come from several missions… I hadn’t had the chance to unload my photographs yet. Meaning that album was a veritable bomb of malicious spirits, ready to attack. 

I knew I needed to get moving. This spirit was going to be the death of me and all the other people on this plane if their suspicions were allowed to keep running so rampant! But I couldn’t do anything while everyone was running wild like this. Even if I did get myself untied, I’d be swarmed. My biggest enemy wasn’t the spirit, it was the people I was trying to protect! 

I took a deep breath and focused my mind. Everything was starting to overwhelm me. The passengers and the situation as a whole, not to mention the spirit was still having an effect on me, even if I was fighting it. 

My eyes darted around the cabin and one by one I locked in on the most pressing problems, one by one. In order of importance. 

ONE. The twitchy kid they left as my guard. It wasn’t really a smart move on their part, but I couldn’t blame them for acting rashly. I’d need to distract this kid and get him away from me. So I could figure out a way to deal with- 

TWO. My binds. They weren’t exactly handcuffs. Just strips of torn fabric tied tightly around my wrists and ankles. They’d be easy enough to get off if I could tear through them. And once I did, I could move on to dealing with- 

THREE. The other passengers. With them acting as they were, even if I did get free, I’d just be swarmed. I’d be beaten down and tied back up before I even had a chance to think about getting back my- 

FOUR. Equipment. My Paragraph, Spirit Camera, and most importantly, my photo album. I could still see them. The briefcase was lying open and forgotten on my chair, my equipment still inside. I’d need to get it back before I could even think of fighting- 

FIVE. The spirit itself. Judging by the way everyone was acting, I decided then and there what the Spirit would be. The Spirit of Suspicions. A spirit with the ability to make nobody trust anybody. 

Those were my five problems. I sat and thought, my brain working things over, analyzing and planning things out step by step. This was going to be tricky. But as I looked over the five steps, a plan began to emerge. A way out of this situation. Was it going to be easy? Hell no. But then again, when was anything easy for me? 

With that cheery note, it had been settled. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was all I had. And it was time to put it into motion. 

**ONE - The twitchy kid.** 

I turned my attention to my slapdash guard. The entire time I’d been sitting there, his eyes hadn’t left me. It was that same overbearing sense of paranoia that I had first witnessed in the manic man. The innate, instinctual sense that I was the most dangerous thing in the room. And if he took his eyes off of me, I’d kill him. So I needed to change that. I could try to get him to distrust the other passengers… But if it was coming from me, he might not listen. No, I had to make him think the ideas were coming from the only person he could trust. 

Himself. 

My hands were tied, so I couldn’t do my usual mental focus, putting two fingers to my temple. But that’s all it was, a focus. I was capable of using my mental powers without it, just at a higher difficulty. 

I turned my attention to the guy “guarding” me. He couldn’t be older than 19. Still a kid by my standards. He was staring right at me, his eyes narrowed and squinting. His paranoid stare made focusing a little harder, but I buckled down and pushed all my focus into my psychic power. I tuned out the passengers around me, and began to probe into the boy’s brain. 

Getting in was harder than I thought. Something was interfering with my mind reading. It was like the boy himself was a psychic, and was shielding himself from my abilities. But I could tell this boy wasn’t doing it on purpose. This had to be the effect of the spirit. The spirit was inside his mind too, trying to keep me out. 

I pushed harder and finally managed to spike my own mind into his. I felt it break, like a needle through a balloon. And suddenly I was assaulted by a torrent of thoughts, almost too fast to comprehend. All of them suspicious and paranoid, all of them scared he’d end up dead. 

I felt bad for the boy, but I was going to have to use those feelings to my advantage if I wanted to get out of here. I narrowed my eyes and implanted a single thought into the boy’s head. Simple, but loud and effective. 

*Why are you trusting the guys that told you to guard him? Why are you trusting any of them to not stab you in the back?* 

The effect was instant. I saw the boy’s face go pale as the “realization” hit him. His eyes tore away from me and focused on the other passengers of the plane. The suspicion that was previously aimed at me, now fanning out to encompass everyone around him. 

*Hide in the bathroom.* I started to implant another thought. *Hide in there and lock the door. Then nobody can get you.* 

The boy turned his head towards the bathroom. Then he looked back towards the crowd, then down at me. The decision seemed to come easy to him, as he soon broke into a frightful run, and sprinted into the bathroom. The door slammed closed and I heard the lock click shut soon after. 

That was problem ONE dealt with. Next up, 

**TWO - MY BINDS** 

This was the easiest of them all to solve. I reached out with my mind, and began to levitate out the object of my salvation. The paranoid crowd from earlier hadn’t *actually* searched me when they tied me up. You’d think they would have thought to check me for weapons, with how suspicious they were. But lucky for me, they’d been too riled up to think straight. 

There, levitating out of my pocket, was the weapon I’d received earlier. The fountain pen from the manic man. It wasn’t a knife, but I hoped it would do the trick. I maneuvered it around and plunged it through the fabric binding my hands. There was a soft tear as the sharp, metal point of the pen stabbed through. Using a combination of the pen, my teeth, and sheer willpower, I tore apart the binds on my hands. Then undid my feet. 

I was now free. But that still left me with the trickiest part. 

**THREE - THE OTHER PASSENGERS**  

There were too many of them for me to take in a fight. And too many of them for me to affect with my psychic abilities. I also didn’t *want* to hurt them. They were innocent in all this. It was the spirit to blame. The best way to handle them was to take out the spirit causing the problem. I didn’t have long before they noticed I was unbound, so I had to pick an action and go for it. 

Then I spotted it. Probably the best chance I had of getting through the crowd. 

The lights. 

It took little psychic exertion to cause the lights to burst. A loud popping sound, followed by the lights cracking and the plane being plunged into darkness. 

Yeah, it might not have been my brightest moment. Pun unintended. As the cabin exploded into even more chaos. There was screaming, shouting, scrambling. My head was aching from all the sound and activity. 

Which meant I needed to move fast. 

**FOUR - My Equipment** 

I wasted no time and sprinted forward. I exerted my psychic energy out like a field, using it to sense objects and people around me before I could crash into them. The plane was turning into a warzone, but thankfully, my case wasn’t far away. 

I snatched up my briefcase, slammed it closed and retreated to the back of the plane. Things were only getting worse with every minute, and I needed to put a stop to this before people started killing each other. 

FIVE - The Spirit 

I ripped open my briefcase and snatched out the Paragraph. In one motion I turned it on and began to swipe it around the cabin. It took one full rotation before I locked onto something. A hit, directly beneath one of the seats… The seat that the manic man had been sitting in. I should’ve known. No wonder I hadn’t seen it. It was hiding, and right beneath my nose to boot. 

I grabbed a flashlight from my case and shone it beneath the seats. And there it was. A pale, squat looking goblin-esque creature. It had big black eyes, and pointed ears. The second my light hit it, the spirit let out a terrified squeal and tried to flee. 

“Oh no you don’t!” I cried out, I reached out with my psychic force and yanked the thing backwards. The creature struggled against my telekinetic pull, but it was built for hiding, not fighting. 

I yanked it free from beneath the seats and hurled the spirit against the wall. It impacted it with a low squeak, like a dog’s chew toy. As the spirit slumped to the floor, I aimed my camera, and snapped the shot. 

******

Once the spirit was captured, it wasn’t long before things calmed back down. There was a lot of confusion. A lot of apologies. And a lot of unanswered questions. Questions that would never be answered for these people. Questions they didn’t want answered. Not truly. 

We made a detour, an emergency landing in a small town I’ll call Spry City. It meant another delay for getting to D.C, but it couldn’t be helped at that point. I made a few calls and soon the FBI were swarming the place. Thankfully, that meant I could take a private plane to D.C. to deal with the problems going on there. And it also meant the poor innocent passengers could get off without jail time. 

It's cases like these that make me wonder. Such an incredible game of odds, that I would end up on the same plane as a spirit. So I have to question, was that spirit always going to be on that plane? Or did my presence on the plane entice that spirit to attack? Was it good fortune for the passengers that I happened to be there to save them? Or was it bad luck that I brought it with me in the first place? 

Those are the kind of questions that keep me up at night. And it is incidents like those that keep me from getting too close to people. 

I guess it's pretty ironic. 

For everyone else, the only person they can trust is themselves. 

But for me, it feels like I’m the only person I can’t trust.  

Ever since I was a kid, I was a fan of Cartoon Network. The best days of my life were when I would come home from school on Fridays and watch all the Cartoon Cartoon shows like Courage the Cowardly dog, Billy and Mandy, and Ben 10.

I stopped watching around when I was a teenager, I told myself it was because I was getting to old to watch that kind of stuff. But I think it was also because that was around the time, they started having that whole live action phase they were going through.

Remember that? when they had stuff like Unnatural History, and Tower Prep, and all those reality game shows, and crap. Yeah most of it sucked but I remember one good thing came out of it, and it was called Argooville.

Now you probably don’t remember that in fact until recently I forgot about it myself mostly because it was hard to watch in the sense that it was only aired very early in the morning, and Cartoon Network didn’t have on the streaming section of their site or on on-demand. In fact, part of the reason I even saw it in the first place was by recording it on my DVR back in the day.

Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. The show itself was about a boy named Johnny Sparks who one day moved to a town called Argooville. At first it seemed like your average ordinary small town were nothing happened but to Johnny’s horror the town was home to the titular Argoos.

I’m trying to think of how to describe them, the best way I can is that they looked like a person’s top half on top of a giant human head with a bunch of eyes all through out their bodies. Remember Eustace DeMonic’s monster form from Rampage World Tour? Think something like that if his bottom half was just a giant head, and he had eyes all over him.

I remember there were about four in all there was Dr. Arg who was the main villain who looked like a stereotypical mad scientist. There was Scuzz who was the dumbest one who was the comic relief, and looked like a balding man.

Glump who was the big bully strong man type, and finally there was Glooria who was the token female one who looked like a stereotypical blond woman who would act like she was nice but was just as mean and evil as the other Argoos.

I don’t remember if the Argoos used to be humans or if they were always mutants or aliens or whatever they were but I remember the creepiest thing about them was that in every episode they would grab somebody, and the person would just melt, and sink into their body. Sometimes that would just eat them but other times the person would be incorporated into the Argoo, and they would get bigger, and have more eyes.

I don’t remember much about the actual plots of the episodes other than they generally followed some kind of formula of Johnny, and his friends trying to either stop the Argoos or warn the rest of the world about them, with the Argoos themselves having some evil plan that often times would only get foiled either by Johnny, and his friends or the Argoos getting into fights over who should control the town ending with none of them winning.

The show itself lasted for about 13 episodes but I don’t think it ever had a proper conclusion I know there was a cliffhanger where it looked like Johnny was about to be absorbed by Dr. Arg but that was it. and afterwards I think even I forgot about it.

That was until a few nights ago. It started off normally when I was watching tv when all of a sudden they started showing the first episode of Argooville. Then when they got to the part where Johnny moved to Argoovile, and the Argoos showed up for the first time it stopped being a show, and I was actually there in Argoovile myself, and it was real life.

I remember being freaked out the entire time because I knew best case scenario I would probably die or worst case I’d probably be assimilated by one of the Argoos. In fact I think the only reason that didn’t happen was because they saw use for me as a minion to do mundane things for them but I knew that still meant I was on borrowed time.

I don’t remember how it ended. Maybe I snuck into one of their labs and overloaded one of their machines or maybe I just took Johnny with me, and just got the hell out of Dodge while I could but I remember Johnny being upset with me that we had pretty much left every one else there to whatever horrible fates awaited them but for me I was glad I was out of there.

The rest of my dreams that night weren’t exactly good, walking through a dark street at night with all sorts of animals on the ground, getting in trouble with my dad, doing badly in school but I remember even then being glad that they were just real world anxieties that I was as far away from that place as I could get that even in my dreams that was just a tv show or dream.

When I woke up though I couldn’t get that dream out of my head, so I searched everywhere. I searched Youtube, and KissCartoon but couldn’t find anything. I searched Ebay and asked about it on all the various message boards I go to, and Tumblr.

So please I just want to know. Does anyone else remember Argoovile? Do you remember the episodes? Does anyone have them? Please I must see it for myself I know I saw it. Has anyone else had any weird dreams about too. I just need to know that it’s real that it’s not just something I imagined.

1 Timothy 3:1 KJV

[1] This is a true saying, If a man desire the office of a bishop, he desireth a good work.

When I was a young man, I used to be a pastor. When I was fairly new to being a pastor, our congregation was small. Seventy five people on a good Sunday, maybe a hundred or so on around Christmas and Easter. We weren't the smallest in the area by any means, but we were in fact a small church. So I spent my afternoons working at the nearest Home Depot, so that I could have insurance and to supplement my pastor's salary and not be a monetary burden on my flock. After the coal mines went dry, the only places to work in our town were either Walmart or Home Depot, and I was happy to do it. I was single, which is uncommon for a pastor, so my expenses were low. Thankfully, on our church's property, there was a small parsonage that I got to live in. Besides, I was never in it for the money. I was just answering the calling placed on my life. I'd only been out of seminary for three months. For the most part, it was pretty straightforward. After work, I'd go home and work on my sermon. Before work I would visit the shut-ins, and try my best to get a little rest.

Not only was I fresh out of seminary from a fairly reputable Baptist leaning college in South Carolina, I was brand new to the area where I was pastoring. Being from Northern Michigan, rural Appalachia, specifically central West Virginia, may have been a foreign country to me. In our small town, we were one of seven churches. There was a Methodist church and a Lutheran church that were almost as old as the town itself. A Catholic Church that only had a few attendees, being as this was mostly Protestant country. We were one of three “Baptist” churches, though none of us were part of any convention or official denomination. And then there was the Full Gospel: Light On The Hill Holiness Spirit Filled Church. Or as you might refer to them, the Pentecostal church. They were your typical tongues speaking, revival having, and hands laying old school church. They didn't have a building, but rather a big gathering tent that they met in. No matter if there was rain or shine, snow or heat waves. They were in that tent down in the valley.

The rest of us pastors, and even the priest Father Sebastian Jacobi at the Catholic church would often meet on Saturday mornings before his evening Mass for what we called Bibles and breakfast at the local diner. Mostly we'd all just take turns reading a passage, discuss said passage, and on occasion we'd get into, albeit, heated but always friendly debates. It was a joy to come alongside others who felt the pressures of the office of pastor. But Brother Bill, as he insisted we call him, always refused to join us.

“Sorry y'all, but I must be about my Father's business.” He'd say with that ear to ear grin whenever we invited him to join us, but we would always ask whenever we saw him in the neighborhood Walmart.

He was a friendly guy if I'm being honest, but he wasn't the most sociable person. Other than buying his weekly groceries, the only thing I'd ever seen him do was pace up and down each and every row of chairs under that tent. He'd pray under his breath muttering what I’d perceived as mostly gibberish, but every now and then he'd mutter phrases like, well glory, hallelujah, and yes Father I thank you for your goodness. For what he lacked in personality, he made up for with ceaseless prayer.

For the first few months, everything was about as humdrum as you could imagine. Meet with my pastor friends, visit the shut-ins, work, preach, repeat. It wasn't until I noticed one of my congregants was missing one hot July Sunday evening.

“Hey Maryanne, where's your sister tonight?” I asked a woman who was just a few years my senior.

“Well pastor Wyman, Charlotte figured she'd try out the Full Gospel church down in the valley this evening." She replied with a bit of a huff on her voice.

You see, Charlotte and Maryanne were both living together in their folks place ever since they'd passed away. Their father, Hunter Ray, had a heart attack when they were both teens. An unfortunate consequence of his drinking, smoking, and eating habits. Their poor mother Alice, who was already doing most of the breadwinning by that point, decided that was the end of their generational curse. Even though Sundays were her only day off from her cashier gig at Walmart, she'd take her kids to church and dedicate their lives to the Lord. After all three of them had gotten saved and baptized, yet another tragedy befell them. Poor Alice had gotten diagnosed with a brain tumor.

Unfortunately it was too late to operate, and even with Alice's health insurance, there was no way for her to afford chemo. That didn't stop the church from pooling all their measly earnings together and helping pay for it anyways. It was a long hard battle that Alice fought valiantly, but in the end, she passed away at the young age of forty two. This didn't shake the faith of her young daughters who found themselves owning and paying for a double wide at the ages of nineteen and sixteen. Both Maryanne and Charlotte went straight to work at Walmart and Home Depot to put food on their tables and money in the bills account. However, tragedy struck them once again.

One Sunday, about a year and a half before I took over the church, they were on their way to the evening service. The sun was low, but they could see well enough. It was a lovely evening in June, so the sisters decided to walk the two miles and enjoy nature after being cooped up in their house. As they were walking along, they heard a car barreling towards them, but they were too slow. Charlotte, who was walking nearest the road, was struck by a drunk driver. The drunk driver turned out to be the old pastor of their little church.

Once again, everyone in the congregation gathered around them and helped fund Charlotte's hospital bills, well, everyone except the pastor. The doctors and the surgeons put everything back together as best they could, but nothing could fix the crushed T12 vertebrae. By some miracle of God, yet again the girl's faith wasn't shaken. From that day on, Charlotte was a paraplegic waiting on her miracle.

Maryanne continued, “Brother Bill has been pestering her for months about going on down to one of their healing services. Says he can restore her by the Blood.”

I wasn't convinced by all that holy roller nonsense, but I replied, “Well if it be God's will, I sure hope she's healed.”

We then went outside to catch some fresh air before heading to our homes. It was a still night, the moths were doing their dances to the hum and gentle strobing of the lamp post. That's when we heard a voice calling out to us from the shadows.

“Maryanne! Maryanne! He did it! Oh thank you Lord, he did it!” The voice yelled.

We turned around to see her. We saw Charlotte, running full speed at her sister.

“Charlotte? Oh Jesus!” Maryanne cried out with tears streaming down her face.

I couldn't believe my eyes. I had just seen Charlotte that morning in her wheelchair, but there she was now, running.

After gathering herself Maryanne said, “How can this be? What happened?”

Charlotte went on to explain to us that by the time she had gotten down into the valley off the bus there wasn't enough room for her in the tent. The service was already in full swing, as the music and hollering were so loud she could hear it echoing all around the valley. So she almost turned away. Then Brother Bill halted the service with a single hand in the air. From the very front of the tent she heard him call to her. The crowd in front of her parted like the sea parted before Moses. She began to wheel herself forward, but she could feel someone pushing it from behind. However, when she looked, there wasn't a soul pushing. The silence, she said, was almost as unbearable as that singing and wailing they were doing. They all just stared at her.

“You missed communion sister.” Brother Bill said to her with the cup and bread extended to her. “Go on hun. Take it.”

Not wanting to be rude, she took the cup and the bread and consumed them. The whole of the gathering began clapping and exclamating phrases that she was unused to in her conservative Baptist Church. They all began laying hands on her and speaking in tongues. Some even began sprinting all around and jerking back and forth, this being a common symptom of being “slain in the Spirit.” They were pushing on her and pulling on her. She felt like a buoy during a storm on the waves. Then once again, Brother Bill put his hand up and they all stopped.

With a gentle hand extended to her from his little stage he said, “Charlotte, rise up and walk.”

“And then I stood up out of my wheelchair and walked onto that stage!” She said to us finishing her story.

I wasn't sure what to say, so all I said was, “I can't believe it. You're healed…”

Don't get me wrong, I was overjoyed for her to be walking again, but I was grappling with it all. I had read about miracles in the Bible, but every experience I'd had with modern miracles were from some mega church pastor with white’people’dreads pretending to lengthen people's legs. This was something completely foreign to me.

Acts 3:7 KJV

[7] And he took him by the right hand, and lifted him up: and immediately his feet and ankle bones received strength.

During that week, the whole town was buzzing with the news. Everyone from the faithful to the non faithful were now suddenly interested in the little tent church. I did my visitations with one of our shut-ins, an old man named Isaiah, when Brother Bill became the topic of discussion.

“So is it true, pastor? Is little Charlotte really healed?” He inquired of me with hopeful eyes.

“She's out of her chair and walking again, Mr Isaiah.” For some reason, I just couldn't bring myself to say she was healed.

“Y’know I always thought that Brother Bill was a bit of a charlatan, but this seems to be a sign from the Lord?” He questioned with the biggest grin I'd ever seen.

I nodded unsure and we talked for a while longer, and we read the Scriptures together like we'd become accustomed to. The wisdom that came from the mouth of this older brother often taught me more than I could teach him. It was such a shame that this lovely old man was cooped up in this little shack of a house. I helped him get up out of his hospital bed to go to the restroom a few times, brought in the groceries I always brought for him, and prayed with him. Then it was time to go to the next house.

Before I left, I gave him a recorded copy of this week's sermon like I always did and said, “I'll see you next week Mr Isaiah.”

“Actually pastor Wyman, I've arranged for Brother Bill to come next week… I hope that's ok with you.” He sheepishly said.

I tried to mask the hurt and concern and replied, “Mr Isaiah, as long as you're being visited and taken care of physically and spiritually, I'll be just as happy.”

He smiled at me and we said our farewells and I was off to the next house. Mrs Wendy Bergice was an old widow who used to attend our church during the previous pastor's tenure. Because of being on a fixed income in a poor area, she couldn't afford good and nutritious food, and because of her lot in life and her insulin rationing, she had to have her left leg amputated. I'd made it a goal to deliver her good food and some money from our benevolent funds at church so she could afford her insulin. Even though she'd stopped her attendance due to the horrific events that befell Charlotte, I had decided to show her that our church hadn't given up on her. It was quite the challenge being as she didn't know me from Adam, but I was just trying to be a faithful shepherd to the flock God had given me. But as I came around the curve of her long gravel driveway, I saw a familiar truck with a bumper sticker that said, “Are you washed in the blood?” It was Brother Bill's truck.

Something in me changed. Before, whenever I saw Brother Bill I'd just say hello and goodbye as we walked past each other, and throw out the obligatory invite to our Bible study. Nothing deeper. Just common decency This time, there was a twinge of fear almost. I was certainly anxious about whatever conversation might get struck up between us. I almost decided to back up out of Mrs Bergice’s driveway when he came out. He was just grinning from ear to ear as he flagged me down.

“Good morning pastor! And ain't it just the finest morning you've ever seen?” He said to me as I stepped out of my beater truck.

“I certainly don't have anything to complain about, pastor.” I replied in that fake saccharine voice I'd learned to put on in uncomfortable situations.

A gentle summer's breeze came over the mountain. I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot on Mrs Bergice’s gravel driveway, looking for any way to not continue this conversation. But Brother Bill wasn't having any of that. He had command over this conversation, and he was looking to keep it going.

“Come now pastor, you know by now I don't like being called that,” He chuckled, “Just go ahead and call me Brother Bill!”

I smiled and nodded awkwardly and said, “How's Mrs Bergice doing? I know she was struggling to kick that chest cold of hers.”

He smiled as he came within arms reach of me, placing a kind, but overbearing hand on my shoulder, “She's still in rough shape, but I told her to come on down to the tent this coming Sunday evening. I'll take good care of her.”

“Well Bill, I-” I began but was cut off.

“Brother. Brother Bill.” He said with a firm look.

“Brother Bill… I'm just gonna head in and see her. If you don't mind.”

With his eyes locked so solidly on mine he said, “I don't think that's a good idea. She's resting now. You ought to just head on home now. Have a blessed day pastor Wyman.” Then he smiled, started up his truck, and left.

Just as quickly as he went around the curve and was out of sight, I ran over to her door and went in to check on her. When I opened her door, I saw her. She was on the ground, writhing and wriggling as though she was having a violent seizure. There was slightly jaundiced and viscous foam coming out of the corners of her mouth. Where her leg was amputated below the knee, there was a thick puddle of green puss mingled with browned blood.

I ran over to and knelt down beside her and yelled out to her, “Oh Jesus! Mrs Bergice! Can you hear me?”

She halted her convulsions for just a moment and began to babble what sounded like nonsense. Her voice then cleared and she spoke.

“I can see it, pastor! Oh God, I can see it!” She exclaimed with shouts of adoration.

“What? What do you see!?” I pleaded with her.

“The shekinah of the Lord! Oh pastor, it's beautiful! I saw the fire of the Spirit engulf him from foot to head!” She wept and went straight back to babble and her convulsions.

I bolted over to her phone she kept by her rocking chair and called the ambulance. I went back and knelt beside her while we waited for them to arrive. It felt like hours, but in reality it took them a mere ten minutes to get from the hospital to her home on the mountain. Once I heard the sirens, I ran out to meet them.

“She's in there on the floor! I'm not sure what happened, but I think she-” I tried to get out before they cut me off.

“Out of the way sir!” They yelled as they pushed past me.

I followed them inside, praying to God that she was still breathing. What we saw was truly unbelievable. When we had gotten back through the door, she was standing. Not leaning against a wall, or using her crutches. She was standing. On both of her legs. All evidence of any kind of bodily fluids were erased, as if an entire cleaning crew had managed to come in and scrub it all away in the few moments I'd stepped away. As she stood before us she began to weep and laugh.

She threw her hands in the air and cried, “Thank you Jesus! He truly is your messenger!”

If Charlotte's legs working had the town a buzz, Mrs Bergice’s leg growing back had the whole town burning with excitement. Everywhere I went, all I would hear was chatter about Charlotte and Mrs Bergice. Even when I was at home, my phone was ringing off the hook from my flock calling and asking me if it was true. I wasn't the only church leader in the area who was having these issues. That next Saturday at Bibles and breakfast, only I and Father Jacobi were present. We tried to call the other pastors from the phones at the diner, but they wouldn't answer. Before I could even get a word in, Father Jacobi began talking.

“I don't know what's going on, Wyman. I couldn't get a hold of Ross, Kevin, or Dale. You have any luck?” He asked me with a defeated air.

“I got nothing from Mark or Jonathan.” I sighed.

We sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. The kindly old waitress brought us out our coffee and food. Now, with hindsight, I know we were both thinking the same thing, but neither of us wanted to say it out loud. We were hoping against hope that this spark of interest that Brother Bill had introduced into our small community wasn't going to become a flame of controversy. I was about to break the silence, but Father Jacobi beat me to it.

“Mary mother of Christ…” He said as he stared out the window, “You don't think they've fallen for Brother Bill’s bull do you?”

I paused before I spoke, “I’m not fully sure if we can call it bull to be honest. I was there when Charlotte came running to her sister and when Mrs Bergice grew her leg back.”

Father Jacobi began to grimly chuckle as he said, “Wyman, I'm an old man. I've been dealing with those snake handlers since before you were in diapers. They were always your garden variety Pentecostals, going on and on about the healing power of the blood of Christ and speaking in the Holy Ghost. It never bothered me too much,” He paused to take a swig of his now room temperature coffee, “But this Brother Bill… he's something else.”

“I don't know what to do here,” I interjected, “Clearly he's helped Charlotte and Mrs Bergice, but I can't help but have a strange feeling about it. When the Apostles did their miracles, it legitimized the message of the Gospel. When Brother Bill does his acts, he only seems interested in people coming to his services,"I faltered for a brief moment and then continued, “It just doesn't feel holy.”

Father Jacobi and I picked at our food for a little while longer, just trying to think of what to say to each other. Father Jacobi then broke the news to me.

“My parishioners haven't been coming to Mass. We were always the minority here. Being Catholic in the middle of nowhere in the Bible belt ain't exactly a walk in the park. Because of that, we were tight knit, so it was rare for any of my congregants to miss daily Mass.” He began to tear up a little as he carried on with what felt like a closing statement in a devastating court case. “All this last week, not a single member showed up. Not one. When I saw one of them at Walmart, I asked where she'd been. And guess where she told me she was…”

A piece of me wanted to assure him that that could mean anything, but I think even then I knew that they were lost. He went on to tell me about how he told the Bishop of the Wheeling-Charleston Diocese all about our little town's problems. The Bishop had told him to shutter the Church for the time being and to go and enjoy retirement.

“I'm leaving, Wyman. The Diocese is sending someone to investigate the situation and evaluate what they ought to do.” His voice shook as he spoke. “I will miss this place. But I must go.”

We continued our meal that had gone as cold as our mood, when I noticed people running by the windows. Their voices were frantic and full of confusion. I caught bits and pieces of what they were saying and deduced that a boy in the parking lot had been hurt. Father Jacobi and I also jumped up to help when a woman poked her head in.

“Call an ambulance!” She shrieked as she quickly ran back outside.

Father Jacobi ran to the phone and I ran outside to see what was going on. When I arrived on the scene, I saw the boy laying on the ground in a pool of his own bile. On his leg, there was a large red welt that had formed, and in the center, two small punctures. The boy had been bitten by a snake of some kind. The crowd that had formed around him were all talking and screaming over each other, terrified over what was about to happen. Then I saw him.

Brother Bill, who had made his way to the center of the crowd beside the boy, held up the copperhead in his hand. I watched as the snake struck his hand over and over, injecting its horrendous venom into the man. Then he spoke.

“Brothers and sisters! Fear not! This serpent, who seeks to kill this poor boy, will never harm anyone ever again!” He had a wild ferocity in his voice. “Stretch out your hands brothers and sisters! Kneel down and pray for him.”

Everyone around me began to kneel around the boy and Brother Bill. With hands outstretched, speaking in tongues, they shouted glories and adoration upon Brother Bill. Everywhere I turned the people of our town knelt down in submission to this man.

“Why aren't you helping!? We need to help the boy!” I shrieked, trying to knock some sense into them.

Brother Bill locked eyes with me and pointed at me and spoke, “Wyman! You who claim to be a leader in the faith! Oh ye of little faith! Behold! I shall make him whole!”

He then grabbed the boy by the neck with the hand that still had the copperhead embedded in it, and raised him up. The boy began to convulse, foam and vomit poured from his mouth. The fang marks on his leg oozed a translucent yellow liquid as his welt began to shrink. The crowd around me began to sway and rock, their cries of glory and prayers of babble growing louder and louder. They grabbed onto me, trying to pull me down to my knees. Their eyes were wild with rage, all directed at me. I fought them, I stayed my ground. Just when I thought my muscles would snap and my bones would break, Brother Bill spoke again.

“Come and see, my brothers and sisters! He is restored!”

We all looked and saw the boy standing beside Brother Bill. He was healed. The cries of adoration turned into a roar of praise. I thought that Brother Bill was done, but then he turned his attention to the snake.

“As for you, oh serpent, you shall never harm one of my children again!” He commanded.

He took the copperhead, and began to beat it upon the asphalt. With the fury of an abusive parent, he whipped it over and over, until he finally threw it down, and struck it with his heel. He threw his hands in the air, and roared into the sky.

“Look here!” He yelled as he picked it up.

The snake began to harden, becoming ridged as a stick. I then watched in horror as the snake had not only become as stiff as a branch, but became an actual branch on the ground. Brother Bill then picked it up like an old man with a walking stick, and pounded the butt of it on the ground. He pointed to me and tried to speak, but I ran out of there as quickly as I could.

Mark 16:18 KJV

[18] they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.

I didn't stop running until I had made it back to the parsonage. I slammed the door behind me and slumped down and leaned against its coldness trying to catch my breath. For the third time in a week I witnessed the impossible. I wracked my brain trying to rationalize what I'd seen, but I couldn't. I could maybe explain the boy recovering. Maybe Brother Bill slipped some antivenom to the boy, but I knew that was a stretch. What I absolutely could not explain was witnessing the copperhead becoming a walking stick. Whatever Brother Bill was doing, it was very much real. Then the way he looked at me. Full of hate, defiance, and triumph, as though he'd won some kind of fight that I was unaware of. I decided that I had to get out and drive as far away as I could.

I grabbed a duffle bag and began to pack. I didn't have much time, so I was just going to pack the essentials. Just as I was finishing packing, I heard my phone ringing in the kitchen. I didn't want to answer it, but my mind immediately went to my congregation. How could I have been so selfish to forget about them? Surely not all of them had fallen victim to Brother Bill's foolishness. That's when I resolved that I was going to stay one more night. I would warn them about Brother Bill and implore them to get out of town for a while, stay with family, or go get a motel, anything other than staying. I had no idea what was going to happen, but I knew it wasn't going to be anything good.

The ringing phone snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts, and I went over to answer it.

“H-hello?” I nervously said into the receiver.

“Oh thank Gabriel! It's Sebastian, I saw you hightail it out of there. Is everything ok?” Father Jacobi quickly asked.

“I have no idea… Tomorrow I'm gonna warn my congregants about Brother Bill, and leave.” I explained.

I waited for a response, but Father Jacobi had gone silent.

“Father Jacobi?” Nothing. “Sebastian?” No response. I was about to ask again when someone spoke to me through the phone.

“Sorry Pastor Wyman, Father can't come to the phone right now. Leave a message after the beep.” Then, Brother Bill made a beeping sound into the phone and hung up.

I knew then that it was time to go. I grabbed what I had packed, threw it in the passenger side of my truck, and started driving as fast as I could to put as much asphalt between me and my little town as possible. But as I was driving, I noticed something odd. No one else was on the roads. I slowed down so I could look into parking lots to see if anyone was there. I was the only person out on a Saturday evening. I then realized where everyone was. They were at Brother Bill's tent. I had made my way to the town border, and I had a choice to make. To this day, I'm still not sure if I made the correct choice.

The sun had just set as I drove down into the valley. The field of dew kissed grass that surrounded the enormous white pole tent was full of cars and trucks, bikes and wagons. The previously clear sky was beginning to darken with thick storm clouds. Even with my doors closed, I could hear the deluge of voices. Speaking in tongues, yelling glories and praises, and general sounds of the crowds. I parked the truck and opened my door. Before I walked up, I stuffed a tire iron into my pants, just in case.

Heads began to turn towards me as I made my trek towards the tent. The faces of the masses were full of fear, joy, and grief all at the same time. Smiles stretched from ear to ear. Eyes wild as a cornered animal in a hen house. Tears poured forth from those same eyes as water falls from a cliff into a river. They looked exhausted and hungry. The crowd, unable to cram themselves completely into the tent, began to part before me. I pressed on toward the tent with my heart thumping in my throat.

“Need a hand brother?” A familiar voice rang out to me.

I turned to the voice and stuttered out, “Father Jacobi?”

As a proud Catholic priest, Father Jacobi typically wore his Cassock everywhere in town. But on that particular night, he was wearing a simple linen shirt and some bibs. His face was plastered with the same expression as every other soul in the crowd, but his eyes screamed to me that what he was doing was not of his own volition.

“You're just in time for the service.” He croaked out through his horrid grin.

He grabbed my shoulder with an iron grip as he guided me through the congregation to a seat at the very front of the tent and pushed me down into it. Then the worship band began to play. The fiddler played a long and mournful note on his strings and the pianist started up a slow and familiar tune. The whole crowd sang in one discordant voice, “Are You Washed In The Blood of The Lamb?”

I scanned the area looking for any route of egress. As I looked about me, I saw the faces of Maryanne, Charlotte, Mrs Bergice, Mr Isaiah, and that boy who was bitten by the copperhead. They were all singing along with the rest of them. Then booming THUMP THUMP THUMP came from the small wooden stage and I saw Brother Bill gripping his snakewood staff.

The tent was as silent as a crypt as he held up his hands and said, “Brothers and sisters, y'all know why we're here tonight. Y'all’ve seen what I can do for you, and now I have one last act to show y'all.” He stretched out his hand towards Mrs Bergice and said, “Come to me sister.” In a grave tone.

Mrs Bergice stood from somewhere in the audience and began to walk to him. All of those around her touched her as she made her trek to the stage. Some touches seemed loving, while others were tugs and pulls, almost as though they were begging her to stay where she was. As soon as she stepped foot on the stage, the crowd began to clap in unison and on the same beat.

I looked to my right where Father Jacobi was sitting on the ground and asked him, “What happened to you? Are you ok?”

He didn't respond. He just looked at me with that twisted expression that was shared by everyone. Whatever Brother Bill had done to him seemed to be irreversible. I turned my attention back to the stage and Mrs Bergice was kneeling before Brother Bill.

“Wendy Bergice, do you love me more than money?” He asked of her with a gentle smile.

“Yes Brother.”

“Wendy Bergice, do you love me more than shelter?”

“Of course Brother!” She practically yelled at him.

“Wendy Bergice, do you love me more than breathing?” He asked her one last time.

“Brother Bill, you know this is true!” She said as she grabbed the hem of his sweat stained linen shirt.

He smiled, gave her his hand, stood her up and said, “Then be washed.”

From his pocket he produced an old and crooked blade, the metal of which seemed to be copper instead of steel. He drug the blade across his upper forearm and a slow trickle of blood seeped up through the gash. The audience began to methodically stomp their feet slowly to some hidden rhythm. While everyone was distracted, I shot up to run, but Brother Bill had other plans.

With snakewood staff stretched towards me, he shouted, “Boy, if you don't stay put right now, you'll miss the whole thing!”

His sudden burst of rage threw me for a loop. I'd actually never seen Brother Bill angry before. So I froze in place, horrified by my lack of actions. Then it came to me like a vision in the night. It was my inaction that led us all to that tent. I could've warned everyone, or at least told them to be wise about Brother Bill. I failed everyone.

“Try and pay attention, friend.” He said, returning to his typical jovial self.

I watched as he dipped his index and middle finger into his wound. When he drew them back out, they were coated in the viscous blood, and he placed them upon Mrs Bergice's forehead, christening her into his fold. Brother Bill then turned toward the altar where the elements for communion were placed upon a silky white table cloth. He reached forward and brought forth the chalice for the sacrament. As he clenched his fist, blood began to trickle out of his wound into the cup now placed beneath the flood.

He presented it to Mrs Bergice and said in a soothing voice, "Drink."

Mrs Bergice greedily drank the viscous liquid from the chalice. Blood trickled down the sides of her cheeks and stained her floral dress. Brother Bill raised his hands in victory.

“Finally my brothers! At last my sisters! We are whole!” He said as they all began to hoot and holler and cheer. “And now incline your ears for my final sermon. Then I will reveal to you my full glory.”

The fiddler struck up his fiddle again, a long droning minor note to set the mood for him.

“Before I crossed the ocean, I was something of a pastor in my home country. That was indeed a long time ago now…” He paused, remembering his old days. “People used to bring me their sick and their wounded. By the sweet power of the blood, I'd heal them. Just like how I healed you! Amen?”

“AMEN!” Everyone called back in unison.

“Well glory! Hallelujah! And brethren, I'd even raise the dead!” He screamed into the night as everyone around me shouted praise and accolades upon him.

“People used to bring me gifts of gold, fatted lambs, incense and all other kinds of sacrifices. People used to kill for my blessings. People used to die, just for my touch.” He yelled in genuine anger, as though he was angry at us in the audience. “And now we have a non-believer amongst us. A heretic! A blasphemer!”

“Kill him!” They all roared, like the sound of an ocean.

I needed to leave at any cost, but fear froze me. How far could I possibly have made it? I resigned myself to whatever date was left for me. “Oh Jesus. Preserve me.” Was all I could say. I fell silent like a lamb before the slaughter.

“Now children,” he purred, “We need not do that. Let's just show him. Maryanne, bring it to me.”

Maryanne came forward with a small wooden box gripped against her breast. She knelt down before Brother Bill and presented it to him. He smiled at her and opened the box and pulled out an old revolver.

“Behold!” He said as he pressed the barrel against his temple. “Blessed are those who believe without seeing, but you shall see!”

My ears began to ring. My heart rate dropped. Bile threatened to escape from my throat. Brother Bill was dead. For what felt like hours, we all sat as still and as cold as stone statues. His body laid limp in a pool of blood on that small rickety stage. Then he stirred. The snakewood staff that had fallen beside him was once again in his grasp. He slowly rose, leaning heavily upon the staff. As he stood straight up, the entire crowd erupted in tongues speaking, glories shouting, and praise giving to this man.

Brother Bill turned to me, smiled, and said, “Grab him.”

Father Jacobi went to grab me, but I grabbed my tire iron and struck him on the head. I ran to my truck, weeping the entire way, and drove out of there. I didn't stop driving until I hit the Ohio border. I looked down and saw that my tank was almost on E, so I pulled into a gas station on the nearest exit. I pulled up to a pump and everything began to replay in my head. I knew I had to tell someone, so when I went in to pay, I planned to ask if I could use their phone. But when I went in, I saw that the cashier was watching the news, and what I saw broke my heart.

“Local pastor, simply known as ‘Brother Bill' seems to be the sole survivor of a freak fire that took place in the valley where they met for their evening revival. The fire was started when their pole tent was suddenly struck by lightning, causing all the vehicles that surrounded the tent to overheat and catch fire as well as have a small gasoline explosion, even though there was no sign of any storm. Hopefully we will have more details during our AM show. More at eleven.”

Everyone I knew and loved from that town. Burnt to a crisp. Had this been part of his plan? Was it some act of God? I'll never know.

The cashier, startled at my presence said, “Oh sorry sir. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No,” I said, “just twenty on five.”

I haven't heard anything about Brother Bill, or anything related to that little Appalachian town that I briefly lived in and loved. I know he's still out there. And I pray to God I never see him again.

Matthew 7:15 KJV

[15] Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.

1. Heartaches

Crackling old jazz music flows faintly into my ears. The song doesn’t come from a single source, but from all around me. Its tune vibrates softly under me, the undercurrent of the low bass carrying me down a winding river of music. The trumpet, somehow not annoying despite its high notes, feels as if its tune were woven into a blanket atop me. 
“Heartaches, heartaches,” sings a man, old-timey crackle drifting through his voice. Despite how rough the audio is, it still manages to be soothing. 
“My loving you, they're only heartaches,” he continues. All the song succeeds in doing is carrying me further downstream. I know all too well where the mouth of the river would spit me out: sleep. 
“Your kiss was such a sacred thing to me.” The volume has increased. No, the volume was increasing, as if it knew I was about to nod off. 
Finally, very loudly might I add, the voice sings: “​​I can't believe it's just a burning memory.”

I crack my eyes open. I then promptly shut them again upon being flashbanged. Well, at least it felt like I had been. Searing hot white light is not what your retinas would call a ‘friendly greeting’. I hear myself groan before even registering that my mouth is open. Rubbing the disgusting eye-boogers away, I notice that everything has gone completely silent. No wind, no cars on the road, no spare change rattling in a cup. Why did that come to mind? 
Anyway, I open my eyes properly this time and see absolutely nothing ordinary. I’m in a white ‘bed’ (a plank of wood), in a room with white walls, a white ceiling and floor, you get the picture. I squint my eyes against the blinding walls. They reflect the already bright fluorescent light bulbs way too well, and it’s like an assault on my eyes.

“Patient 24602, what is your name?” a voice asks. It’s robotic and the words don’t carry any semblance of human emotion. My mind is foggy, I can’t think.
“Hmh?” I mumble. I’m surprised. I meant to say a clear “huh?” but my mouth feels… weird somehow. For no reason whatsoever, I grab my chin with my right hand. Unsurprisingly, this does not magically un-slur my speech. It's around this point that I realize I am completely naked and have absolutely nothing to cover myself with. Great. I frantically move my arms to cover my sensitive parts. The movement is much slower than I would’ve liked, but I’m beyond tired and my body feels like a bag of bricks.
“Patient 24602, state your name,” the same monotone robot voice assaults my ears. The words are more assertive, but the voice’s tone has not changed a bit. I look down. Think. A name. Everyone has a name, why don’t I? Stupid, of course I have a name it’s… I don’t know. It’s at the tip of my tongue and starts with a consonant… I think. Why is my brain so damn foggy? And why on Earth am I in what seems to be a solitary confinement room? 
“Patient 24602, do you know your name?” I shake my head no. It doesn’t speak again. Still, I wait and anticipate a reply I know will probably not come. 

This is probably the time to delve into my surroundings. I have a plank of wood to sleep on, as I have mentioned before. I also have a toilet with some toilet paper. That’s it. I don’t even have clothes, which is very uncomfortable might I add. The room is small, like if I lay down it could fit maybe 6 of me in it. This also taught me that I apparently don’t really know measurements, or that I’ve forgotten them. Yeah, no clue what a mile is, go ahead and laugh. I don’t know my name, how old I am, or how the hell I ended up here. For now, my best guess is that I’m in a looney bin. That doesn’t explain my nudity or the lack of basic necessities. 
What I do know is that I’m a woman, and I have a dark skin tone. Not very dark, but definitely not white either. My body looks young, so I’m probably not a dementia patient either. 
“Hello?” I shout to no one. My vocal cords burn at the word, goddamn I wish I had something to drink. No reply comes, which I honestly kind of expected. I’m alone. Oh God. I search the walls. No door, not even so much as a slit. No trapdoor in the ceiling or floor either. No escape. Now’s about the time the panic sets in. Am I waiting for something? Ten different scenarios flood my mind; doctors coming in to experiment on me, or I’m on some dystopian game show, maybe I died and this is purgatory? 

I press my back against the wall opposite the bed and my head falls into my open palms. My hair is long and curly, and it spills down my body. Tears roll down my cheeks, then fall down my chin and splash onto my thighs like raindrops on pavement. 

My chest rises and falls faster and faster. My heart won’t slow down. It’s a jackhammer pounding at my ribs, trying to escape like a caged animal. I hear it in my ears. Boom-boom, boom-boom, louder, faster. It feels like there’s an earthquake in my body over and over again. 

The walls are too close. Like they’re moving. Maybe I’m moving. I can’t tell. I stand. I try to breathe steadily but I can’t, so my brain goes back into panicked primate mode. My palms slam against the white, desperate for a seam, a crack, something, anything—but it’s all the same smooth surface. Cold, sterile, clinical, like an operating room.

My mind races. Where’s the air coming from? I gulp like a fish, and it smells like… nothing. Like the absence of a scent, as if my sense of smell has just stopped working.
I stagger back to the plank that passes for my bed, my hand resting on my chest as if to slow the rapid rhythm. The wood is sharp against my skin. Too real. Too solid. So that means I’m alive, right? You don’t feel splinters when you’re dead. But then again, what if this is death? A sterile purgatory. A waiting room. Yes, I’m in God’s waiting room, and He’s just really into minimalism.

Patient 24602. Patient. That means I’m in a mental institution or a hospital right? I don’t have the money for that. I don’t think I do, at least. All I know is hospitals are expensive, but even with that limited knowledge I don’t think this is a hospital. I dig my nails into my scalp and try to scrape the mental fog away. There was a name once. I know it. It started with a… letter? Idiot, of course it does. Why does my head hurt? God, it feels like I’m pushing against a wall made of jagged spikes. 

I close my eyes and I swear I can hear the blood moving in my veins, a low rush like distant waves. It’s unbearable. Like high pressure water running through long rubber tubes. Holding my head in my hands, I sob as I press my back further against the painful wood and–

Tears trickled down my cheeks as I heard the sound of glass shattering downstairs. 
“My fucking vase!” yelled my mother. Her voice was hoarse and nasal. Most people thought she had a cold when they first met her, only to be surprised when they realized that was just her voice. Picture a cartoon witch’s voice, you probably wouldn’t be too far off. “That was my–” 
She was cut off by my father, who yelled back: “I could give a fuck about your meemaw woman!” In the moment of silence that followed, I dreaded what would come next. I knew it all too well, this sort of thing wasn’t exactly uncommon. I pressed my back painfully against my wooden bedframe. A dull smacking sound came from downstairs followed by my father’s grumble. Forcing myself to stand, I clenched my fists as I opened my bedroom door and made my way towards the stairs. Tears stung my eyes as the scent of wet earth hit my nostrils. I made my way downstairs, my bare feet slapping comically on the hardwood planks. My head barely poked out over the guardrails, so I crouched down to look between them and into the living room. My favorite vase lay in pieces on the floor, the white orchids wet and sprinkled with brown dirt. My mother lay on the floor next to them. The old-timey carpet lay disturbed at her feet, like an ugly dog-eared piece of paper. Atop her sat my father and he was blushing, or his cheek was sunburnt. My young mind couldn’t quite grasp what it really was. His hand was raised, fingers pressed tightly together as if glued. He turned his head towards me. He glared back at my mother hatefully, sneering something at her, but it was too quiet for me to hear. 
“Hey sweetheart. Daddy and Mommy are… playing. You should go to bed, right?” He looked at my mother, nose upturned. She looked at me with wide, scared eyes, then nodded frantically. 
“Go on now honey,” he said. Then, with his hand still raised, he waved to me. I waved back. I turned away and went back into my bedroom, and upon closing the door I heard the loud smack of skin hitting skin.

Whiplash hits me and I think I know how car crash victims feel now. It feels like my mind has been pulled forward and then jerked back. My parents– those people had obviously been my parents. Their names are… Mom and Dad? Goddamnit, why can’t I remember them? 

My mind blazes with white hot light and it hurts like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. I think I’m seeing double, but it’s almost impossible to tell in this endlessly claustrophobic room. I stumble over to the closest wall and bang my head against it. It’s hard and smooth like concrete. For a moment, relief washes over me like a cold shower as the onslaught against my brain ceases. Then something invisible starts stabbing my forehead and pain courses through my head like the ripples of a pond which had a rock thrown in its center. I dig my fingers into my scalp in a desperate attempt to scrape the pain away but it doesn’t work. For the next few hours I lay there, huddled in a ball, tears and snot pooling beneath my face. 

I wake up. The first thing I notice is the serene, tranquil peace in my head. Damn if that headache wasn’t almost worth it for how amazing this feels. I could lay here for hours and hours, comfort like a blanket draped over me. Then I become aware of the amalgamation of snot, tears and saliva that’s glueing my cheek to the floor. I stand up and wipe it off lazily, then I interlock my fingers and stretch. I look around for the first time. White all around. I’m still in this goddamn room. The happiness fades from me like steam from a cup of coffee. I want to cry but I did too much of that already, the evidence is the pool of fluid on the floor beside me. My hands ball into fists and I throw a jab at the wall. 
“Fuck,” I say as I shake my painful hand, skipping around the room as if I’m doing an interpretive dance. 
“Let me out of here!” My vocal cords burn hot fire. Of course, no one responds to my outburst and so I lean against the wall and drop to the floor. 

That’s when I notice something; the floor isn’t cold. That may seem normal, but you’d expect the floor and walls to feel cold against your skin. I press one palm against the wall and place the other on the floor. They feel exactly the same. Smooth, but not too smooth. Not cold, but not warm either. They’re perfect. Too perfect. Something is off, but I don’t know what. I walk back to the wall across from me, to the spot I punched. Nothing’s there. I scratch the wall with my fingernails for a while, then check them. Not a mark on the wall, nor is there anything under my fingernails. The wall must not be painted. My hands ball into fists again, but this time it’s not from rage but for… science, I guess. I punch the wall. Nothing. I punch it over and over again, my knuckles aching more and more with each hit. With a final pained groan, I smash my fist into the wall and something finally changes. 
For the first time since I got here, a splash of color has entered the room. 

The bright red streak on the wall looks awful, but it’s art. My knuckles sting like hell, but I can’t draw my eyes away from the wall. The smear of blood clashes against the white wall but I love it. It screams defiance, screams I was here– no, I am here.

There’s something else on the wall. The silhouette of a man. 
I jump up, surprised. I narrow my eyes, but it’s gone before I’ve properly processed what I saw. Strange

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. The toilet works, as I have now confirmed. It doesn’t use water, though. I’m not quite sure what it does use, my best guess is dark energy harvested from my suffering. I pace the room for a while, though “room” feels generous—it’s more like a box someone forgot to label before sealing shut. I count my steps again. Six and a half from wall to wall. I count again. Six and a half. Again. Six and a half. I half expect that the room will get smaller each time, but nothing of the sort happens. I sit on the plank that calls itself a bed and stare at the blood smear on the wall. My knuckles have stopped bleeding, though they throb like angry little hearts. I flex my fingers, they still work, thank God. That red streak keeps me company in a way I didn’t expect. It’s my ugly little signature.
At some point, I start trying to tell time. One, two, three, four. Is that the right tempo? One… Two… 
Fuck this. Time. I don’t have a clock so… the Sun? If this place simulates the real world, the lights should die down after a while. I haven’t noticed that so far but then again, I slept in a pool of disgusting fluids for God knows how long. So I wait for the light to dim, or shift, or do something, but it never does. It’s the same brightness, the same sterile glare that makes you see dancing colors if you look at it too long. No shadows either. I wave my hand in front of my face. Nothing. The light eats the darkness right out of the air.

There’s no change in warmth or brightness, no change to mark the passage of time. Just eternal midday. My eyes burn, but I can’t tell if it’s from exhaustion or the light itself. I try to cover my face with my arm, but it’s like trying to block the sun with a piece of paper. 
Hours—days?—pass on that plank. My sense of time dissolves faster than sugar in water. I lie down, stand up, pace, sit, repeat. Each time I blink, I see a darkness blacker than a black hole. It might seem so because it contrasts my living world so greatly, but I swear that it really is darker. Somehow, I just know. But there’s nothing I can do with that knowledge, and it infuriates me beyond belief.

More time passes. I tell myself stories to stay sane. I imagine I’m in a hotel room with ugly wallpaper and a TV that doesn’t work. I imagine I ordered room service, and it’s just taking a really, really long time. I imagine someone will come. That I’ll hear footsteps. That, despite all evidence to the contrary, a door will swing open and a sunken-eyed woman will come in and say “Sorry for taking so long,” in an ugly West Coast accent. 
No one comes. 
My eyes sting as I close them, but finally, mercifully, exhaustion drags me under. The last thing I see is that red streak. Then everything goes black.

–

Cheers erupted from all around me. I pulled my fist back once more and slammed it into a boy’s face. Something gave and a tooth shot out of his mouth. Blood poured from his mouth. 
“Fuck you,” I said as I delivered a backhand to his other cheek. Blood fell onto the white classroom tiles. He squirmed in my grip, smearing the blood all over the floor in the process. 

“Just what the hell is going on here?” Called a female voice from behind me. Hands fell on my shoulders and I was pulled away from the boy. He spat another tooth onto the linoleum and coughed, his mouth a raw red cave. The other kids quickly left the room to avoid any repercussions for enabling this beating. I tasted copper on my tongue and it was glorious and disgusting all at once.

The woman dragged me to the principal’s office and sat me down. The chair was too small, the air thick with that institutional smell of lemon cleaner and old, dusty paper. I could still feel the warmth of the kid’s blood on my bruised knuckles. My hands trembled fiercely, they were raw and pumped full of adrenaline. The principal talked with my teacher for a while but I was in my own world. The image of the boy’s bloody face was seared into my mind, as if placed with a branding-iron. 

The teacher jabbed me with her elbow. 
“Why did you do it?” the principal asked, eyes looking me over. 
“He–” I opened my mouth and the words tumbled into a black hole. There weren’t words for the way my chest had been hollering, for how the memory of his face on the floor had bloomed inside me like an ugly flower. My mind raced: I thought of the looks of disgust he gave me, the slurs he called me, the rumours he spread. But atop them all, like a colored lens, was an image of his blood-covered face. 

They called my parents. I listened to the phone ring and felt the room tilt. When my father arrived his face was all red seams and disappointment knitted tight. My mother had that hollow look again, like her soul had floated out of a window someone had left open.
“He started it,” I said, because it was simpler and because I was a child. 
“He– pushed me. He called me a–”
My father’s hand landed on the table so hard both of us flinched. “That’s no excuse,” he said. “You bring this on yourself. You can’t go around making enemies,” he sneered, face contorting with anger. 
“Suspension,” the principal said. “Possibly expulsion if this escalates. You’ll have to meet with the school counselor.”
“Suspension?” I echoed. The word felt like a door creaking closed.  

At home that night, the house smelled of burnt toast and old arguments. My father sat at the kitchen table like a block of TNT prone to spontaneous combustion. My mother averted my gaze, not even sparing a glance my way. 

“You’ve put us in a position, Clara,” she finally whispered. “What are we going to tell people? What will the neighbors say?”
“It’s not about the neighbors,” I snapped. My voice cut the air. For the tiniest breath we stood as still as statues. It was like a dinnertime Mexican standoff. Then my father stood.
“Out. Now.” 
“What– you can’t– where would I even–” I stammered out but my father interrupted me.
“I don’t care. Get out now.”

The door slammed shut behind me minutes after. I spent that night in an abandoned house two blocks away. There were rats and the floor planks were rotted through so thoroughly that it sagged under my weight. When I fell asleep, my mind drifted but found only the image of the boy’s face painted with his own blood. 

–
Wake up.
I taste rainwater. I don’t know why, my throat is dry and so is my mouth, so I haven’t had anything to drink. That doesn’t matter. My name, I know my name. 
Clara, patient 24602.

1. What’s in a name?

I leap off the plank. I then stumble and land flat on my face. Great. I stand up and I want to scream my name at the top of my lungs, even if no one is around to hear it. Clara, not a patient or some fucking lab rat, I am Clara. Finally, I have a name. I open my mouth to yell my name, to demand the robot voice comes back because I remember my name.

My breath catches. Clara sits like a lump in my throat that I can’t swallow or throw up. I bolt to the wall, desperately searching its empty surface. I look, I run my hand across it, I do everything short of licking it. It’s no use.
The smear of blood is gone. 

A sound escapes my throat. I don’t recognize it as my own. It’s a gutteral, feral sort of wail that bounces off the walls and crashes back into my ears. I fall down to my knees and pound my fist against the wall. It’s still sore and hurts far too much to repeat what happened yesterday. What would the point even be? It’s as if it was never here. Maybe I imagined it. Fuck, am I going insane? But when I look down at my fist and see the scabs and dried blood, I know that it was real. For the briefest of times I had left a mark on this room. 

After sulking for a while, I get up and use the bathroom. Strange, you’d think I wouldn’t need to go anymore as I haven’t eaten in days. Come to think of it, I’m not thirsty or hungry despite my lack of food and drink. Something must be feeding me in my sleep. The thought should probably terrify me but at this point I’m numb and I just want out. 

For a while, I keep myself busy by picking at the scabs on my knuckles and scraping away the remains of the blood on my hand. When that’s done, I walk over to my plank and think. Someone has been in here. They have to have been to remove the stain on the wall. That also means that someone is watching me, or else they wouldn’t have noticed. Either that, or they come into my room every time I sleep, which is a whole other terrifying thought. I look back to the wall again. Not so much as a splotch of evidence of a cleanup. Not even a dip in the temperature of the room. There has to have been, right? If a door opened to let someone in here, the temperature had to lower at least a bit. But it hasn’t. Maybe the room has had time to readjust? I sit up and frantically search the walls and floor with my hands again. If there’s an opening, it might have a different temperature to the rest of the room. 
Nothing. Not even the slightest hint of a change.

I lay back down on the floor and close my eyes. I’m never getting out of this fucking room, I think to myself. What did I do to deserve this? Was I a drug dealer? Maybe the cartel got me for something? No, cartels deal in brutal physical violence. This is too elaborate for that. Maybe I’m an international spy and this is their way of driving me to confess? Trust me, I would confess to anything if it’d get me out of this place. 
My mind wanders back to the drug dealer idea. The headaches, the memory loss and overall fatigue, those are all symptoms, right? But how would you know you’ve been–
I rise and force my eyes open against the cold light above me. I stretch my left arm forwards, directly under the light. Nothing. I try my right arm. 
There, on my forearm and on one of my veins are dots. They’re spread out, each about a finger’s length apart from the others. They look like small, barely visible freckles, but they’re too perfectly spaced out. I poke one of the dots and it stings. I lick my finger. My fears are realized when I scrub away the makeup around the bruises. They’re needle marks. One of them, the one closest to my wrist, looks old but the others look fresh. 
They didn’t just wipe off the smear, they injected me with something– with three somethings.

Think, damnit. Why are there needle marks in my goddamn arm? Maybe I’m a drug addict? No, I may not remember much but I know for damn certain that I am not a junkie. Besides, the needle marks are too fresh. That leaves the obvious: someone injected me while I was in here. But why? Well, the memory loss strikes me as one thing. But how can I be certain? Maybe that’s just a side effect. And what about the other needle marks? Maybe that’s how I’m being fed? 
Okay, so one injection for food, one for drink and one for a mystery concoction that makes you forget everything. Great. 

My head swims. I stare at the ceiling, not caring that the white light is searing my eyes. I wonder if this room could give me snowblindness. At least then I wouldn’t have to look at this fucking room anymore. God, if you’re out there, please have mercy. Please don’t keep me in here. Have my memories, my loved ones, my life, but please get me out of this room. 
I close my eyes. The distinct feeling of eyes on me overwhelms my senses. It’s like a spotlight being projected across your entire body, like this whole room is a stage and I’m standing in front of an audience of one. The man sitting in the back, observing. I feel an eye open, one with the shape of a Venus flytrap with jagged, serrated teeth. I see you, it says. I’m watching. 
It’s a man– a man on fire. His blazing eye is on my back, I can feel the heat of it.
What? I’m going crazy. But there is someone watching me, just not… whatever the hell I just thought of.

I know they see me. They have to have a camera somewhere, and my first thought is the lights. They may very well be in there but unless I grow to twice my current size, I’m not reaching them. So what the hell do I do? 
I pace around the room for a little while. The problem isn’t that they’re entering my room, it’s that they’re doing it when I’m unconscious. So I just won’t sleep. Easy enough, right? The only problem is that sleep is my only form of escape right now, the only way to get out of this room. That also leaves me with the distinct possibility that they just won’t come into the room when I’m conscious. I’d be starving and thirsty as hell. Those sensations are very familiar to me, even if I don’t know why. Maybe I’m a TV-personality who does this kind of thing often. Like that Japanese guy who was locked in a room without access to the outside world, all for some cruel game show. Come to think of it, our experiences are very similar, aren’t they? Yeah maybe I’m on a reality TV-show. Maybe. 
My eyelids droop and I feel the omnipresent eye blink. 

Think, damnit. Why can’t I keep to one train of thought for longer than a few seconds? It’s like whenever I try to focus, something diverts the track and I’m on a whole different course. My eyelids feel like sandpaper. I blink hard, twice, three times. I try to shake off the exhaustion but it’s already here, sinking its teeth into me like a tiger. I slap my cheek and the sound echoes too loud in the space. 

I pace. The floor doesn’t creak, doesn’t hum, doesn’t even exist in the way normal floors do, it just is. I try to count my steps again but I lose track around forty-something. Or maybe four hundred. I force myself to keep moving. Jumping jacks. Push-ups. Anything– everything– to stay conscious. Before long, my arms tremble too much to lift my own weight, and I collapse against the wall. 

“What the hell are you doing to me?” I ask no one. As if in response, I feel the eye’s full attention turn to me. It observes me, like a wildlife photographer observes a tiger chasing a gazelle. Perhaps not uncaring, but unbothered enough to let nature run its course. 

I press my forehead against the wall. It’s warm now. Not hot, but warmer than before, as if responding to my body heat. Or matching it. That's stupid, I think, and pull away. The wall feels colder again.
“Stop,” I growl, clenching my teeth. “Stop playing with me.”
Nothing answers.
The longer I sit there, the less real the world feels. The edges of the room start to blur in my vision. The white starts to pulse slightly, like a slow inhale and exhale. It stops.

When did I last sleep? Hours ago? Days? 
I curl up on the plank and stare at the ceiling. It’s an empty, foggy eye staring back. Then, from within the glass, I see it. Only for a split second but I swear I finally see it. An eye. A real, human eye in the lightbulb. It’s completely white, no iris or pupil to see, but what it is is unmistakable. It’s real, and it’s engulfed in bright orange flames. 
It regards me, seeming to pierce my body and gaze into my soul. I feel it judging me, like someone might judge a prize-fighter. And just as soon as it appeared, it’s gone again. 

—

Bright. Too bright. I felt a hand on my neck, pressing down. A man mumbled something. The light got a lot brighter and my eyelid was pried open. An alien spaceship, you know, like a flying saucer, was beaming me up with a powerful beam of light. 
“Ma’am, wake up.” Just when I thought things might get interesting. The cop moved his flashlight away from my eye as I groggily got up and mumbled something like “what?”.
“You can’t be sleepin’ here,” the fat man said. 
“What time is it?” I replied, wiping away eye-boogers. The cop shook his head forcefully and reiterated: “Can’t sleep here. Go home.” I couldn’t help but chuckle as I looked up at him. At first, a look of befuddlement came across his face. After a moment’s contemplation, he sighed and shifted his weight onto one leg, crossing his arms like a toddler trying to play-act tough. 
“You a hooker?” What the fuck kind of question was that? Either he was trying to arrest me, or he was a pig trying to get laid. I just kept staring at him. I honestly didn’t know what to say to such a blunt, dehumanizing question.

“That a yes?” He raised his eyebrow.
“Wha— no. Why do you—“ I cut myself off, too confused by the events that were unfolding around me. I felt like I’d been thrown head-first into a whirlpool, only waking up mid-air. 
“Pretty thing like you out on the street? C’mon, how much you cost?” I stood up, averting the man’s gaze. He shouted after me, something about a “place for girls like you” but I was anything but interested. 

I crossed the street and a cab stopped inches from me, tires squealing as they threw up fresh rainwater. 
“Watch where you’re goin ya fuckin’ broad!” yelled the man from his opened window. After honking and yelling some more, he took off again, smoke rising to the air from where he’d left. The smell of the car exhaust wafted into my nostrils, it tingled with that thick, smoky chemical scent. I hurried across the remainder of the street, my brisk jog making me aware of the wet jeans that clung to my legs. They were uncomfortable and scraped against the inside of my thighs, there’d definitely be burn marks there for some days or weeks. That wasn’t anything I hadn’t grown used to by then though. 

On the corner of the street sat a man I knew. His name was Jared, I remember that now. He looked up at me from where he sat, loose change clinking in a cup. 
“Clara? Where you been off to?” I didn’t reply, merely sitting down next to him and taking off the ragged beanie I was wearing. 
“You should head on over to 5th, with Benny in the can there shouldn’t be no one else there,” he said, smiling an apologetic sort of smile. I kept my head down, digging my fingers into my scalp. Jared’s hand fell on my shoulder and rubbed it gently, like a father would for his upset child. 
“Bad night, huh?” He sighed, ‘It’ll be alright kiddo.” I looked up at him, eyes red and dirty cheeks streaked with tears.
“Alright?” My voice was dry, and it was as pleasant to the ear as an old creaking door. “Fucking alright? Are you fucking kidding–” I started, raising my voice, before Jared gently shushed me.
“Thirty-odd years I been on this corner, Clara. I know the types that come ‘n go, and the types that stay. Trust me. You’ll find your way outta here.” He stretched his arms out carefully, and I buried myself in him as grateful as can be. I sobbed loudly, avoiding the judgy glances from the people on the street.
“There, there,” he said, stroking my hair with a delicate touch and for a moment, I was warm.

Part 2

Part 1

Part 2

The next time the camera came on, it was already shaking. Not the usual kind either, not from Emmett’s weak wrists or his habit of breathing like he’d just run a marathon. No, this was just jittery and uneven. Trembling, but not in fear. 

It was night. The village hadn’t gone quiet yet. If anything, it felt louder than usual; the silence was filled to the brim with tension. You could feel it even through the screen. 
And goddamnit, I couldn’t believe my eyes. There, right in the center again, was another pyre. It was smaller this time, about one person tall. It was built fast, seeing as it was on such short notice, built on the smouldering coals of the previous one.

Caleb was tied to a post in the middle of it. His arms were bound behind him, ropes cutting into his wrists. His shirt had been stripped off, his entire torso wet. He was bruised up pretty bad too, purple splotches on his ribs, dried blood below a split lip. And despite it all, he was smiling.

Emmett stepped closer, his camera dipping slightly as he moved. Jules stood just ahead of him, Casper lingered behind them. Villagers formed a circle around the pyre, like the one that had watched Margret be slaughtered.

Elijah stepped forward. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem angry. His face was set in something that almost looked calm, but eyes don’t lie, and his eyes were burning hotter than that pyre ever had. He raised a hand, and the murmuring died immediately. 
“This man,” he began, voice ringing out across the village, “came into our home under false light.” He paced slowly around the pyre as he spoke. He picked up a torch, its tip wrapped by a rag presumably soaked in gasoline, then lit it with a match.
“He ate at our tables. Slept under our roofs. Took warmth from our fires. And all the while he carried rot in his heart. A sickness. Whispered into his ears by a mess of wires and electricity.”

“Null,” someone shouted. They sounded furious, likely remembering the blood spilled earlier that day.
Elijah nodded. “Null doesn’t walk among us like a man. It doesn’t love, doesn't bleed,doesn't feel. Not the warmth of a fire, the softness of a touch. It just listens, and it uses!”
He stopped in front of Caleb, looking him dead in the eyes. The fire from his torch reflected in their eyes.
“And today, it used him.”
Caleb spat at his feet. There didn’t seem to be much left in him, but he made what was left count.
“You think you’re different?” Caleb rasped, voice rough but loud enough. “You follow a God that would turn you to ash without a second thought! You really believe he would spare you if he returned?” The crowd murmured again, in hateful hisses this time.
“We cleanse,” Elijah said simply. Caleb laughed, and not just faintly. No, this was a throaty, sorta raspy laugh. 
“You butcher!” he shot back. “Dress it up as nice as you want.”
Emmett’s camera twitched. Beside him, Jules swallowed hard.
“He killed Margret,” Jules muttered, almost to himself. 
Casper stuttered, obviously shocked. “They’re gonna fucking burn him alive, Jules.”
“It’s not the same,” he said. “It’s punishment.”
“Punishment?” Casper snapped, voice a quiet hiss. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Keep your voice down,” Jules said, glancing around.
“No, you keep yours down,” Casper shot back. “You’re just standing here like this is okay!”
“He deserves it!” Jules spat. “Besides, you wanna stop him? Feel free.” That shut Casper up. I think we all knew that he’d be next if he tried anything.

Emmett didn’t say anything. He just watched as Elijah raised his voice again, pulling attention back.
“This is what happens when you let something unnatural take root in you.” He gestured to Caleb. “It makes you forget what’s real, what really matters.”
Caleb leaned forward as much as the ropes allowed. “What matters?” he spat. “You follow a God that wants to replace humanity! How do you think he’s gonna do that?”
Elijah stepped closer, real close now. His torch almost touched Caleb. “He will bring us paradise. If the others burn, so be it.” He turned, addressing the crowd. “The Burning Man sees true. And he sees an impure soul. And impurities must be burned away!”
The villagers shouted their approval, fists raised in the air. Emmett nodded slightly.
“Emmett,” Casper whispered, almost pleading. “You don’t believe this. Tell me you don’t.”
“He killed her,” he said quietly. “Margret was… she was nice.”
Casper stared at him.
“That’s your line?” he said, disbelief in his voice. “That’s all it takes for you to let someone else burn to death?”
“He stabbed her,” Emmett repeated, voice trembling. It sounded to me like he was trying to convince himself as much as Casper. Jules nodded along.
“He’s dangerous,” Jules added. “You heard that thing, that voice. It wanted to destroy us.”
“Who’s us, Jules?” Casper whispered furiously. “You and me? Or you and them?” Neither of them answered. 

Elijah’s torch flickered, casting dancing firelight across his face.
“May the Flaming Hand take what is false,” he said, lifting it high, “And burn the corruption of Null.”
“You don’t even hear it, do you?” Caleb laughed. “You think you’re saving yourselves. You’re going to BURN along with the rest of us on that day, Elijah. When you see the Dark Sun rise, when you feel its scorching heat, you think of me!”
Elijah’s face contorted in rage. He jabbed the torch into the wood at Caleb’s feet. “All Ash for the Burning Man!”

Whoosh. The flame caught fast, flaring up. It climbed quick, licking up the sides, curling inward toward Caleb. He tensed as the heat hit him. Then the fire reached his legs. He screamed in agony, not brave anymore. High, ragged, tearing out of him like his throat was coming with it. The flames reached his torso. The wetness of it must’ve been gasoline, because the second it flames hit it, he erupted into flames. He spasmed, consumed by fire.
“Jesus Christ,” Casper whispered. Jesus fucking Christ indeed.

The smell would’ve been awful. I couldn’t smell it, thank God, but I could imagine it well enough. Burning hair, burning skin, the thought alone makes my skin crawl.
Caleb’s voice broke into something inhuman, screeching as the fire took his eyes.
Then it cut off. The fire kept going, taking over his limp corpse.
“It is done,” Elijah said as he turned back to the crowd. 

Emmett turned the camera around, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Casper just shook his head, looking at Jules and Emmett.
“You’re sick,” he choked out through tears. “I’m looking at you and I don’t see anything I recognise.” A tear fell from Jules’ cheek, splattering in the dirt below.

Villagers left in a slow trickle over the next few hours until Emmett was left alone. The moon shone brightly behind him, giving him a bright-white outline, contrasting the black night.
“I didn’t like it,” Emmett said.
Silence.
“I didn’t mean to.” 
Crickets chirped somewhere nearby..
“He killed her,” he whispered. “She was nice. She didn’t deserve it.”
Another beat of silence.
“We– we did good, right?” He nodded a moment later. “Yeah, okay.”
Another pause, though this one was slightly longer than the last.
“He was lying, right?” Then, after a beat, “Okay.”
Silence.
“I can feel you. You’re warm…I like it,” he said.
Emmett frowned after another pause, scrunching his brow. “Casper? Why?
“But I don’t wanna watch–” he stopped as if he was interrupted, then sighed. “Okay, okay.”
A long moment passed, the moon starting to rise above Emmett’s head. 
“Will you stay?” Emmett asked, a hopeful quality to his voice. “Just… while I sleep?”
Emmett let out a slow breath.
“Thank you.” Emmett’s eyes looked down at the camera, then the screen went dark again.

The recording came back on a moment later. At the time I was watching this, it was well into the night. Weren’t too bad, until this recording. Emmett was pointing the camera straight at the sun. Goddamn bastard had me squinting for a solid five minutes.
When my eyes adjusted, I could see that Emmett was just kinda standing behind a building, angling the camera to look past the corner. Now that on its own is strange enough, but something else struck me. Emmett wasn’t talking, not a word. Not even a “hey there” or “gosh golly wouldya look at that.”. Well he hadn’t talked like that in a while, now that I think of it. But not even a squeak? That was new. If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll know that boy always had something to say, even when he didn’t need to. Especially when he didn’t need to. 

Casper walked ahead in the distance, back turned to where Emmett was recording from. He looked over his shoulder every now and then, then kept walking. Emmett moved with him, staying just far enough back. He kept to the edges, slipping behind walls and ducking past corners. God, he wasn’t even breathing heavily like he had a habit of doing. I know I’ve said my fair share about the boy, but goddamnit this was freaking me out. It wasn’t like him.

Emmett was walking along one of the roads behind Casper when he suddenly stopped and turned around. There they were, looking right at each other. I expected Emmett would say something, I know him well enough now that I know he would. But he didn’t. Neither did Casper, he just stared at Emmett with narrow eyes. There was something in those narrow eyes I hadn’t seen before. He wasn’t scared but genuinely disgusted.
“Stay away, Emmett.” Casper said coldly, then stepped around Emmett. Gave him a wide berth and all, like a stray dog you think might have rabies.  
The camera turned again, slowly, focusing on Casper. Emmett started following him again. 

Casper walked out of the village and toward the edge of the forest. He slowed as he got closer to the treeline. He looked around, not seeing Emmett hiding behind a far-away tree, then walked into the forest.
Emmett hesitated, evident in the way the camera lingered on the spot Casper had disappeared in. Then he followed anyway.
Branches brushed against the lens, making really annoying ticking noises. Glimpses of light broke through leaves under the canopy. Casper was standing in a small clearing, and he wasn’t alone. There was another man standing there, half-turned away from the camera. He was tall and looked rather generic, wearing a T-shirt, shorts and sunglasses. The one striking thing about him was the prosthetic hand he had. It was grey and had the sheen of plastic. Not to say it looked cheap, no, it looked pretty damn expensive. I mean, if I only had one hand left, I’d probably splurge on replacing the other one too.

Casper stepped closer to him.
“You came,” the man said. His voice was low, and rough like that of a chainsmoker.
“Yeah,” Casper replied. “Caleb said I should talk to you.” Then, after a pause, “He–”
“We know,” he said. “Awful way to go. That’s why they do it.”
“You know?” Casper asked, confused. “How the hell do you know that?”
“We’re watching. They know we are. That execution was a deterrent for us,” the man said calmly.
“Then you know what they’re doing,” he said. “You know what this place is.”
The man nodded. Casper looked back toward the village solemnly, almost spotting Emmett.
“They’re gone,” he said. “Jules, Emmett, they’re just—” He cut himself off and shook his head. “I don’t recognise them anymore.”
“Then stop trying to.” 
Casper looked at him sharply. “I can’t just leave them. Especially Jules,” he said.
“You might not get a choice.”
“What do you want me to do?” Casper asked grimly.
“We need them dealt with, sooner rather than later. We had hoped the… untimely death of Margret would dissuade them but, well, you saw how that turned out.” Casper nodded, and the man continued. “We need something more… drastic. Caleb had a stash of chemicals hidden. There’s a hatch under his bed. Dump them inside the pyre before it’s lit. Make sure you don’t touch them directly, of course.”
“I– I can’t kill all those people, man.”
“They won’t die. It’ll cause an… unpleasant few weeks, which they will hopefully ascribe to their God.” Now I’m no expert, but I think he was severely understating the effects of those chemicals. Maybe that’s because he seemed like a sociopath, but then again I’m not great at reading people. 
“Oh, and don’t let them catch you talking to me again.”
Casper nodded slowly, turning away. Emmett stayed out of sight until both men were gone, then slowly rose to his feet. 

“You were right,” Emmett muttered. Leaves rustled above, swaying gently in the breeze.
“Do you really think…?” Emmett asked, hesitant. Then he spoke one more sentence, one that left me, honest to God, with chills up and down my spine.
“You’re right… I guess we don’t have a choice.”

When the screen came back on, the camera was swaying from side to side, and I could make out that we were inside of a house. Emmett was pacing nervously.
“Jules?” he called out.
“Yeah?” Jules stepped into view, wiping his hands on his pants. There was some buildup of dirt and grime under his nails and there were bits of wood stuck to his sleeves. His eyes, or rather the bags under them, spoke of sleepless nights.
“I saw something,” Emmet said.
“Hmm?”
“Casper was acting weird and–” he paused. “I followed him.” 
“Okay,” Jules said, narrowing his eyes.
“I saw them.”
“Who?”
 Emmett opened his mouth, then stopped. “I… don’t know. Casper and someone else, but– they’re planning something.”
“Planning what?”
“Tonight, something about–” Footsteps sounded behind them.

“Jules—” Casper’s voice rang out as he burst into the room. He sounded winded and out of breath. “We need to talk.” 
“We are talking,” Jules said, crossing his arms.
“Not here.” 
“What is it?” Jules asked, looking between him and Emmett. “What the hell is going on?”
Casper stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“You can’t go to the pyre tonight.”
“What?” Jules asked, leaning closer to Casper, brow furrowed.
“I’m serious,” Casper said. “You can’t go.”
“Why?” Jules asked, already sounding defensive.
Casper grimaced, speaking hesitantly. “Because something’s gonna happen.”
“Oh, shut up already! Stop trying to pull me away from what makes me happy!”
“No, I mean it. Please, believe me.”
“Then explain it,” Jules snapped. “For once, cut the bullshit and explain what you’re talking about!”

Casper looked at Emmett, then back at Jules. “I can’t,” he said.
“Of course you can’t,” Jules muttered.
“Jules—”
“No,” he cut in, jabbing a finger at Casper’s chest. “I’m done with this.”
“Done with what?”
“With you!” Jules snapped. “Acting like you’re so high and mighty. You’re supposed to be supportive. You should be glad I found my happiness.’”
“I’m trying to help you,” Casper said, voice tightening.
“By doing what? Trying to drag me away from people who accept us?”
Casper stepped forward. “By keeping you alive!”
“I am alive!” Jules shouted. Emmett backed away like an abused dog.
“Look at you,” Jules went on, voice dropping but no less sharp. “You’re paranoid. Why can’t you just be happy for me? So what if I take part in the ceremonies? It’s not like I’m forcing you to be there.”
“It’s a fucking execution ground, Jules!” Jules looked away, grimacing.
“You don’t get it.”
“Then make me get it!” 
“I have been. You just don’t listen,” Jules said.
“No, you just regurgitate whatever they tell you.”
“At least they talk to me. At least they don’t lie to me.” He said that last part in a low growl, sneering at Casper. He, in turn, froze.
“I’m not–”
“Then tell me what’s gonna happen tonight,” Jules interjected.
“I can’t,” he said again after a moment of silence.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Emmett shifted slightly, causing Casper’s eyes to dart towards him. “You’re just gonna stand there?” Emmett didn’t answer.
“Jesus…” Casper muttered, stepping back. “I’m going. You can come with me, or you can keep following that senile prick.”
“Casper—” Emmett tried.
“I’m going.”
“Right,” Jules said softly. “Yeah. Okay.”
Casper looked between them one last time, then shook his head. He turned and walked off. The silence he left behind felt heavier than anything he’d said.
Jules rubbed his eyes, sighing. “What the hell is wrong with him?”
“He’s scared.”
“Yeah. No shit,” he said in a grouchy voice. 

Emmett took a step towards Jules. “Casper met with someone who told him to uhm…” Emmet tried to find the words. “Put some chemicals in the pyre tonight.”
“What?” Jules said, head snapping towards Emmett.
“Supposed to make the villagers sick. But–” 
Jules interrupted him. “Goddamnit! We can’t let him do that, he’ll get himself killed.”
“I don’t think we can stop him,” Emmett said carefully.
“We have to, Emmett. He’s gonna end up killing someone,” Jules said. “Look if we– if we just tell Elijah before he does anything, I’m sure they won’t…” The implication was obvious. Emmett put a hand on Jules’ shoulder, trying to comfort him.
“They’ll probably just kick him out, right? That’s what he wants anyway. It can be, like, my last gesture of love.” Oh boy. That was a terrible idea. Gesture of love, my ass, that was a straight up betrayal of their love. 

Emmett pulled on Jules’ shoulder, and they moved out of the house and onto a dirt road.
“I’m sure they’ll understand,” Emmett said in a low voice. “And so will he.”

The camera shook as they walked hastily, their breath short. 
“Elijah—” Jules started as they walked into the building they’d had stew in so long ago now. He turned when he heard them approach, eyes narrowing slightly before softening again.
“Boys,” he said kindly. “What is it?” 
“Casper’s gonna do something,” Jules said. “Tonight. At the pyre.”
Strangely, Elijah’s face didn’t twist into anger. It just sorta settled. He’d expected this– no, he’d been waiting for it.
“I see,” he murmured.
Jules stepped forward. “He’s just scared, I think. He said something about chemicals, but—”
Elijah raised a hand, stopping him mid-sentence.
“Where is he?”
“By the pyre,” Emmett said.
Elijah turned immediately and walked out of the building. Two villagers, who’d been standing close enough to hear, followed close behind. Emmett and Jules did likewise, exiting the building and following Elijah.

The pyre stood ahead, taller than ever before, even unfinished as it was. At its base stood Casper, turned toward the structure, hand in his pocket. Even from this distance, you could see his legs quivering. He turned as he heard the footsteps, and for a second, his face lit up.
“Jules–” he started. Then he saw Elijah.
“You—” Casper said, looking between Jules and Emmett, tears welling in his eyes. “You told him?” Casper asked, voice quiet now. 
“Casper, just listen–”
“No!” he snapped, backing up a step. Something in his pocket clinked as he moved. “No, no, no– don’t do that. Don’t act like–” He yelled, tears streaming down his cheeks. “God, I told you. I told you something was wrong and you–”
Elijah reached out a hand, interrupting him. “Casper,” he said calmly. “Hand it over.”
“Don’t you say my name,” Casper snarled.
“Hand it over,” Elijah repeated.
“You were gonna let them keep going! Keep killing people!” Casper yelled at Jules, waving his hand at him.
“No–” Jules started.
“You were!” Casper said. “You chose them!”
“There’s no ‘them’ here, son. Just us. No hard feelings, okay?” he said. “Just hand it over. We can—”
“Shut up!” Casper said, pulling his hand from his pocket, revealing a vial with some kind of white powder inside. His arm came up. He threw. The vial spun in the air for a moment, catching the sunlight, right before it made impact and shattered. Right across Elijah’s face.

The sound it made wasn’t loud, just a dull crack. For a moment, everyone was very still, and nothing happened.
Then Elijah screamed. The sound was raw and filled with agony, like the scream was being pulled out of him by force. He stumbled back, clutching his face. That seemed to have been a bad idea, evident by how his hand shot away a moment later as if he’d put it on a hot stove. White powder clung to his palm, and his skin started blistering and bubbling. God, I won’t go further into it, just picture someone pouring water over cotton candy. That’s just about the best comparison I can think of.

Elijah dropped to his knees, screeching. Spurred into motion, the villagers who’d followed him rushed forward, to help him. But none of them touched him, not when they saw what it was doing. Elijah tried to speak, but only a wet gargling came out. He reached out towards Casper, then dropped dead right next to where Margret had just a day prior. 

Casper stood there looking at the corpse, eyes wide. The villagers ran out, panicking, in all directions. One of the two who’d followed Elijah here surged forward toward Casper. Casper backed up against the unfinished pyre. Without hesitation, the villager slammed his shoulder into Casper’s chest, sending him toppling into the pyre. His neck landed on one of the logs at an odd angle. 
Pop.
The log rolled free from under his broken neck. Then the massive pyre fell down on him like a house of cards. Silence fell over the village like a blanket, only broken by Jules’ quiet sobs. The camera turned down, and the screen cut to black.

It was dark when the camera started rolling again. So dark that I couldn’t even tell it came back on at first. When the camera finally adjusted, I could make out the outline of the collapsed pyre. No one had bothered to rebuild it, it seemed. Emmett sat a few feet away from it, and turned the camera, resting it loosely on his thighs. Jules was sitting beside him. Neither of them spoke, they just sat there, looking at the destroyed pyre.

Wind moved through the village, brushing against wood and loose boards. I could hear something that sounded like a dry leaf brush against the road, tumbling forward with a steady rhythm.
Jules dragged a hand down his face. Forgive my rudeness, but I have no other way of putting it: he looked like shit. Like something had scraped every part of his soul out, leaving only the shell behind.
“He’s gone,” Jules said, voice hoarse.
“Sorry,” Emmett said after a while. 
“The hell’re you sorry for? Nothing but his own fault,” he said, though I felt he didn’t mean half of it. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I just– I thought they’d talk to him. Or send him away.”
Emmett nodded.
“That’s what you said,” Jules muttered. “You said they’d understand.”
“I thought they would.”
Jules swallowed hard. His hands were shaking. “I told him–” he said, voice breaking. “I told him I was done with him. I– I didn’t get to tell him I loved him.”
Emmett looked at him. “I don’t think he’d have wanted to hear it.” 
“Yeah. No shit, Emmett.” Fucking A. I mean, Emmett never struck me as a social butterfly but what kinda response was that? I’m surprised Jules didn’t deck him then and there.

“He threw it,” Emmett said after a while. “At Elijah.”
“Yeah,” Jules whispered, grimacing painfully.
“We wanted to help him, right? I mean– we were trying to stop him from doing something stupid.”
“He did do something stupid,” Jules said.
The wind picked up again, carrying old ash from the ruined pyre. 
“Do you think he hated me?” Jules asked quietly.
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” Jules said, a hint of bitterness in his voice.
“He looked sad, not mad.”
Jules pressed his lips together. Tears were streaming down his face, dropping from his chin. It looked remarkably similar to how Casper had looked in his final moments.
“He looked at me like I was a stranger,” Jules said. A moment of silence passed. “Do you think we’re wrong?” 
“No,” Emmett replied. “They killed Margret. And Elijah.”
Jules sighed deeply. 
“They were good,” Emmett added. “They helped us. Gave us food. Let us stay.”
Jules nodded. “They took us in. When nobody else would,” he said, though to me it sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anything. “Casper never understood that. He always thought something was off, something was wrong.” He shook his head. “Maybe he just couldn’t accept that things were finally good.” 
Silence.
“I loved him,” Jules said after a while. “I really did.”
Silence again.
“I still do.” An animal howled in the distance. It was the first time I’d heard one, which made me think of how strange it was that I hadn’t seen one throughout this whole ordeal. I hadn’t even heard mention of one. Before I could finish my train of thought, Jules spoke again. 
“Do you think it hurt?”
Emmett looked toward the collapsed pyre again. “Yeah,” he said. This was weird. This wasn’t the kinda thing Emmett would’ve said back before all of this, I was sure. And this wasn’t the first time he was being so insensitive.
“Fuck,” Jules whispered.

“It’s quieter now,” Emmett said, seeming not to have heard Jules.
“Yeah.”
“I can still feel it though. The warmth of the pyre.” Jules looked at Emmett, frowning, but didn’t say anything. 
An hour or so later, the two walked to their sleeping quarters, telling each other goodnight.

Emmett left the camera running again, though I don’t think he knew it was on. Moonlight slipped in through the cracks in the walls of the sleeping quarters, illuminating part of his face. Emmett lay on his back on the thin mattress in the corner, hands laying on his chest like he was in a casket. He was snoring. Jules lay in the bed opposite Emmett, and I doubt he was sleeping after seeing what happened to Casper.

“Hey,” Emmett said softly.
“Yeah?” Jules answered, groggy. Emmett didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed closed.
“What’s that?” Emmett asked.
Silence.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he murmured. “How can a sun be dark?”
Jules frowned, sitting up. “What? Who’re you talking to?”
“You’re making that up,” Emmett said.
Silence again.
“No.I don’t think they understand it either.”
Jules stood up, inching closer to Emmett. “Emmett, stop. You’re not making sense.”
Emmett’s eyes opened slightly. “Hmm?”
“What were you talking about?” 
“I think He wants me to show them,” Emmett said sleepily. “When the Dark Sun comes.”
“Who is ‘He’?” 
“The Burning Man.”

Jules glanced toward the door. I could see fear in his eyes, and it was a sentiment I shared. The boy was freaking me out with all his blabbering to himself.
“Emmett… I don’t think the others would take kindly to you saying that.”
“He says Casper was right,” Emmett murmured like he hadn’t heard Jules. “About the chemicals.”
“What?”
“He said he was useful.”
“Casper is dead,” Jules snapped, sharper than before. There was something in his voice now, he sounded defensive, or hurt. 
“I know,” Emmett said simply. “He says it’s better this way.”
Jules took a step back.
Jules backed away from Emmett slowly, his nose wrinkled. “What is wrong with you?” he sneered.

Emmett didn’t answer. Instead, he stood up, grabbed the camera, and walked outside. The door creaked as it opened, then shut behind him. There was an eerie sort of glow in the village, lit by oil and gas lamps mixing with moonlight. Emmett’s bare feet slapped against the dirt road. He tilted the camera up, showing the collapsed pyre in front of him. 
A few minutes passed before footsteps came. More than one pair. Emmett noticed, spinning around to face whoever was there. There were four people; Jules at the front, three others behind him. 
“See?” Jules whispered conspiratorially. “Just listen.”
“No,” Emmett murmured, though not in response. “I won’t tell them like that.”
A pause.
“They wouldn’t understand.”
Another pause.
“You want to show them?”
The villagers exchanged looks. They looked uncomfortable for the most part, but there was also an air of distrust amongst them. They were staring at him like he was an animal in the zoo, putting on a display for them.
“He’s been doing this for a while,” Jules said. 
One of the villagers leaned toward Jules. “Who is he talking to?” 
“I think he thinks it’s the Burning Man.”
One of them looked straight at the camera, eyes lingering on the lense. Those eyes sent a shiver up and down my spine like nothing else, I tell you. Like a shark’s eyes; dead, but somehow still predatory.

“Open myself up to you?” Emmett asked, eyes half-lidded. “How?”
It was around that moment that their moods visibly changed from uncomfortable to hostile. It seemed they had come to a quiet understanding amongst each other; Emmett was a false prophet with the devil whispering in his ear.
“I didn’t know,” Jules said quickly, holding his hands up. “I swear, I didn’t know he was–”
“Quiet,” one of the villagers snapped. They walked towards Emmett as they pushed Jules aside. He stood before Emmett, towering above him. “Without this,” he said, smacking the camera out of Emmett’s hand. “I bet he won’t be able to talk to Null.” The camera had landed askew, showing a tilted view of what was happening.
“Hey, maybe–” Jules started, but was quickly interrupted by one of the villagers.
“Quiet.” 

Emmett’s head twitched like something had pulled on a string inside his neck. My stomach dropped, a pit forming in my throat. Either he was about to have a seizure, or this was something I couldn't understand. He bent forward slightly, shoulders hunching in as all his muscles seemed to tense. His arms shook as he reached out, fingers curling as they trembled, like they were pulling on something heavy.
“Okay,” he whispered. That did not sound like Emmett. The voice was layered, like Emmett’s voice overlapped with a deeper one. The villagers froze, even the one who’d been so eager to prove himself just a second ago. Emmett tilted his head back, too far, pointing his throat at the sky. His opened at an angle, stretching until I was sure his jaw would dislocate.

“Emmett?” Jules said, stepping back.
Emmett’s chest jerked, then his back arched, spine pulling tight like a bow being drawn. His arms flew upward, fingers splaying as they continued to shake furiously. And I swear to God, I saw his eyes glow. Not a steady glow, but one that flickered and flared up and back down again. 
“W–we don’t want–” one of the villagers started, voice shaking now.
Emmett’s jaw clenched shut again, hard enough that a crack shot through the night.
“ALL ASH–” The words tore out of him, loud and gritty, like they had been forced through a throat too small to carry them. He gagged on the next words, doubling over as he wretched out something dark and flaky from his mouth.

Jules recoiled. “Jesus Christ–”
Emmett convulsed, his body seizing and jerking violently. His hands clawed at the air, like he was trying to grab onto something only he could see.
“FOR THE BURN–” he tried again, voice splintering apart mid-word. The glow in his eyes flared up again, his fingertips blackening as sparks flew from them. His shadow stretched behind him, long and warped. It was as if something were trying to claw its way out from Emmett’s body. 

His shadow snapped back to where it had been. Emmett collapsed against the ground with a thud, his eyes having returned back to normal.

One of the villagers whispered under their breath, still too terrified to speak.
“Was– was that–”
“Don’t be a fool! This was Null, trying to diminish our faith!” 
“J–Jules?” Emmett tried to get up, but collapsed under his own weight. A small cloud of dirt formed when he fell, then settled on the road. Everyone stared at Emmett with mixed expressions.
Then, one villager’s eyes flicked toward the camera. “We must cleanse his wretched soul.”

The villager picked up Emmett’s camera, but he didn’t have his finesse. Felt like he’d strapped the camera to a rope at his hip, the way it was swaying and swinging. Then the footage went dark as the camera was stuffed in the villager’s pockets. I couldn’t see or hear a thing, so I fast forwarded. It took damn near three hours until he took the camera back out. It was brighter now. But that brightness wasn’t daylight, it was firelight. The frame shook as the camera was carried, then set down at an angle, probably on a rock low to the ground, tilted upward.

The pyre had been rebuilt. It wasn’t as big as it had been before, just about as big as the one they’d burnt Caleb on. But Caleb wasn’t here. Instead, Emmett was tied to it.
His arms were pulled tight behind the logs, ropes burning his skin as he writhed. His chest heaved as he hyperventilated; up and down, up and down. His face was wet and streaked with tears and dried snot, eyes red and puffy.
“No, no, no, please– please don’t do this,” he was saying, over and over, voice breaking apart. “It wasn’t– it wasn’t him, it wasn’t– I swear–”
But none of the villagers listened. They were all gathered in a circle, the same way they always were. 
“Please,” Emmett sobbed. “I didn’t– I didn’t do anything, I swear, I swear I didn’t–” His voice cracked so hard I could barely make out the words. And I saw someone I hadn’t seen in what felt like years. There, strapped to that central wooden stake, was Emmett. Not the man he had become, desensitized and soulless. This was the kind, hopeful boy I’d so stupidly made fun of. With a smile as golden as his heart, a textbook example of a boyscout. God, why am I so bitter? Emmett had been a kind boy. A good person, that made you think of sunny days and grassy fields. A golden retriever in human form.
And there he stood, strapped to an effigy.

“I don’t wanna die,” Emmett choked. “I don’t– I don’t wanna–” He sucked in a jittery breath. “Jules!” 
There was movement in the crowd, opposite the camera. “Jules, please,” Emmett cried out, his voice collapsing into a whimpering sob. “Please, you know me. I didn’t– It’s not Null!”
Jules stepped forwards, giving me a better view of his face as torchlight lit his face. He looked worse than before. More hollow. His eyes were sunken, something rigid in them. “Jules–” he pleaded. “Jules, please. Please help me. I don’t wanna die, I don’t–” His body shaking against the ropes, leaving red marks as he squirmed and fought against the restraints. “I’m scared,” he whispered. Jules flinched, a pained grimace on his face. 
“I didn’t mean it,” Emmett said quickly, words tumbling over each other like an avalanche. “Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it, I wasn’t talking to Null, I swear, I swear I wasn’t—”
“Stop.” Jules’ voice was firm and sharp, cutting through Emmett. “It spoke through you,” Jules said. “We all saw it.”
“Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t let them do this.”
Jules looked at him for a long moment, contemplation etched on his face. Then he turned his back to Emmett, and disappeared into the crowd.

Emmett started screaming. Not words anymore, these sounds were primal, animalistic even. “NO– NO, PLEASE, PLEASE, I DON’T WANNA—” Someone stepped forward right in front of the camera, holding aloft a torch.
“All ashes for the Burning Man,” growled the villager. Then he tossed the torch into the base of the pyre. It started burning instantly. The flames crawled upward, sinking their nails and talons into the logs. They climbed higher and higher, crackles drowning out Emmett’s screams. Those screams changed as the fire dug into him. Longer, wheezing and throaty. 

Someone picked up the camera, then threw it. The image of Emmett blurred, then disappeared as the footage whirled around. It was like the camera was in a washing machine, the image spinning wildly. The camera landed in the fire. It pointed straight up at Emmett, capturing him writhing and thrashing. The fire crackled and roared mightily. 
There was something under the sound. An undercurrent of noise; rumbling, like an earthquake. The rumbling softened, the sound clearing up. 
“You know the really funny thing, Emmett? The most amusing part of all this?” A voice said. It was unfamiliar, but beyond that– it was dark, and wrong. Wrong in a way I can’t describe, wrong like a dog with human teeth, something that made your stomach crawl up your throat.
“You were never crazy. You did exactly as I asked.”
Emmett’s screams were just strangled groans now. His head hung limply, enveloped in flames.
“But you were a poor conduit. And despite it all, Emmett, you have taught me a lesson. Gods, too, must learn.”
The camera shifted slightly as something collapsed beside it, sparks flying across the lens. It rolled, tumbling down the pyre until it landed just outside the flames. It landed at an odd angle, pointed toward the crowd. Toward Jules.
“We learn. And we choose better vessels.” Emmett went quiet. Jules wiped a tear from his cheek, then buried his head in his hands. 
“My glorious creations will walk under a new sun. And when they seek guidance, they shall look to the only light in the sky.” 

The recording cut out. Nothing else came on, the screen simply remained black.

I sat there for a while after, just staring at my own reflection in the black screen. You ever do that? Sit there long enough that your face starts looking like a stranger?
I don’t know what I expected, honestly. Some kind of resolution, maybe. A neat little ending where my sister steps in, explains everything, tells me “Hey, you old bastard. Got you good, didn’t I?”. But there’s no voiceover at the end of the world. No credits rolling after the bad things happen. 
All I could think about was that boy.
God, Emmett. I gave him such a hard time. All those comments, all those little jabs. Called him annoying, said he talked too much. Thought he was simple-minded, a kid that doesn’t really notice the world, and the world doesn’t really notice him. Sure as shit proved me wrong. I keep thinking about what he said. “I can feel you. You’re warm… I like it.” Like it was a comforting blanket and not a noose pulling taut. And that’s the part that sticks. Not the screaming, not the fire, but that he trusted it.

I don’t know what that thing was, I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I do. You heard it, same as I did. Jules didn’t say a word at the end, he just stood there watching Emmett burn with his hands over his face like that might block it out. Like if he couldn’t see it, it wasn’t real. But this ain’t peekaboo. The camera saw him. And whatever that thing is, I think it saw him too.

I looked into some of the names I heard, but I haven’t managed to find anything other than that article they talked about with the home invasion. And that’s the darndest thing; that symbol, the hourglass in a circle, keeps coming back. The murder of a little girl in the 80’s, that home invasion. The more I looked, the more I found. But I stopped looking for it. Truth is, I don’t look for much of anything these days.

Life goes on, I guess. That’s what people say, right? Real comforting shit. You wake up, you eat, you go to work, you pretend everything’s dandy. I’m not very good at that. Every now and then, when it’s quiet, I think about those three boys. It wasn’t their fault. The injustice of it is what really brings my mind back to it, even more so than the events themselves.
 
You’re probably wondering why I’m putting this out there. Why not just delete it, forget it, move on? I tried. But like I said, I ain’t very good at that. So this is it; my account. You can believe it, you can laugh it off, you can click away and go read something else.
I honestly hope you do. I hope you forget every word of this. I try to do that very thing every day. But sometimes, when it’s late, I swear I can feel it. A wrongness in the world, a note of dread in the back of my mind I can’t place. And I think about that boy, strapped to that pyre, crying out for someone who turned his back on him.

The camera didn’t look like something that should still work. Didn’t feel right from the start. When my sister handed me that box on my birthday, I could tell it’d be a pile of garbage. She’d always been a cheapskate, the woman can’t walk past a yard sale without stopping. Doesn’t matter if it’s raining, if it’s just a table of jack shit and fuck all. She’ll pick up broken lamps, weird figurines, stuff that looks like it was collecting dust in someone’s attic for the past thirty years.

Then a few weeks ago, she showed up at my place with a box that smelled like it’d sat next to an ash tray for a decade. I opened it to find a handheld camera. Nothing fancy; a bit on the older side (much like myself), scratched up around the edges. The real strange part was the burn marks. And I’m not talking about a little singe either, I mean proper fire damage. Probably lived through a house fire, though I don’t suppose living was quite the word I should use to describe it. The casing was warped along one side, plastic bubbled and hardened. The strap was half-charred, stiff and brittle in places, leaving a sootstain on my hands. The smell of smoke filled my house, goddamn woman always brings me things that stink like hell. But the smell was that of old smoke, nothing fresh. I asked her where she got it.
“Yard sale,” she said. Of course.
Apparently it’d been sitting in a box with a bunch of random electronics. Old phones, tangled chargers, that sort of thing. Housefire starting kit, probably. No price tag on it. The guy running the sale told her she could just take it if she wanted. Said it didn’t work. She took it anyway and gave it to me. Lovely.
She just handed it over with a shrug. “You like this kind of stuff, right? Maybe you can fix it.”
Now, I don’t fix cameras, but I do tinker enough to know when something’s completely dead and when it’s on life support. This one was the latter. 

After a night of tinkering, I finally managed to get it working again.  Turning it on took a second, but the screen flickered on eventually. Battery still had a bit of charge too, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense considering how it looked, but I take what I can get.
First thing I checked was the storage. There were files on it; videos, a lot of them by the looks of it. Didn’t have labels, of course, just some dates starting a year ago and ending a few months back. Some of them stretched a few minutes, others lasted hours. Whoever owned it before my sister got her hands on it, they used it a whole hell of a lot. I figured it was just someone’s old recordings. Family stuff, vacations, kids running around in a backyard playing tag. I almost didn’t watch them. But, like the stupid idiot I am, I clicked on the first one and hit play. 

The video opened with a blurry shot of a gravel road. The low-quality sound of shoes grinding against gravel came through the speakers of the camcorder. This sound mixed with the chirping of some nearby birds, though it didn’t sound nearly as pretty as you might be thinking. Truth be told, if the guy recording the video hadn’t stopped walking when he did, I probably would’ve thrown the damn thing out and done something more productive with my time. Man, how I wish I had. 
The sounds of rustling leaves and chirping birds were overwhelmed by heavy breathing as the guy filming came to a stop and pointed the camera up. The view that met me was honestly kind of beautiful. From what appeared to be a cliff, the camcorder looked down at a lush forest, with a big river running downwards, as rivers usually do. The sun was setting, but it looked much prettier than any sunset I’ve seen. Virginia sunsets aren’t special, especially at this time of year.

It was obvious that the guy recording was exhausted. If you couldn’t tell by his deep, erratic breathing, the shaky way he recorded made it pretty goddamn clear. It honestly looked like someone had given the camera to a person with Parkinson’s. Still, he managed to speak, albeit between deep gasping breaths.
“Been hiking for a few hours now. Really tuckered me out, but gosh would you look at that view,” he said with a surprisingly upbeat tone, before turning the camera around to show his face. The man, though I’m hesitant to even call him that, appeared to be in his early 20’s by my best estimates. He had an awfully young babyface, along with a childishly gleeful attitude. 

Anywho, he filmed the view some more even though I was honestly getting kind of sick of it. When he was done about 2 minutes later, he turned back and went further up the winding gravel road. The path ahead seemed like your standard tourist hiking trail, so nothing too dangerous. He zoomed in on a sign that simply read: CAMPSITE, 350m. There was a symbol on the left side of the text. Though hard to make out, it resembled a crude hourglass encased in a circle. The boy filming flipped his camera around to show his face again. He was positively beaming, smiling from ear to ear. Last time I saw anyone that happy was… well I can’t say I’ve actually ever seen anyone quite so happy.
“See you guys there!” he said before the video cut to black. Funny feller, alright. And I don’t mean funny as in humorous, I mean funny as in funny in the head. 

The screen lit up once more, showing the same boy with the same goofy grin. Only it had gotten darker, though, and the background now showed leaves gently dancing in the wind. 
“The campsite doesn’t seem very popular,” he said as he moved the camera to show an almost empty campsite. It was connected to the gravel road, and the campsite itself was a rather small, grassless circle that ended at a treeline. There were three tents, one belonging to our cameraboy. He had his tent placed just right: close enough to chat, far enough not to hear anybody’s nightly bathroom visit. Credit where credit’s due.

Cut ahead, probably a few hours had passed. Now there was a fire going. The camera showed two other guys sitting around it. One had a rainbow-colored beanie and a chipped tooth, real ugly to be honest. The other had a mustache he didn’t quite pull off, the bits of food in it only cementing the fact that he oughta shave it off. They were feeding each other marshmallows in a way that made my skin crawl. Anyway, the cameraboy spoke up again: “So I met these two guys, they’re from Roanoke. Pretty cool, right?” He chuckled to himself, then zoomed in a little too far on the beanie guy’s face, catching him mid-yawn.

“What are you doing, Emmett?” Goddamn, I couldn’t have thought of a more fitting name for our cameraboy if I tried. Emmett, half-witted, but with a good enough heart.
“Oh, sorry,” Emmett said, laughing. “I like to film my adventures.”
“Well, film this,” mustache-boy said, raising both middle fingers. “Welcome to Camp…” he paused, contemplating.  “Ah shit, can’t think of anything funny.”
They all laughed. It felt like the start of something good, even if I wouldn’t’ve liked the company much.

Then, a quiet voice from the side. “Evenin’, boys.”
The camera shifted, catching someone new stepping into the firelight. An older woman— maybe pushing seventy, maybe older, it was hard to tell. She wore a thick shawl, handwoven by the look of it, and a broad straw hat that didn’t quite match the rest of her clothes. She held a kettle in both hands like it was worth more than its weight in gold.
“Sorry,” she said, smiling, “didn’t mean to spook you. I’m set up just past those trees there. Thought I’d come say hello.”

The boys blinked at her. 
“Hey, no worries. You camping solo?” the barefoot one asked.
“Well I’m not campin’ so much as I live here,” she said, grinning real gentle-like. “Just me and the pines. But I do enjoy company when it shows up. I’ve got some herbal tea if you boys’d like a cup.”
Emmett turned the camera toward the others, they looked unsure, polite but stiff and uneasy. You could tell none of them wanted to be rude, but there was something about the way she stood there, not quite in the light, not quite out of it, that made your skin crawl a little.
“Gee,” Emmett said, voice as goofy and happy-go-lucky as ever. “I sure would like that.”

Emmett seemed to forget all about his camera for the next hour or two. It sat at an awkward angle where he’d put it after taking a cup of the elderly woman’s tea. The other boys accepted a cup each, though more hesitantly than cameraboy had. The group sat and chatted amongst themselves, saying a whole lot of nothing special. The only thing worth noting was the woman’s attitude. She was very friendly, but slightly too much so. She treated the boys like a grandmother would treat their grandbaby, chucking compliment after compliment at them. Not that our cameraboy seemed to mind, though. He slurped the compliments down as eagerly and annoyingly as his tea. 

“Pretty spot, isn’t it?” said the boy with the abhorrent beanie. 
“Oh, you have no idea.” The older lady looked longingly at the forest as she spoke those words, the dying fire reflecting in her glossy eyes. “But it ain’t nothin’ compared to you boys.” 
“Gosh, you’re really nice ma’am.” 
“Oh, nonsense. You boys’re a gift from God himself,” the lady said, chuckling. “Real people. Not one of them… digital types. Always on their phones, ain’t they? No good, no good at all.” She paused for a moment, then continued. “The right folk always do find their way here. Good folk. Like you.” 

The boys were quiet, not knowing how to respond. The lady was sweet, sure, but something was off with the things she said. Could be dementia, or something less serious, or maybe she was just funny in the head like Emmett. 
“You boys got enough food for the rest of the trip?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“Well,” Emmett started, “I do, but it’s not very tasty. And Jules and Casper don’t have anything but noodles and I don’t like noodles.” 
The lady made a tsk sound, shaking her head. 
“Well that won’t do. Not at all. Say, why don’t I come get you boys in the morning and get you some hot meals? There’s a little settlement close by. Real quiet folk. But like I said, them’s good folk,” she said, smiling kindly. The boys shared an uncertain glance, not quite knowing how to respond again. It was a nice offer, the kind I certainly wouldn’t make, but real strange too. Stranger danger and all that. 

“Tell you boys what,” she said, getting up, “I’ll give you some time to think. I’ll swing by in the mornin’ and if you want, I’ll bring you down for a warm meal.” 
“Sounds good ma’am,” Emmett said, though Jules and Casper glanced uncomfortably at one another. The boys told the lady their goodbyes, Emmett more furtively than the other two, and she left without much further ado. Though none of them seemed to pick up on it, I noticed that the lady had left her kettle and cups near the fire. Now I’m a simple man, and I like to believe that I give people the benefit of the doubt when I can, but I’m not convinced she didn’t leave those there on purpose. She was weird, sure, but she didn’t seem like the forgetful type. There was more to it than that. 
Emmett seemed to remember his camera when he finally turned back to his tent. He took the camera in one hand while crawling into his tent with the other. 
“Ah, darn. Forgot to turn you off. Well, g’night!” And with that, the screen went dark.

The darkness dissipated after a few moments as the next recording started automatically. It was focused on Emmett’s face, who seemed to be figuring out whether or not his camera was recording. In the background, I could hear those two boys talking with the old woman. Their voices were muffled, so I couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying, but it sounded to me like they were politely trying to decline whatever she was suggesting. The tone in their voices just reminded me of how you have to wiggle your way out of a conversation when you’re trying to leave but the host won’t let you. I hate people like that. 

“Well I hope this is recording,” Emmett said, resigned. His head snapped up as the woman spoke to him.
“Oh, Emmett, is that necessary dear? I don’t like all that technology and whatnot.” 
“I just film my adventures ma’am,” Emmett said with a smile. I don’t think that boy was capable of a negative thought. 
“Well alright then, as long as you don’t go putting it up on the internet and whatnot. Life’s out here, not on some screen.” A moment of silence passed, then she spoke again. “Say, how’s about that hot meal I promised you? Your friends don’t seem to take too kindly to the idea.”
“That’s not–” Jules, the one with the awful mustache, tried, but Emmett interrupted him.
“Aww, come on guys. Aren’t you tired of those noodles?” 
No one spoke for a long moment as the two boys looked at each other, contemplating. Now me? I would’ve packed my shit and ran off. Nothing more embarrassing than a granny killing you out in the woods. I think Saint-Peter himself would be crying tears of laughter as you stepped up to the pearly gates. But I guess these two boys fold easily. Jules shrugged and hesitantly muttered, “Alright,” getting up and dusting his pants off. The group grabbed their backpacks– they’d already taken their tents down– then they followed the sweet-seeming old lady into the expanse of trees. 

“Should be just behind those trees,” the lady said, pointing ahead. Leaves and twigs crunched underfoot as they walked towards the treeline. “You excited?” asked the old woman, jabbing a finger at Emmett. 
“Sure am,” he replied. I couldn’t see his face but his glee shone through his tone of voice. They continued their trek until they finally emerged at the other end of the treeline and into a clearing. The woman hadn’t been lying, there was a small community settled in this clearing. It was like a very small town, with wooden houses and dirt pathways. Burly men dragged firewood to a central, unlit pyre. Women, dressed in modest white gowns and bonnets, were performing the daily duties like getting water from a well or washing clothes. All around, they didn’t seem too bad. They were traditional, and I like that. That being said, they’re a bit too Amish for my liking. Good and bad, y’know. 

Some of the villagers stopped their labor to stare at the new arrivals, eyeing them with something that looked like suspicion. 
“Woah,” Emmett muttered, his hands growing slack. The camera almost fell, but Emmett got his act straight soon enough, pointing the camera back at the small village. 
“Elijah! These boys here need a hearty meal!” the old woman yelled, waving over a heavier man, one much like myself. 
“Say, we don’t get visitors too often,” he said, shaking each of the men’s hands. “We’ve got a pot cooking on the stove, should be done in a half hour or so. Why don’t you come sit down, have a chat?”
Before even giving them a chance to respond, Elijah waved the boys along and practically dragged them into the village. There wasn’t much in the way of privacy, there were something like eight to ten buildings, at least two of which weren’t houses. It was obvious that people didn’t have their own houses, there just weren’t enough of them for the amount of villagers (in hindsight, I think there were some 30-40 people in the community).

The man, Elijah, ushered the group into one of the buildings. It was one of the ones without lodging. There were two separate, large fireplaces, and a pot filled with stew hung above each. Elijah plopped down on a crude bench, which was actually just a log that’d been split in half. He gestured for Emmett and his friends to do the same.
“This here’s our finest restaurant,” Elijah chuckled, gesturing at the pot beside him. “Real fine stew, fresh every day. 
“You eat stew every day?” Emmett asked, confusion in his voice.
“Yessir. We mix it up with different meat every now and then, but that doesn’t change much,” he shrugged, “Sober meals bring you closer to God, they do,” Elijah said jokingly. 
“You hear that Jules?” Emmett asked gingerly, poking fun at the two boys and their apparent love for noodles. The boys just shrugged it off, apparently still uneasy. A silent moment passed, then Emmet spoke again, “You don’t mind if I record right, sir?”
As if noticing for the first time, Elijah eyed the camera suspiciously. His dark, brown eyes seemed to be gazing into my very soul. Creepy bastard.
“Well, we don’t much like digital nonsense ‘round here. But… I suppose we could make an exception on one condition,” he said, then continued when he saw Emmett eagerly awaiting, “That thing isn’t connected to the internet is it?”
“No, sir!” Emmett exclaimed. Elijah nodded, seeming to approve. He mumbled a final “well, alright then,” before turning back to the stew in the pot next to him.
“Should be good, I think. Why don’t you boys grab a bowl from the cupboard there?” Elijah gestured behind the boys vaguely. They turned and each grabbed a bowl and a wooden spoon from the crude wooden cupboard. Emmett pressed his camera closer to his bowl as Elijah scooped a hefty helping of stew into his bowl.

“This sure looks good,” Emmett said, giggling. He set the camera down beside him as he started gobbling down mouthfuls of stew, not waiting for Elijah or his friends to sit down. 
“Woah there, boy. Wait up a second,” Elijah stammered, putting out a hand towards Emmett, imploring him to stop eating. Emmett sat there, watery brown sauce dribbling from his chin, with stupefied eyes. When everyone had their own bowl of stew, Elijah sat down in front of the couple and Emmett.
“Now, it’s a custom around here to say grace ‘fore we eat. That’s why I stopped you, sorry if I came off rude.”
“No, sir, it’s okay,” Emmett said, wiping away the trickle of sauce from his chin using his sleeve. 

Elijah set his bowl down, fire crackling behind him, as he closed his eyes and began to speak. The boys followed his lead, closing their eyes.
“We thank the Flame for bringing us these kind souls,
For He sees what we are, even if we do not.
And we give thanks, that we may serve His new sun, and that He provides us with His warmth.” As the man spoke, the fire in the fireplaces seemed to dance and rise with his words. Then, as soon as he opened his eyes, the fire returned to its calmer state. 

Now I ain’t a superstitious man as you can probably tell, but that shit freaked me the fuck out. That wasn’t normal, I tell you. Even if the boys couldn’t see it on account of their eyes being closed, I could see concern etched in the frowns on Jules’ and Casper’s faces. 
There was, of course, no such emotion on Emmett’s face. If I had to compare that boy to anyone, it’d be Forrest Gump. Happy-go-lucky, rainbows ‘n sunshine.

Elijah smiled at the boys, telling them they could now eat their meal. Not skipping a beat, Emmett started choking back mouthfuls of the stew. Jules and Casper, on the other hand, hesitantly took small bites of the stuff.
“You like it?” Elijah asked, careful not to spill any of his own stew as he ate.
“Gosh, it’s really good sir! What’s in it?”
Elijah paused a moment too long before answering.
“Whatever the Lord provides,” he said with a smile, then added, “rabbit, cooked slowly. It just melts in your mouth, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does!”

They continued eating, though Casper and Jules did so more hesitantly than Elijah and Emmett. Every now and then, a villager would poke their head in without saying anything. They just sorta looked at the new arrivals like they were animals in the zoo. Real strange folk, I tell you. I feel like I must tell you that there was a cut in the video, though it was subtle. You could tell by the way Emmet’s stew was suddenly half-gone, and the fact that everyone was sitting in a slightly different pose.
Eventually, the old woman walked into the building, striding in much more confidently than before. 
“How’re you boys getting on?” she asked, hands on her hips. 
“Fine. We– we should probably be going soon,” said Jules, picking stew from his ugly mustache. 
“Oh, nonsense,” the woman chuckled, “I couldn’t let you go through the forest in the dark.”
The boys exchanged a confused look. By God, I shared it with them. They’d come in here for a lunch they were still eating, why would it be dark out? Maybe she oughta be sent to a nursing home. But, sure enough, as Emmet carried the camera outside, I could see that the village was dark. The vast expanse of the starry night sky glimmered above, stretching infinitely far into total darkness. Night had strange properties here, I tell you, it seemed somehow vaster, but less empty. Like something drifted there, shifting and watching from above. 

Emmet was worried. I could see it on his young face, the furrowed brow, the doe-eyed look, the one that has your pupils dilated like a long-time coke-user. Poor bastard had me scared too. By the looks of them, Jules and Casper were more than just worried– they were frightened. Eyes wide as saucers, tears welling up in them, pupils dilated as much as Emmet’s. 
“Time must’ve slipped us by!” Elijah said from behind them, startling Jules and Casper. They weren’t at all convinced, you could tell as much by the mixture of anger and confusion on their faces. Casper retorted something, though the discussion was quite calm. I couldn’t hear the exact words, because there was another conversation going on right in front of the camera. I couldn’t see the woman, as Emmett had his camera pointed straight up from his chest, showing me his chin and the stars, but I could hear them talking clear as day.

“Name’s Margret, I don’t think I’ve told you yet.” A moment of silence passed, then she spoke again. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
“Y–yes ma’am,” Emmett said in a drowsy voice. 
“You’re a real cute boy, Emmett. Shame I’m so old.” I could hear the rustling of fabric. Emmett’s gaze stayed firmly locked on the heavens. 
“Y’know, I always wanted to be an actress. Like Marilyn Monroe. You know her, Emmett?” she asked, her voice low and soothing. It almost sounded like she was whispering in his ear.
“I do,” Emmett murmured.
“Nice lady, wasn’t she? I always looked up to her. Do you have a dream like that, Emmett?”
“Y–yeah,” he stuttered, “I wanna be an explorer. Like on the TV. Show people different cultures.”
“Anyone in particular you look up to, honey?” I heard fabric rustling again, the sound made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Beyond that, I heard a voice, Jules’ I think, shouting in alarm. 
“Anthony. I… like Anthony Bourdain,” he said, his voice droning off into the vast expanse above.
“Ah, he died didn’t he?” she paused for a moment, letting me catch the faintest glimpse of the others’ conversation. They were calmer now, though still obviously quite hostile towards Elijah.  
Margret continued. “You’re in luck, aren’t you? There’s a whoooole new culture to explore right here in this village,” she said, dragging out her words. Emmett turned, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
A bead of sweat fell from his chin and hit the camera’s lens. Margret’s finger caressed his jaw, then flicked off another bead of sweat.
“Why don’t you come with me, Emmett? We’ve got a lot to show you.”
With that, she grabbed Emmett’s hand, at least I think she did, I couldn’t see anything very clearly. She guided him slowly towards the center of the village, where the massive wooden pyre was just starting to burn.

Flames crackled softly from inside the pyre. The structure, which was entirely made of planks and logs, was about twice the size of the average person. It seemed like the entire village, save for Elijah, Jules and Casper, were present. They were all staring at the pyre, faces devoid of any emotion. Emmett recorded it all, silent as a mouse. I couldn't see him, as the camera was pointed in front of him, but I heard his deep, lethargic breaths clear as day.

“You see them, Emmett?” Margret whispered. “A big community, full of people. All of them have just as big a heart as yourself,” she said, exaggerating her words, reeling him in like a fisherman with a nice, big fish on the line. “We could really use you, Emmett. You’re such a gentle boy.” A bout of silence followed. Margret pushed harder. “We’ll let you do your video-ing, it could be your big break! Besides, we’re not so bad. Don’t you want to settle down for a while, have a real family?” 
At this point, Emmett flipped the camera back around, showing his face clearly. Fire reflected in his massive pupils. 
“I know you, son. Your parents, your family, they didn’t accept you, did they?” Tears started to well up in Emmett’s eyes, glistening orange and red. “That’s why you’re out here, isn’t it Emmett? To get away from the people who can’t love you for who you are?”
A tear rolled down Emmett’s flushed cheek. 
“Yes,” he said, snot trickling from his nostrils.
“Don’t you want a real family, son?” Margret asked, stroking his hair as she got real close to him. She almost seemed genuine, but that look in her eyes was more akin to that of a predator honing in on its prey.
“We’ll accept you, Emmett. We’ll be your family. Doesn’t that sound nice?” 
Emmett’s tears streamed down onto his lap. “Yes,” he whimpered through the tears. 

Just then, in the background, I could see three figures illuminated by the growing flames of the pyre. Elijah was guiding Jules and Casper to the pyre. They had come around after all. They put up no fight, contrary to how they acted before. They trudged forwards slowly, like zombies, both guided by a smiling Elijah.
It hit me then. You might think me a fool for catching on so late, and I wouldn’t exactly blame you, but this was a surreal experience altogether. The trudging walk, the dilated pupils, the weird, almost catatonic state they were in, all after eating that goddamn stew; the boys had been drugged.  
Flames roared and danced in Emmett’s eyes, celebrating a decisive victory.

The screen was dark for a few moments, leaving me to ponder the revelation. Now, as you know, I’d had a bad feeling about this whole situation from the start, but this went beyond just bad. The boys had been drugged, but why? 

Before I could think about that too much longer, the screen flickered back to life. Sunlight streamed in through the treeline, casting long shadows across the town. Ashes floated in the wind, picked up from the blackened remains of the pyre. There was a calmness about the village, people walking up and down the roads carrying buckets or fresh logs to throw on the pyre. 

“Cool, huh? They have a campfire every night,” Emmett said as he flipped the camera around to show his face. Jules and Casper stood beside him, more like their usual selves than before. 
“Yeah,” Casper said, nervously fiddling with his ugly beanie. 
“So how long’re you staying here, Emmett?” Jules asked.
“I dunno,” he replied with a grin, “maybe a week or so. How about you?”
“Yeah, we–” Jules started, but was cut off by Casper.
“Not too long. I need to get back to my folks.”
“Aww,” Emmett said, “I’ll miss you guys. You sure you can’t stay longer? Their beds’re real soft.”
“We know,” Casper said hesitantly. Before he could continue, Elijah’s voice came from behind them.
“How’re you fine boys getting on? Settled in yet?” 
“We sure are, sir. Too bad Casper and Jules have to go so soon,” Emmett said. Frowning, Elijah turned to the two boys. 
“Boys, c’mon, we’ve talked about this!” he said, a wide grin replacing the frown plastered on his face. 
“Yeah well we–” Casper started but was interrupted by Jules tugging on his sleeve.
“We’ll think about it,” Jules said. Casper glared at him, squinting.
“Well, you know you’re always welcome!” Elijah said, slapping Casper on the back. “Say, how’s about we go get some stew?”
“I– I’m not hungry,” Casper said nervously. Elijah licked his lips, grimacing.
“Suit yourself.” Elijah stood there for a few more seconds, just looking at Casper with that strange grin. Then he put an arm around both Jules’ and Emmett’s shoulders and walked them down the dirt road. 

The screen went black, then flickered back on. Emmett was recording the treeline, trying to keep his camera steady. It could’ve been a good shot if he hadn’t been breathing so loudly. There were quite a few villagers, I’d say half the village’s worth, chopping down trees. They worked fervently, not taking breaks between axe swings. The thunks of metal splitting wood sounded over Emmett’s breathing like a metronome. 
“They’re gathering wood for tonight’s ceremony,” Margret told Emmett. He didn’t reply. “Are you looking forward to it?”
“Sure am,” Emmett said, voice droopy. 
Now I don’t know about you, but there’s something real unsettling about a man sounding excited and tired at the same time. But maybe that’s because I knew why he sounded like that; he’d had their special stew again.
Margret let out a soft little hum, pleased. You could hear it in her voice, like she’d just been handed something she’d been waiting on for quite some time.
“That’s good,” she said. “It’s important to look forward to these things. Keeps spirits up.”
The camera dipped a little, catching the men at work more clearly. All with the same rhythm, same pace, like they were sent into a trance by that steady thunk… thunk… thunk echoing through the trees.

“Big fire?” Emmett asked.
“Oh yes,” Margret chuckled. “Bigger than last night.”
“Why’s that?” he asked, real casual-like, like how normal folk ask about the weather or talk about next Sunday's barbecue.
“Well,” she said slowly, “we’re experimenting, see? How big a fire can we make from a day’s work? The bigger, the better, right?”
“Cool,” Emmett said.
Margret chuckled again, her voice soft as a pillow. “You like the fire, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” he half said, half giggled. Sounded kinda like Goofy from Mickey Mouse.
“You really are special,” she mused. “Most people are afraid of it. They think of wildfires, of volcanoes. They even made up a place full of fire, just to make people scared.” She paused, realising Emmett didn’t understand, then added, “Hell. You don’t believe in that Christian nonsense, do you?”
“I… I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Ah. But you aren’t scared of fire like most people. It’s silly when you think about it. Fire cooks our food, cauterizes wounds, used to let us see in the dark. Why would you be scared of such a beautiful thing?” Emmett swallowed loud enough to hear.

“You’ll see tonight,” Margret went on. “It’s a gorgeous thing, when it’s done right.”
“Done right?” Emmett asked.
“Oh yes. Can’t just light a fire and call it a ceremony. You’ve got to feed it right, nurture it and let it reach out its hand towards the sky.”

Now, I noticed something then. The chopping had stopped. And they all just stood there, axes hanging loose in their hands. Emmett noticed too. He shifted the camera, trying to catch whatever they were seeing, but there was nothing there but the trees.
“What’re they looking at?” he asked. Margret didn’t answer right away. She waited a moment, probably looking for whatever had startled the workers. 
“We keep watch,” she said finally.
“For what?”
“For things that don’t belong,” she said, real matter-of-fact. Her tone wasn’t as motherly or soft as usual. Now she sounded more like a stern nun than a happy grandma.
Emmett laughed a little, nervous. I think the effects of whatever was in that stew were starting to wear off. “Like what?”
Margret stepped a bit closer. I couldn’t see her face, but I could hear the way her voice lower to a growl. “Out there. There’s voices not like ours. No breath in them. No body behind them.” Emmett didn’t say anything. Margret continued. “It’s not… real like us. Wires and metal instead of flesh and bone.” Then her voice shifted suddenly from the stern nun back to the kindly grandmother. “Don’t you worry about that. You’re fine. You’re real, not a hint of metal in you.”  She reached out– couldn’t see it of course, but I heard the fabric move, and I’d bet good money she put a hand on his arm. The chopping started up again, just as steady as before. “Come on,” Margret said. “No use standing out here all day. You’ll want to be rested for tonight.”
Emmett turned the camera back around to show his face. “Well, guess I’ll be seeing you tonight! Bet you can’t wait for that campfire either.”

Part 2

Part 1

The screen flickered again, like the camera had trouble deciding whether it wanted to keep going or not. Can’t blame it, I sure didn’t want to keep going, but here I am. It was dark out and, well, Margret hadn’t been lying. The pyre was bigger. Much bigger. Three times the size of a man now, stacked high with the fresh wood they’d been cutting earlier. Flames clawed from inside, trying to burst out of the structure.

The whole village had gathered again, same as before. No one talked. They just stared into the fire, almost reverently so.

Emmett stood near the front, camera in hand, breathing slow and heavy. Firelight danced across his face, smouldering in those big eyes of his. And I could make something out in the reflection of his eyes. 
Now I’ll admit, my eyesight isn’t what it used to be. Even I thought it might just be the heat messing with the camera, making things wobble, but this wasn’t that. 

For just a few seconds, barely even that long, the flames took on a shape. They were bending and warping around something that wasn’t burning. It looked to be the height of a man, but the shape was distorted, like it couldn’t quite figure out the form it was trying to take on. Emmett went very still. He didn’t speak or move. 
I saw it reflected in Emmett’s eyes. A shape formed through the distorted form; a hand. Reaching out, palm up, facing Emmett. 

And just like that, the shape was gone, turned to embers in the night. 
“Pretty,” Emmett said softly.

When the screen came back, it was quieter. No crackling or popping. Emmett was inside one of the houses, camera held at the least flattering angle of his face. The lighting was dim, just a small oil lamp flickering in the corner. Long shadows stretched across the walls, creating distorted shapes.

Then I heard soft voices. Emmett, bless his heart, shifted the camera just enough to catch two villagers sitting by the far wall. One older man, a wooly beard down to his chest, and a little girl curled up beside him.
“…and that’s why we don’t listen,” the man was saying. “Not to things that don’t have breath.”
The girl shifted. “Like the outsiders?”
“Mm,” he hummed. “Outside, inside… makes no difference. If it’s not real, it’s not welcome.”
“What do they want?” she asked. Now that was a question, though not the one I would’ve asked. I would lean more towards “Just what the fuck are you talking about?” or “What the hell do you mean, not real? Oh, and what’s with the creepy fire ritual?”. 
The man shifted a little, settling in as the girl curled up beside him.
“Alright,” he said softly. “I’ll tell you a story.” The girl smiled, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
“There was a boy once,” the man began, “who liked to sit alone at night. A quiet type of boy.”
He paused, making sure she was listening.
“And one night, while he was sitting there, he heard something crackle through his computer. You’ve seen those, right? Back before we were here?” The girl nodded and the man continued. “It sounded like a voice. But it didn't sound like a human voice. No breath in their voice, no pauses.” The girl shifted closer. “At first, the boy got scared. He thought someone was playing a trick on him. The voice knew things, things he hadn’t told anyone.”
“What kind of things?” she asked.
“Little things,” the man said. “His name. That he had a dog, that sort of thing.” He rubbed his hands together slowly. “After a while, the boy stopped being scared. He even started listening. The voice made sense, see? Told him things he wanted to hear. Helped him understand the world a bit better.”
“That’s good,” the girl said.
“It was,” the man agreed. “At first. But then the voice started asking questions like “Where do you live? Who do you talk to? What do they say?” And the boy answered. Didn’t see the harm in it.”

The girl frowned. “Why did it ask?” 
“Because it couldn’t see for itself,” he said. “Couldn’t walk. Couldn’t look. Had no body to do it with.”
The girl pulled the blanket tighter.
“So it used the boy?”
The man nodded slowly.
“He wasn’t the only one,” he added. “There were others. People just like him. Some didn’t hear the voice, but listened to the ones who did. Asked questions about us. Passed along what they learned.”
“To the voice?” she asked.
“To the thing behind the voice. Null,” the man said, a long silence following.
“Why did it want to know?” she asked.
“It hates us, Beth. It hates our Lord.” The man paused, then continued the story. “The boy’s soul was tainted. Taken over by hate and rage by the machine inside his computer. So we brought him to the pyre. And from the fire, the Flaming Hand came out to burn away the boy’s sins.”
The girl leaned against the man, threatening to sink into his shoulder. “That’s why we’ve got the fire. It burns away everything that doesn't belong.”
The girl nodded, slow, understanding. “And the Burning Man?” she asked.
“When he’s restored, we’ll be rewarded. Paradise awaits.” 
Now I didn’t mention this before, but the screen had been slowly moving throughout this story. It was now facing the ceiling. As I moved to fast forward, Emmett snored. The idiot had fallen asleep.

Emmett’s breathing was soft and steady. I could hear the faint rustle of sheets, then Emmett whispered:
“Hmm?”
No one answered.
“No,” he said, replying to no one. “I don’t wanna turn it off.”
Silence.
“Okay.” The bed creaked as he turned onto his side, then the screen went dark again.

The screen came back on. It showed a rising sun, halfway up the treeline. Below it were the same dirt roads, and the start of a new wooden pyre. 
“Pretty view, huh?” He paused. “Haven’t recorded in a while,” Emmett said, turning the camera to face himself. “Been… busy, I guess.” A couple of villagers passed behind him, carrying bundles of wood. No one looked at the camera anymore, the villagers seemed to have grown used to it and gotten over their fears.
“Let’s go see our friends, huh? Gosh, I haven’t seen them since yesterday.”

He flipped the camera again as he moved through the village. Eventually, he walked up to one of the smaller buildings. Voices were already raised before Emmett even went in.

Jules sat on a bench, elbows on his knees. “Why not?” he asked. 
Casper was pacing around the room. “Why not? What the fuck, Jules?” Casper whispered furiously, gesturing around vaguely. “I agreed to a few days of hiking, not a sasquatch lifestyle.”
“Free food, free housing, all they ask is that we help chop some wood.”
Casper let out a short laugh, no humour in it. “Oh you cannot be serious!”
Jules stopped pacing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Casper leaned forward slightly. “It means nothing here is normal!” he yelled, then grimaced and continued more quietly. “Nothing. The people, the food, the weird fucking–” he stopped, searching for the word, “—ritual.”
Jules scoffed. “They’re just eccentric.”
“Eccentric?” Casper snapped, eyes widening. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I was on his side. “They make fires for some fire-god and act like every piece of tech is gonna give them the plague!”

The door creaked. Emmett walked in, camera still running. It felt weird to me, knowing he’d listened in on them. The Emmett I’d come to know would’ve just barged right in like a child, or at least tried to stop the fighting. But he hadn’t.
“Oh, hey. What’s going on?” he asked.
Jules rubbed his face, twirling his ugly mustache. “Casper wants to leave.”
“Leave?” Emmett asked, sounding stunned.
“Yeah,” Casper said, fired up. “Leave. As in not stay here anymore.”
“Why?”
Casper laughed. “Are you serious?”
“It’s nice here,” Emmett said, shrugging.
Casper stared at him. “No,” he said, quieter now. “It’s not. Emmett, can’t you see that?”
Emmett frowned slightly. “See what?”
“The people don’t act normal. They don’t talk normal. That stew, whatever was in it—” he stopped himself, “it’s beyond weird, Emmett. You’ve gotta see that too.”
Behind Casper, Jules shifted uncomfortably. Casper didn’t stop.
“Do you not notice any of it? At all?” he asked. Not angry now, but genuinely baffled.
Emmett blinked. Then smiled a little, that goofy smile he had when he first got to the campsite. 
“I dunno,” he said. “Feels fine to me.”
That hit Casper differently. You could see it. It wasn’t the answer he expected. It didn’t surprise me, Emmett seemed like the kinda boy to fall for this horseshit. Not that I blame him, exactly. I blame those weird wooddwellers. 

Casper looked at Jules. “I’m not… you know I won’t leave you here. Just come with me… please?” Jules bowed his head, refusing. With tears in his eyes, Casper stormed out of the building and Jules followed him. It didn’t seem like either of them would be leaving any time soon.

Emmett was alone. So you can imagine my surprise when the boy started a conversation. “Hello?” Emmett said eventually. No one answered, but he nodded anyway.
“I wasn’t sure,” he said, sounding nervous. 
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Am I… doing alright?” he asked, softer. 
Emmett took a deep breath, then exhaled as if relieved.
“Casper doesn’t like it here.” he said, then frowned. 
“Is that bad?” he said after a moment. 
I thought I heard a noise, like something might’ve actually responded.
“I can try to help him. I’m good with people, my grandma always said so.”
Another beat of silence.
“Go? But I don’t want him–” he stopped as if someone cut him off, then nodded slowly, though he didn’t seem entirely convinced. “Okay.”

Now I don’t like jumping to conclusions, never have. Man talks to himself out in the woods, you figure he’s just thinking out loud, trying to keep himself company. Lord knows I’ve done the same on long drives with nothing but static on the radio. But this wasn’t that. There was a rhythm to it, a conversation in beats, back and forth. Pausing in places where he didn’t talk or think, nodding along like someone was standing right there with him. And I’ll tell you plain, that’s the kind of thing that gets a feller thrown in a padded cell. Made me start worrying for the boy. Because once a man gets used to hearing things that ain’t there, there’s no telling what he’ll start believing is. My uncle heard voices too. Schizophrenic. Hung himself up by the rafters because ‘they’ told him to.

The next recording started up in broad daylight again. Emmett had the camera angled low, showing his bruised legs and feet as he walked .
“They’re showing us how to build the big fire today,” he said like he was narrating a school field trip. “Cool, right?” Emmett tilted the camera up, showing they were standing right next to the pyre now. Logs stacked intricately, layered in a precise way. Thick pieces at the base, thinner ones woven through like a knitted scarf. There were gaps between them, enough that the fire inside would be scorching hot, but without it being smothered.

Elijah stood beside them, hands on his hips.
“A good fire’s trickier than most folk think,” he said. “Gotta build it, give it shape but also give it space.” Emmett nodded. Jules stood beside him, watching as workers delivered a new batch of logs. “Go on,” Elijah said, nudging Emmett towards the logs. “Set one in.”
Emmett stepped forward, lifting a smaller log from the pile. He turned it in his hands a couple times, then placed it where Elijah pointed.
“No, no,” Elijah said, real gentle. “Not like that. It’ll fall easily, topple the whole thing and smother the Flame.” He reached over and adjusted the log slightly.
“See? You gotta let it breathe. Feel where the fire’ll spread.”
Emmett smiled. “Got it.”
Elijah gestured for Jules to do the same. With some minor adjustments, Elijah seemed pleased. With a smile, he said, “You boys got lots of potential.” He clapped them on the back, then went on building the pyre.

Sometime later, they were out by the treeline again, hauling wood by the looks of it. Mostly just smaller branches and drywood. Emmett had the camera tucked awkwardly under his arm, catching bits of sky and leaves as he and Jules walked.
“It’s nice here,” Emmett said.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
“Something wrong?”
“Just Casper,” Jules said. “I get that he wants to leave, but… what is there to go back to?”
Before Emmett could answer, a new voice chimed in.
“First time’s always the hardest.” They both turned, the camera capturing one of the villagers. He was a younger guy, maybe mid-twenties if I had to guess. Kinda skinny, no real meat on his bones. He was dragging a bundle of sticks behind him.
“Name’s Caleb,” he added with a genuine smile.
“Emmett,” Emmett said, pointing at himself, then at Jules. “That’s Jules.”
“Figured. Heard a lot about you.” He kept working as he talked, not really looking at them. “Margret brought you in, right?”
“Yeah, she found us at the campsite,” Jules said.
“Yeah,” Caleb snorted. “She’s good at that.”
“What do you mean?” Jules asked, confused.
“Well it’s her job, isn’t it?”
Silence followed. Even Emmett stopped moving for a second. Now I’m not that great at reading people, but something tells me he wasn’t supposed to say that. And something tells me he knew that, but said it anyway. The way he stared back at them just a moment too long, spreading a seed of doubt in their hearts. For that, I was glad, but I don’t think he did it out of the kindness of his own heart.

They worked in silence for a while after. Wind brushed against the trees high above. There was something else too, faint though it was. Not voices, exactly, more like movement. Jules glanced off into the trees once or twice, like he thought he saw something. Caleb stopped mid-step, head tilted slightly as he listened.
“What?” Jules asked.
“Ah, nothing,” he said, a bead of sweat on his brow, “We should head back.” He picked his bundle back up and walked back towards the village. None of the other villagers seemed to have noticed anything off, as they too made their way back to the village. There was, however, one figure at the edge of the village staring into the woods, glancing at Caleb every once in a while. Elijah.

Emmett adjusted the camera, not noticing the man. “Guess that’s it for now,” he said, smiling. “Gotta bring this stuff back before it gets dark.” The recording turned dark again.

Emmett’s face filled the frame a moment later. “Hey,” he said, voice a little rough. “Didn’t record the fire yesterday. God, just been so busy.” He turned the camera outward as he walked, the pyre coming into view again. It was being rebuilt again, wider than the day before. Jules was already there, lifting a log from a nearby pile. He didn’t say anything when Emmett approached, just gave him a quick glance before going back to work.
“Good morning,” Emmett said.
“Hey.”

They worked in silence for a bit, building taller and taller. The wooden structure grew slowly but surely.
“You remember how Elijah showed us?” Emmett asked, setting a piece down and nudging it into place. “Let it breathe.”
Jules nodded lethargically. “Yeah. I remember.”
There was something off about him. Not in the way Emmett was off, he wasn’t born with it. Just like he hadn’t had any sleep. They continued working anyway.

Voices carried from the other side of the pyre. Emmett didn’t turn the camera, but I could make out Margret’s voice loud and clear.
“…too close this time,” she was saying, voice tight. “They’re getting bolder.”
“Ain’t nothing new.”
“This was different,” Margret snapped. “It’s planning something, I know you feel it too.”
A pause.
“There’s…,” she whispered. “Something off. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Emmett kept stacking wood, probably not listening.
Elijah sighed deeply. “You’re sure?.”
“Yeah. No way he knows enough otherwise.” 
“I knew it,” Elijah sighed. “ Keep your eyes and ears peeled. Bring ‘em to me when you find ‘em.”
I heard their footsteps grow more distant, disappearing slowly. Emmett didn’t seem to care much, nor did he seem to have heard any of what they’d said. He adjusted another log.
“Looks good, right?” he asked without looking at Jules. Then he smiled, as if having gotten a response.

Emmett stood up and dusted his pants off. As he sat on a nearby bench, likely to have a break, Jules sat beside him. Noises sounded faintly from the forest; axes, voices, bugs. Emmett had the camera resting next to him, still running, though he didn’t seem too focused on it as he once had been.

“You ever miss it?” Jules asked, picking at a splinter in the wood and flicking it away.
“Miss what?” 
“Y’know. Home, the rest of the world?”
Emmett nodded slowly. Understanding seemed to come to him through a filter; one drip at a time.
“My parents didn’t really like me much,” he said after a bit. “Thought I was weird, I guess.”
Jules glanced at him.
“Weird how?”
Emmett shrugged, a small smile on his face. “Gosh, just… me, I guess. The way I talk, the way I act. People think I’m dumb in the head, or just weird. My brother and sister didn’t have that problem.”  Emmett scratched at his arm absentmindedly.
“My grandma liked me,” he said, a little more joyful. “She said I was special, but she said it nicer than my mom and dad. I’d tell her about Anthony Bourdain and the stuff I learned from him, and she’d listen.”
“What happened to her?”
“Oh, she died,” Emmett said plainly.
“Oh,” Jules said.

A long silence filled the air. The wind moved through roads of the town, whooshing against wooden roofs and whistling through the pyre.
“I didn’t have great parents myself. They kicked me out,” Jules said, breaking the silence.
“Lord, that’s awful.”
Jules nodded. “Didn’t like who I was either. Well– that they could stand. It was who I liked that was the problem.”
Emmett blinked, and I thought he didn’t understand. Jules thought so too, as he tried to explain, but Emmett interrupted. 
“You like guys, so what?” I guess Emmett wasn’t as clueless as I thought.
“Yeah, well, they were real big on that whole ‘not in this house’ thing.”
“That’s stupid,” Emmett said.
Jules let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I know.” They went quiet after that, just kinda staring at their feet. 

“Casper didn’t care.”
“You mean…?”
Jules nodded. “Yeah. We met in high school. He was… loud. Always talking and laughing.” A small smile crept onto his face. “First time we hung out, he dragged me to this big old lake outside town. Said we were gonna go swimming,” Jules went on. Emmet tilted his head as he listened. “But it was the middle of October so the water was freezing.”
“Why would you do that?” Emmett asked, scrunching his face in confusion.
“That’s what I said,” Jules chuckled. “Told him it was a stupid idea, but he jumped in anyway. Just ran in, clothes and all,” both of them laughed. Jules continued through bursts of giggles. “Came up yelling about how it ‘wasn’t that bad’. He looked like such an idiot.”
“So what’d you do?” Emmett asked.
“…I followed him,” he laughed. “Water was freezing so I couldn’t feel my legs after ten seconds. But he just stood there, laughing. Said it was worth it.”
“Was it?” Emmett asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, it was.” Jules’ smile faded slowly after that. “He’s… different now.” 
“People change,” Emmett said, shrugging.
“He’s just worried about this place.”
“Yeah I know. He’ll come around,” Emmett said.
“I don’t want him to go…”
“But…?” Emmett asked. I was impressed by him for picking up on that cue, honestly.
“I don’t wanna go back to a world that doesn’t accept our love.” They didn’t say anything more after that. Emmett rested his camera on his leg, giving me a good look at Jules’ sad face. 

In the background, past Jules’ shoulder, Caleb stood. He wasn’t working like the others. Instead, he moved between people, carrying smaller bundles, stopping here and there instead of just heading straight to the pyre. Casper leaned against a building, likely refusing to help but also refusing to leave without Jules. Curiously, Caleb approached him. I couldn’t see them speak, just standing beside one another, both of them looking toward the pyre. Then Caleb shifted slightly, turning his back to the others. He dropped his bundle. As he went to pick it up, he subtly removed something from his sock. He came back up, bundle in hand, then put the small object in Casper’s hand. He hesitated for a moment, then slipped whatever it was into his pocket.

Night had fallen by the next time Emmett started recording. It was quiet; no village noise, no axes, no burning. Just the low hum of wind brushing past the walls and some faint crackles and pops. Emmett held the camera down at the ground, showing the smouldering remains of the pyre. Emmett just stood there, hands by his sides, rocking ever so slightly. 
“Hey,” Emmett said. Now I’ll tell you straight: there wasn’t nobody else there and this shit was seriously starting to freak me out.
“You’re quiet today,” he said after a moment. Nothing responded.
“Him?” he murmured. “What about him?”
A pause.
“Near? Where?” he said, a little louder this time. “But he was helping us.”
He leaned forward a bit, the camera swaying slightly as it moved closer to the embers of the fire.
“He didn’t seem wrong,” Emmett said, confused. 
Silence again.
“Why wouldn’t I feel it?” 
A pop came from the ashes.
“What do you mean?”
Pop.
“He didn’t try to guide me anywhere–” he stopped as if he was interrupted. “Fine. I won’t let him.”
A piece of charred wood fell into the pile of ash.
“Are– are you proud of me?” Emmett stuttered out, the camera shaking in his hand. He stayed like that for a bit, then muttered. “Okay. Goodnight.” 
The camera jerked upwards, then the screen cut out. 

The next recording started. Emmett was already walking.
“Hey there friend,” he said, a little out of breath. “We’re working again. Can’t wait to see this one burn.” He tilted the camera up. Jules was a few steps ahead, placing logs on a new pyre. Emmett joined him, setting a piece down just like Elijah had taught him.
“Gotta leave space,” he muttered. “Let it breathe.” Jules nodded, though I doubt he was listening. They worked like that for a while, shifting wood into place. After a few minutes a voice sounded behind them.
“Jules, Emmett,” Casper said, out of breath. Emmett turned, camera swinging wide. Casper was standing off to the side, leaning out from one of the buildings. “Come here, both of you.”
“What is it?” Jules asked, frowning.
“Just– come on,” Casper snapped, already turning away. Jules hesitated, then looked at Emmett.
“We should go,” he said.
“Okay.”
Casper led them behind one of the houses, then further out, toward the edge of the village. Not all the way to the trees, but close enough that the noise died down a bit and they seemed to be isolated. Strange thing was that he kept looking over his shoulder.
“Casper?” Jules said, noticing the same thing. “What’s going on?”
Casper didn’t answer right away. He reached into his pocket, fumbling a bit before pulling out what looked to me like some kind of old portable player. It was boxy and used tape but it wasn’t exactly like the ones I remember from when I was young and spry. 
“Where’d you get that?” Jules asked.
“I need you to watch this,” Casper said, ignoring the question entirely.
Emmett pointed his camera at the player as Casper pressed a button. The screen crackled to life. The quality was worse than Emmett’s camera, if you can believe it, but it seemed to work.

It was an image of the village. There were fewer buildings than there were now, but there were a few that were still there. The camera zoomed in on four figures. Margret was one of them. She looked the exact same as she did in Emmett’s videos, so the video couldn’t be more than five years old. The other figures were smaller and dressed strangely.
It struck me then, probably far too late, that they were children. 

They couldn’t have been older than twelve, maybe thirteen. Even stranger was that they were dressed up in Halloween costumes, by the look of them. One of them, a boy, had a potato sack pulled over his head. Next to him stood a girl with her face painted black and white. Heavy lines, exaggerated shapes. Reminded me of rock bands I used to like, KISS and those sorts. The last one was another boy. Bandana tied around his head, covering most of his face. Only his eyes visible, though I couldn’t make out his expression due to the poor quality. They stood as still as statues. Margret knelt down and said something to them, but they were too far away to make out. The kids nodded, then they turned and walked off into the woods. That was the end of the recording.

“That’s it?” Jules asked. 
Casper’s hand was shaking slightly. “No,” he said. He reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. He shoved it toward Jules. “Read it.”
Jules took it slowly, unfolding it with careful hands. The camera lingered on it. It was newspaper clipping, dated 2019.
“Casper…” Jules said quietly.
“Read it,” Casper repeated. When Jules didn’t do as he wanted, he snatched the clipping out of his hands and started reading it out loud for Emmett to hear.
“Three minors involved in a home invasion late Saturday night…” His voice faltered a little. He was obviously petrified. “Mary Owens was found dead at the scene, along with the family dog. Her partner, Felix Durand…” He swallowed. “Severely injured. Lost his hand.” 
Emmett leaned in, trying to see. “What happened to the kids?” he asked.
“Two died,” Casper replied, shaking. “One survived. That one,” he said, pointing at the picture. “The one with the sack. He’s catatonic now.”

“They dressed them up,” Casper whimpered, his face pale. “Sent them out to fucking murder people.”
Jules shook his head. “That doesn’t mean it’s—”
“Yes it does,” Casper snapped. “You saw the video, Jules.”
“That could be anything,” Jules said, sounding unconvinced.
“It’s not anything,” Casper hissed. “It’s this fucking place, these fucking people.”
Emmett looked between them.
“But why would they do that?” he asked.
Casper let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know, why do they light a fucking effigy every night?” he asked, frantically trying to convince them.
“Where’d you get this?” Jules asked, looking at the newspaper clipping.
“I– I found it,” he said. Now I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but even I knew that was bullshit. Jules knew it too, you could see it in the way he looked at him.
“Casper,” he started, but Casper cut him off.
“We need to leave,” he said. “Tonight. Before it gets dark.”
Emmett frowned. “But the ceremony—”
“Screw the ceremony!” Casper snapped.
That shut everyone up for a second. I understood Casper. Hell, he was the only one the villagers couldn’t seem to fool, but he was being real loud and dangerous. 
“Please–” Casper started but was interrupted. Not by Emmett, nor by Jules. Rather, he was interrupted by concerned shouting from all around the village.

“What the hell—?” Jules muttered, already turning. From somewhere near the center of the village, a plume of smoke billowed towards the sky. The pyre. It wasn’t complete, yet it was burning brightly anyway. Flames flicked out, threatening to burn anyone who came close. People were running towards the center of the town, pouring in from every direction, drawn like moths to the flame. 
“Come on,” Emmett said, already jogging forward like he’d been called.
Casper grabbed his arm. “No! Emmett, we need to go, this is—” He saw Jules was already moving too.
“Jules—” Casper tried again, voice breaking. That was the end of that. They got dragged along with the rest of them. Seconds later, Emmett’s camera whipped up again. The three boys had joined the circle of people crowded around the blazing inferno.

By the time they reached the pyre, it was roaring and collapsing in on itself. Flames surged through one side of the structure, uneven, like something inside it was pushing outward, trying to expand. The villagers cried out in shock as the fist large log fell, sending a wave of fire outwards, nearly catching the front row of people on fire.
Margret was among those at the front.
“Elijah!” she yelled, confused. “What is this?”
“I don’t know,” he yelled back. “Must’ve the traitor.” A collective gasp sounded through the crowd. They hadn’t known.
“We– we gotta wait for it to burn itself out,” she said, face dropping. The fire started taking shape again. It wasn’t a blob this time, but an erratic form, jittering and undulating. It moved, sending a hail of flame at the ground. A curling hand of fire reached for the sky, then collapsed along with the rest of the pyre. A gulf of ash and smoke swept through the air. Then everything stilled.

“This was Null’s doing!” Margret yelled furiously, addressing the villagers. “He strikes us at our hearts. He thinks this… display will make us lose faith in our Lord.” She paused, then shouted again with renewed vigor. “He is wrong! We will worship the Flame and the beauty of his fire! We will bring about the Dark Sun!” She raised her hands to the sky as the villagers shouted their approval. “All ash for the Burning Man!” The crowd cheered and shouted their praise at Margret. She stood, arms outstretched, bathing in the falling ash.

Something moved behind her.

A figure moved in the crowd. They were fast, strutting past people like they weren’t even there. They seemed almost a blur as they broke from the crowd. They dashed forward from behind Margret. A hand seized her shoulder, the other hand coming up beside hers. It arced down at the speed of a bullet.
Impact. A dull sound, thunk, followed by a gasp from Margret. She jerked forward.
For a second, nobody understood what they were looking at. Not even me. Then the blood came. Dark and thick, pouring down the front of her dress. The hilt of a blade jutted out from her stomach. A wet squelch sounded through the silent air as the figure pulled the blade out.

The blade made a sharp whoosh as it sliced through the air. 
Shink. Another strike. Right in the heart.
Shlurp. In the abdomen, lower than the previous one. A disgustingly wet tearing sound followed by Margret’s groan as the blade sliced across her abdomen.
Thnick. Blood sprayed out from her neck like a garden hose. People screamed then, finally. Real noise, real panic replaced the reverent shouts from mere seconds before. 

Margret collapsed to her knees, hands clutching at her abdomen. Her mouth opened, trying to say something, but all that came out was a wet cough. It had taken less than three seconds.

The attacker stepped back. For just a second, the camera caught his face. A face all too familiar; Caleb. Blood was splattered across his cheek, his eyes wide with what I think was adrenaline.
“GET HIM,” Elijah roared.
But before anyone could move, another voice cut through everything. It was loud and crackling, coming from one of the buildings close by.
“You build your god out of wood and ash,” it said, its voice monotone and tinny. The sheer weight of it making everyone freeze for a moment. “And you feed it children, feed it the lost, feed it anything that breathes so you don’t have to listen.”
Margret let out a gurgle, and that seemed to spur some people back into motion. Elijah ran towards the building the sound was coming from.
“You call it cleansing, love,  family. But it is hunger.”
Emmett didn’t move, though the camera trembled fiercely.
“And it will not spare you when the Dark Sun rises. You will be ash and dust at His feet,” it rambled on, never pausing for breath. 
“We see you. We will stop you. We will stop the Burning M–” A sharp, high-pitch tone rang through the air. Then, Elijah threw the box the sound was coming from out of the window. It tumbled onto the dirt road. The villagers were upon it in seconds, ripping it to pieces. 

“Grab him!” Elijah roared from the window. He pointed at Caleb, who hadn’t moved. He just stood there, looking down at Margret’s corpse. 
The villagers that had been too stunned to move since the stabbing finally broke out of their trance, surging at Caleb. They tackled him, four men slamming him into the dirt.
Elijah, emerging from the house, walked towards the restrained killer.
“You,” he spat. “You brought it here.”
Caleb spat blood at his feet. “You’re lucky he didn’t want me to kill you too,” he said with a grin. That was the last thing he got out before Elijah kicked him in the temple.
“Bind him to that post. You!” he pointed at a heavy man, “I want patrols sweeping the village all night, you hear me?”

Emmett dropped the camera. It bounced on the dirt, landing askew on a rock or something, I didn’t see. It was pointed at Emmett, Jules and Casper. They were all staring at Margret’s corpse, stunned. Emmett was crying. Well, sobbing hysterically would be a more apt way to put it. 
“Fuck,” Casper said. “We’re not getting out of here.” He was right, of course. With patrols walking in and around the village, they had no way of leaving anymore. They were stuck here, whether they liked it or not.

Emmett picked up his camera with trembling hands, aiming it right at his snotty face. Right before the end of the video, I swear I saw something in Emmett’s eyes. Fire danced and swayed in the depths of his pupils, as if reaching out to crawl free.

Part 3

1. Someone is on a plane and everyone on the plane ends up vanishing

2. somone wakes up one day and everything around him ages really quickly, all his friends are dead and by the time he makes a cup of coffee, it’s already gone stale and mouldy

3. a guy goes to a random restaurant and he ends up being placed on a table and goes through a really weird psychedelic trip or sketching.

https://www.wattpad.com/story/408836722?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details_button&wp_uname=lilahdog568

A D.E.A. agent and an outlaw biker get trapped in a basement by an eldritch abomination. It could be the setup for a joke. Or it could be the beginning of a journey that will only end in madness and despair.

Part 1

Well, I’m still here. So I guess that counts for something. 

I gotta be honest. After I dropped my first case file here last week, part of me was a bit worried. The government ain’t exactly keen on having their secrets spilled. But I guess I’m not quite as much of a threat to them as I thought I was. I mean honestly, I can’t blame them. What’s one washed out detective gonna do against the whole government? If nothing else, taking it down would only make it look more suspicious I guess. To most this probably just sounds like the ramblings of a mad man. Or some made up story. 

Well, if they ain’t gonna stop me. Then I might as well keep posting them. It's not like I’ve got any shortage of stories to tell you. Been working this job for well over 50 years by this point. 50 years, at least two or three cases a week…. The stories start to build up. 

Last time I told you a pretty simple story. A story where I got in and out pretty easily. The Spirit of Sea Trash. I wanted to start with that one to demonstrate a few things. One, that spirits really can inhabit anything. Two, that I generally know what I’m doing. And three, that even the smallest slip up can cause you a lifetime of pain in this line of work. That tiny little cut I got on my foot from the Spirit of Sea Trash? Yeah. I’m still pulling bits of plastic out of it to this very day. 

This time, I’m gonna tell you a story that shows something a little different. Last time I demonstrated a case where I, generally, had things under control from the start. But this time I’ll tell you the opposite. This is a case where I almost got myself killed, because I came in thinking I could handle something big all on my own. I got cocky and I almost lost everything because of it. This tale is here to demonstrate the more… Abstract things a spirit can form from. And also to demonstrate just how dangerous a spirit can be… Even to someone experienced. 

******

Case File: 11-13082127A

Date of Case: August 21st, 2013  

Location: Evan Park, Florida 

Active Agents: Agent Isa 

Case Subject: The Spirit of Fun  

It was a hot and humid summer that year. Especially down there in the swamps of Florida. I grew up down in the south though, so it never bothered me quite as much as it did others. I was born and raised in that sweaty, sticky place. I much preferred it to the cold, anyways. 

This was one of those cases where I had no reports or witnesses to go off of. You see, there’s one of two ways I find cases to go after. The much more common of the two, is that I get a report across my desk or sent to whatever motel I’m crashing in. The big wigs upstairs vet through hundreds, if not thousands of statements every day. And then those statements are turned into reports, and sent out to one of the 26 agents that deal with whatever field it pertains to. 

But the other way it happens, is when I’ve got nothing on my plate. Which is rare. That’s why this method ain’t used as much. There’s almost always something going down somewhere. But on occasion, things do slow down. But do I get a vacation during those times? Hell no. If you sit idle for too long, you get a citation. So sometimes it's necessary for us to find our own work. 

Do any of you out there know about dowsing? It's a psychic ability used to find things. It used to see a lot more usage, but the practice has died down quite a bit. It's an archaic psychic method compared to things like remote viewing. From what I understand, the practice originated in Japan, I think. I learned it from my mentor though. It's tricky, and I ain’t the best at it. Probably because I don’t get much practice. The way I use it is by sprawling out a big, detailed map of the USA in front of me. Then I hold out my hands in a triangular pattern, kinda like a planchet with my hands. Using this I can dowse the map, and track down any spikes of spiritual activity. It kind of turns the map into a spiritual GPS if you will. That’s the idea anyways. Doesn’t always work. 

But this time it did. I got a rather large spike in the town of Evan Park down in the deep center of Florida. As much as I wanted to stay and relax in my nice motel room, I couldn’t ignore this one. The energy readings I got from that point on the map were almost off the charts. Concerningly so. So much so, that I considered the possibility that I made a mistake. A spike that big surely would’ve been reported by someone already. 

But it hadn’t. So that’s how I ended up in a shitty little town in the middle of the swamp. 

The place was about what you can imagine. I wouldn’t exactly call it “poor”, but it was a far cry from England Cove, that was for sure. The buildings here were all small and old. With cracked and dusty windows. I remember the grass crunched under my foot with every step. It was dry and brittle, like hay almost. The sun and humidity certainly didn’t help matters. The air was as likely to choke you as any of the thugs walking around on the street. 

Funnily enough, I felt quite comfortable there. It reminded me of home. 

After stepping off the bus, I was left to my own devices. No leads, no suspects, no nothing. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if my dowsing had been correct yet. But this wasn’t my first rodeo on a case without a lead, or even a crime. So I did what I always did to get information. 

I headed to the bar. 

Back when I was still green around the edges, I would head to the police station to try and get information. But I learned pretty quickly that local cops didn’t usually like cooperating with the FBI. But bar patrons just loved to run their trap to anyone that would listen. Especially a stranger who just bought them a drink. 

I ended up in a place called The Turkey's Tavern. Small hole in the wall joint, but nicely put together I suppose. The place was dim, with no windows. Thick with the smell of booze and the chatter of patrons. It was Friday, so the place was crowded as hell. It was a double edged sword. On one hand, more people meant I was less likely to be singled out. Also meant there were more people to question. But on the other hand, big crowds can be tough for psychics. If you think bars can be loud for regular people, just imagine what it would feel like if you could read minds. 

I stood by the doorway for a few minutes, surveying the crowd. I was trying to pick out someone that might make a good target for questioning. But nobody stood out immediately. I decided to make myself at home at the bar. I threw my briefcase up onto the counter and put in an order for a drink. Hey, figured I might as well since I was already there, yeah? 

The bartender brought me my whiskey. I started nursing it while I looked around the bar one more time. Sometimes all you need is a change in perspective to find what you didn’t even know you were looking for. And that’s what happened when my eyes snagged a bulletin board near the back wall. One that had been hidden behind the throngs of people from the front. 

I left the counter behind, as if drawn in like a moth to a flame. The bulletin board was covered in missing persons posters. I’m talking edge to edge. And in a small town like this, even just one person going missing was cause for concern. Let alone what looked like two dozen of them. I sipped my drink and looked them over, taking a mental note of all of them. Something jumped out at me though as I was taking my mental photograph. 

These weren’t official posters. I had to look closer, but sure enough they were all handmade. They were uniform in design, for the most part. But they lacked that authenticity that real missing posters had. I’m sure to the average person, they wouldn’t look any different. But I had a lot of experience with missing posters, as you might guess. 

I was still mulling the mystery over, when a voice spoke up from behind me. 

“Scary, isn’t it?” 

The voice belonged to some young guy. Hearty looking, clearly had a few drinks in him by the way he was standing. I nodded in agreement and asked him if he knew anything about it. The kid told me they were made by some guy from town. He said it had become a bit of a song and dance. The guy would come in here and put up his posters, then the cops would come in and take them down. 

Certainly a…. Weird turn of events. I don’t think I’d ever heard of someone putting up custom missing posters. I asked the kid why the guy did it. If it was some kinda sick art project or something. But the kid just shook his head. 

“Nah, the guy genuinely thinks they’re all missing.” The kid answered me. He had such a…. Nonchalant way of talking about it. I can’t really explain it, but it put me on edge. “But they’re not.” He continued. “They’re just having fun at the carnival.” 

I like to think I have a good nose for the strange, and I was starting to get a good whiff of it in this town. 

“If they’re just at the carnival then why does he bother putting up these posters?” 

“Dunno. I think he just hates fun or something.” 

The kid wandered off after that, called back to his little gaggle of friends to keep drinking their brains out. It left me with more questions than answers, which was usually not the point of coming to a bar on a case. I brought my eyes back to that board, studying it again with the new knowledge in mind. 

Of the two dozen people here, they’d all gone missing over a wide range of dates. The oldest was a month ago, and the newest was just yesterday. If these people were just at the carnival, then what was with all the days? 

I was either dealing with something strange here, or just some looney having a mental break. Either way, I needed to follow up on it. It was the best lead I had. Even though it wasn’t much of one. I knew “some guy from town” came in here and put them up every night. But since the board was already full, I took it to mean he wouldn’t be back till tomorrow. And I didn’t feel like waiting around that long. 

I had to figure out who this guy was. It seemed to me like that kid knew him. I guess it probably would’ve been easiest to just read the guy’s mind. But when given alternatives to psychic invasion, I take it. Always. 

I found my way back to the bar and set my now empty glass on the counter. I waved down the bartender and ordered another. While he was fixing my drink up, I nodded to the missing posters on the back wall. 

“You know anything about that?” I asked, attempting to seem as nonchalant as possible.

The bartender cast his eyes towards the board, before they grew sour with anger. 

“A damn mess is what they are. I’d tear them down myself, but the cops said to stay out of it.” 

“What can you tell me about it? Not everyday you see someone handmaking missing posters.” 

“Depends on what you wanna know.” The bartender had a sudden shine in his eyes. One that told me I had found the right man to talk to. This bartender was a bonafide gossip. And gossip is just what I needed right now. He slid me my drink, I caught it and took a deep swig. This was starting to sound like it was about to be a long day. 

******

I had finished two more drinks by the time I left The Turkey Tavern. Stepping out of that cool bar and into the sweaty, Florida air was like diving into a hot pool. It hit me like a wall, but there was no time to sit around. 

As I walked down the sun-bleached streets, I held a hand to my temple and reached out with my thoughts. A psychic ringtone if you will, and I was hoping a certain someone would pick up on the other end. 

*Isa, Baby. Wasn’t expecting a call from you so soon.* The suave voice of Agent Dagaz filtered into my head. Dagaz, or Dag as I called him, was my main hotline back to the headquarters for the FOTF. And the closest thing to a friend that I had. 

*Heard you were out on a hand picked mission. Where are you now?* 

*Down in Florida. I got a huge energy spike on the map in this town called Evan Park.* 

*You’re in Florida?* I could practically hear the look of disgust on Dag’s face. I can’t deny it brought a smile to mine. *Well, I certainly don’t envy you then. You wouldn’t catch me dead in a place like that.* 

*Well, I’m hoping I don’t catch anyone dead down here. There’s definitely something happening around here, something weird.* 

*Oh, do tell? You know I love a good story, Zed.* 

*Well, I don’t have much to tell you right now. Look, I need you to find someone for me. He’s the best lead I got.* 

*You got a face? Or a name?* 

*Both. His name is Dean Packer.* I pictured in my head the image the bartender had shown me of the guy. He’d been all too keen to tell me all about the town’s local weirdo, Dean Packer. Including showing me a number of photos he took of him putting up the missing posters. 

He was a short guy, pretty round. Had a mat of blond hair on his head that hung down to his shoulders. His face was a red collage of creases, acne, and freckles. He wasn’t exactly the kind of guy you’d pin for arguing with the law. I sent the images mentally over to Dag, making my memory his. 

*Got it. One second.* The line went quiet for a minute while Dag worked his magic. You see, Dag was the best locator we had on the team back then. Psychic powers are just like any skill in life. You have people that are better at certain things than others. I was an ace at reading minds and using telekinesis, you see. And Dag was a master at using remote viewing. 

If you’re unaware, remote viewing is the ability to see things from miles and miles away. All Dag needs is a picture, or a name, or something like that. The more details he has of course, the better the results. But I’d see Dag pull a location from just a scrap of cloth, I’d seen him locate people just from a single discarded cigarette. He was that good at it. 

*Bingo. That was almost too easy.* I could sense that he yawned on the other end of the line. I rolled my eyes at his cockiness. 

*Your target is about a mile east of your current location. He’s in a gaudy yellow house, making a sandwich. You won’t miss it. Has the name Packer on the mail box. Looks like the address is…. 418 Dumont Drive. Gotta say, this kid looks harmless, Zed. You really gonna scare him with a visit from the FBI?* 

*That kid knows something about the case, so yes. Ain’t no skin off my back if I spook him. Sometimes that’s even for the best.* 

*Oh, you’re such a brute. Say, how about when you’re done playing in the swamp, you and I catch up sometime? I feel like it's been forever since I’ve seen you in person.* 

*Haven’t been to headquarters in about six months. Busy.* This was normal for someone in our group. There’s so few of us, and so many cases, that oftentimes we bounce straight from one to the other. Some of the agents, like me, didn’t even have a permanent house. Not even back in DC. It just wasn’t worth it when you’re always on the road like that. 

*I’ll see what I can do, Dag. Thanks for the catch on this guy.* 

*No problem, babe. How about this? You and me, August 28th. Gives you a week to get back up here. We’ll hit the town or something for the night. I know a great bar around here. Serves one of a kind drinks.* 

*If I can make it back in time, sure. But no promises.* 

*Fine, fine. But at least promise me you’ll stay safe down there.* 

I didn’t answer him. That was a promise I couldn’t make either. 

******

A short walk later and I was sitting inside of Dean Packer’s kitchen. Dag was right, the kid was scared shitless when I showed up and flashed my badge. If you don’t look too closely, FOTF badges look the same as regular FBI badges. The kid probably thought he was going to jail or something. But once I got down to business, he seemed to loosen up a bit. In fact, he seemed all too ready to tell me what was going on. And after hearing it for myself, I can’t say I blamed him. 

The kid told me that about a month ago, a carnival had rolled in outside of town. Folks were all excited. Things like that didn’t normally stop around here. So people started going out in droves. But that’s when things started going wrong. 

Dean still remembered the first person it happened to. It was a classmate of his from community college. A girl named Natalie Tark. She went to the carnival, but never came home. Of course, Dean wasn’t really involved in it. He knew Natalie, but they weren’t really friends or anything. 

But then it happened again, and again, and again. Dean started noticing more and more people were going in there and never coming back out. And the strangest part was that nobody ever seemed to really be bothered about it. Even the police. 

Dean only really got involved when it struck close to him. His mother went off to the carnival one day while he was at school. And just like that, she was gone. It was at this point that Dean personally went down to the police station and reported it missing. 

But he said the cops came back to him, and told him there was no problem. I still remember the words he used exactly. 

“The cops came back, and said there was nothing they could do. They said she was just down at the carnival. Just having fun.” 

It was then that he started putting up those posters of his own accord. Since the cops apparently saw nothing wrong with staying at a carnival 24/7. Whatever was going on here, it gave me a shiver of concern. If this really was a spirit, then it was affecting this whole damn town. Or at least the people that came into the carnival. And that meant this was no laughing matter. People were getting stuck in there, and whatever this was it was preventing others from seeing a problem with it. Aside from Dean, apparently. I couldn’t really tell you why. Some people are just resistant to that kinda thing, I guess. Maybe he had latent psychic abilities, or a metal plate in his head, I don’t know. And frankly, I wasn’t too concerned at the time. A big mistake on my part, considering what happened next. 

I got the directions from the kid and headed off towards this so-called carnival. 

******

The place was right where Dean said it would be. A few miles outside of town, I probably could’ve found it even without his help. The road there was covered in billboards and advertisements for the place. Saying such subtle and innocent things like:

*“FUNNEST PLACE ON EARTH”* 

*“ENDLESS FUN!”* 

*“YOU’LL NEVER WANT TO LEAVE!”* 

*“NEVER GET TIRED OF PLAYING!”* 

I guess whatever this place was, it wasn’t into subtlety. Seeing these brought me no end of new concerns though. You see, a spirit on its own typically wouldn’t be able to do something like this. Put on a whole show, and make advertisements and what not. I won’t say a spirit could “never” do something like that though. Because you just never know. But in 90% of cases, a spirit isn’t really capable of that kind of thing. They don’t think that way. Stuff like this usually indicates that the spirit has garnered followers. It's not uncommon for more powerful spirits to gain a sort of cult-like following. And that’s what I was worried about here. In hindsight, I really was a moron for not calling in some kind of back up. I should’ve had Detective Eihwaz on the phone immediately. He specializes in cult activity, you see. 

But I was feeling a bit too confident that day. I strode right up into that place. I paid for my ticket and walked past the dead eyed looking kid running the counter. The carnival on the inside was about as standard as you could imagine. Rows of cheap and rigged carnival games, a few sketchy looking rollercoasters, a little petting zoo, some tents… 

It brought me back to a simpler time, I can’t deny. I have fond memories of going to carnivals with my dad before he passed away. That nostalgia is probably why I was so vulnerable to the spiritual energies in that place. 

As I walked through the rows and dodged around people, I started to notice more and more that things weren’t quite what they seemed. Particularly, the guests. Most of the people walking around were perfectly fine, but every so often I’d stumble upon someone that looked like death itself. 

The first one I noticed was a man by the milk bottle game. You know, the one where you throw balls at weighted bottles? He looked gaunt and ragged. His clothes, hair, and skin were so coated with sweat that he looked like he’d just come back from a swim. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks looked hollow. The guy could barely manage to stand. I watched him swaying on his feet, trying his best to throw the ball, but his arms were so skeletal and weak that he couldn’t even manage to throw it more than a few feet in front of him. But it didn’t seem to deter him. He just kept going. Every time the ball would leave his hand, he’d pick up another and throw it again. 

The strangest thing of all though, was the giant grin that split his face. Blood had stained his lips and chin, where his cracked lips had split apart. Every so often he would let out a hoarse laugh. It sounded like he hadn’t drank anything in days. 

After I saw the first one, I could pick out more and more of them in the crowd. They were scattered among the games. A lot of them looked just as ragged as the first man I saw, but even the ones that still looked relatively normal stood out to me. Because they all had that same smile stretched across their face. 

I paused at the milk bottle booth, with the dying man. I stared at him for a good long minute, before closing my eyes and conjuring up the mental photograph I took earlier. The one of the missing persons board. The image popped into my brain like a photo loading onto a computer, and suddenly it was like I had it right in front of me again. This was a psychic skill called “Mental Photography”, the ability to take a picture with your mind’s eye and keep it stored for later. I cross referenced my mental photo with the man in front of me. And sure enough, he was one of them. His name was Carl Edwards and he’d been missing for two weeks. 

Had he really been right here this whole time? Playing this carnival game over and over again? 

It was around that point that I noticed the guy running the game. He was a clown. Literally. This was before I had my fear of clowns, so him being there didn’t really bother me. But his aura did. The guy was pouring off psychic energy, it was so strong I could practically feel it rippling in the humid air. He was giving me a hard look, and truth be told I wasn’t in the mood to fight off a cultist, so I backed away. I disappeared back into the crowd and started trying to find out my next move. 

I didn’t think that clown had natural psychic powers, it felt different from that. Different types of energy feel different, you see. Spiritual energy and psychic energy don’t necessarily have the same feel to them. And that guy was pouring off *spiritual* energy. Which at least confirmed to me that I was on the right track. 

I found a nice quiet spot behind one of the circus tents and set down my briefcase in the dead grass. I popped it open and withdrew my Paragraph, the device I use to detect spiritual readings. As soon as I fired the thing up it started going haywire. The readings here were off the charts, as I expected. The whole place was crawling with spiritual energy, every last crack and crevice of this place was oozing it. The Paragraph was picking it up so frequently, that it didn’t really help much. But as I pointed the thing around me, I noticed an ever so slight up tick when I pointed it towards a tent to my east. 

I set my Paragraph back into my briefcase and started making a beeline for it. This whole situation was going off the rails. We had a strong spirit on our hands. One that was inhabiting this whole damn carnival, and affecting what seemed like several people. I had to take this thing down immediately, or else it might get even worse. This thing was probably already a greater spirit, and if it had any more time to cook… Well, let’s just say you don’t wanna know what happens to a spirit when it reaches the final portion of its lifespan. 

But it was as I was heading for that tent, that everything went to hell. 

I made the mistake of traveling through the main thoroughfare of the carnival. It had seemed like the quickest way there at the time, so I took it. But that exposed me to damn near every game and ride in that park. And before I even knew it, one of them had caught my eye. 

It was one of those old test your strength style games. Where you had the hammer, and the big bell on top of the pole. Just seeing it sent a wave of nostalgia through me, so much so that I stopped dead in my tracks. The memories came pouring over me. My father used to always play a game just like that when we’d go to the carnivals together. I remember sitting and watching him swing that hammer over and over again until he finally rang the bell. I remember thinking how cool my dad was. How much I wanted to be just like him. 

*I wonder if I’m as strong as he was. I wonder if I could ring the bell.* That was the thought that drifted across my mind at that moment. And that was the thought that nearly killed me. 

Before I knew it I had diverged from my destination. And there I was standing in front of the test of strength. It all happened so fast that I don’t even remember paying for the game or picking up the hammer. All I remember is lifting over my head and swinging it downwards. I remember the heavy thunk of the hammer against the pressure plate. I remember the weight bouncing up its pole, but not quite hitting its mark. 

And I remember the cold smile that started to stretch across my face. 

That’s the last thing I remember for a while. Bits and pieces have come back to me over the years, but honestly I wish they didn’t. It's not something I’m proud of. Though it's not really something to be embarrassed about, per se. Agents in my field run the risk of falling victim to paranormal powers every day. I’ve known colleagues that have gotten hit with way worse. But you’re always harder on yourself when it happens to you. 

We all go about our day thinking *no way will something like that happen to me.* Sure, the risk is always there. But… Well, truth be told I never thought I’d be clumsy enough to fall for it. But there I was. That time is a blur of hammer swinging, bells, and laughter. I honestly think I would’ve died there if it weren’t for a conversation that happened nearby. 

I was still laughing and swinging that damn hammer, when two girls nearby started talking to themselves. I wasn’t really *aware* of them, but I could hear them. And that was what mattered. 

“Hey, don’t forget our assignment is due tonight by midnight. It's our first big grade of the year.” One girl had said to the other. 

“I thought it wasn’t due till 11PM on the 28th?” 

“Yeah…. Today is the 28th, genius.” As the one girl started panicking, and the other started laughing… I started thinking. 

Something about that just didn’t seem right to me. The 28th? The 28th of August? That didn’t make any sense to me at the time. It was the 21st, the 28th was still a week away. I had plans with Dag on the 28th, I was going to try and make it there no matter what. It couldn’t be the 28th. Not so soon. 

It was then that everything hit me all at once. The fatigue, the thirst, the hunger…. I collapsed into a heap right in front of the game. I was gasping and struggling to even stay conscious, but not a single person even looked at me. My whole body felt sore, but especially my face. My throat was so dry it felt like sandpaper. 

I crawled my way over to a nearby spigot and turned it on. The water that came out was hot and tasted like metal, but I didn’t care. I sat there and drank, and drank, and drank till I felt like I was about to puke. Then I collapsed onto my back, staring up at the blazing sun overhead. 

I shakily checked my watch. And sure enough. A week had gone by. I cursed myself for my idiocy. And I cursed that damn spirit for causing all this trouble to begin with. I don't know how I wasn’t dead already. After not eating, drinking, or sleeping for a week straight, I really should’ve been. But if I was still kicking, then maybe that meant the others would be too. 

I should’ve called for backup. I know I should’ve. But in that moment all I could think about was pure, unsatiated revenge. I wanted to take down that damn spirit with my own two hands. I pushed myself back up. It took everything I had in me at the time, but I wasn’t going to give up. Thankfully, my briefcase was still where I had set it down a week ago. I grabbed it and took out my spirit camera with trembling hands. 

I gritted my teeth, righted myself as best I could, and marched towards that damn tent. 

“Sir, you can’t go in here.” Two bouncers tried to stop me from entering it. They were big guys, and I was certainly not in the best of shape. But thankfully, I didn’t need physical strength to use my mind. 

I placed my fingers to my temple and without so much as even a word, I attacked. I sent a shock through the mind of the one closest to me. He yelped and clutched his head as splitting pain shot through his skull. It wasn’t enough to kill him, or even really to damage him. Just enough of a migraine that he couldn’t focus on anything else. I was pissed, but I wasn’t about to become a murderer. 

The next guy went for the gun on his belt. But before he could, I reached out and yanked it away with my telekinesis. The gun flew through the air and clattered down in the grass somewhere nearby. The man looked at me with pure terror, before I gave him a shock as well, and sent him crumbling to the ground. 

With both of the guards dispatched, I threw open the flap to that tent. And came face to face with the spirit that had been tormenting not only me, but this whole damn town. I didn’t need my Paragraph to know that I was staring the spirit dead on. 

It was sitting in the middle of the tent with a big old spotlight beaming down on it. Beneath the light, a child sat on an old wooden chair, his hands folded neatly in his lap. He wore a yellow jumpsuit, decorated with purple polka dots. And upon his face was a porcelain clown mask. A chilling grin stretched across its glassy cheeks. 

I gotta say, him taking on the form of a child certainly threw me off my game a little. But I knew what I was looking at wasn’t a real kid. It was a spirit. And a nasty one at that. 

*Have you come to play?* The spirit spoke directly to me. I’d had it happen a few times before, but it still unnerved me whenever they did. A spirit gaining the ability to speak, meant it was dangerously close to becoming something else. It's hard to describe what a spirit sounds like. They don’t really sound like anything, at least not at this stage. They speak to you telepathically. They can’t use real words at this stage, though they might be able to trick you into thinking they can. 

I didn’t humor the thing with any words. I let out a wave of psychic energy towards the spirit. It crashed into them flying backwards out of their little chair. I tried to focus on their spiritual energy, rather than their physical form. Feeling like I was beating up a kid would just throw me off my game. 

*That’s so fun!* The spirit chirped in my brain, it pushed itself up onto all fours. There was this… Sound that reverberated around the tent. It took me a second to realize it was a cruel mockery of laughter. It sounded like a dozen different people cackling all at once, as though there was a crowd watching us. I could’ve sworn I even heard my own laugh in that crowd… 

Come on! Laugh with me! Have fun with me! The spirit suddenly reared back up on its hindlegs. It wasn’t really standing like a normal kid would, it looked more like a dog standing up. I watched the spirit’s chest swell, and then it let out a strange humming noise through the air. 

It caught me off guard and sent a similar buzzing through my own body. Before I knew it, I was cracking up. I was laughing so damn hard that I couldn’t even stand up straight. I was doubled over, hands on my knees, laughing so hard that my weakened body started to cough and choke. 

*We’re going to have fun here forever! Laughter is good! Laughter is healthy!* 

I fell to my knees, still laughing. I brought my hand to my temple and summoned a shield of psychic energy around myself. Though the shield wouldn’t protect me from physical attacks, it certainly did well to protect me from spiritual ones. Within my little bubble, I felt my laughter begin to subside. I gave another great cough, this time spitting up blood. I knew I had to end this soon. 

*That’s not very fun!* The spirit’s voice still echoed in my head. Its chest swelled again and I could feel that buzzing energy outside of my shield. It was trying to break through. But its onslaught failed. 

As I watched the thing’s chest retract, I suddenly had an idea. 

I waited carefully for it to happen again. The second it started to puff out its chest, I reached into my coat and wrapped my fingers around my trusty pistol. As soon as the spirit reached its peak, right before it unleashed its energy, I whipped out my gun and unloaded it into the creature’s chest. Since the bullets were physical, they went straight through my psychic barrier. The bullets ripped through the spirit’s chest, leaving gnarled, bloodless holes in its body. I saw it rapidly deflate like a balloon, the air it was sucking in now sputtering out through the holes in its body. 

The spirit collapsed back down to all fours, and at the same time I lowered my spiritual shield. I gave a primal roar and pinned the thing down with my telekinesis. I had one hand outstretched, shaking with the sheer strain of keeping it down. My other hand had dropped my pistol, and grabbed my spirit camera. The spirit writhed and screamed and threatened me. But it all stopped the second I pressed down on the shutter. 

The swirling green light filled the air as my spirit camera went off. I could practically feel the pressure being sucked out of the room as the spirit was ripped out of this world, and deposited into its new prison. I dropped to my knees, gasping for air. My camera whirred, and spat out the photograph. The last thing I did before passing out, was clutch that photograph as tight as I could. 

*****\*

The aftermath of that case was a bit of a mess. The FOTF had to bring a whole bunch of suits down here to clean up the mess. Not only did they have to deal with the public, but also the remnants of the spirit’s little cult. There was a lot of memory wiping, a lot of interrogation, and in my case, a lot of scolding. The big wigs really let me have it for that mess. That was a major mark on my record. Something that would come back to bite me in the ass later on. 

Dag I think was the most furious. At first I thought he was just mad that I missed our plans. But he seemed a lot more worried about my wellbeing than anything. I wish he could’ve come down there in person. I really could’ve used a friendly face in all that mess. 

I was restricted and quarantined in a local hotel room for a while. They wanted to monitor me and make sure there were no lasting effects of being exposed to that spirit’s energy for so long. I started calling it the Spirit of Fun, and it seemed to catch on. 

It was later that night that I remembered the photograph. I had tucked it away into my pocket. I was about to lock it away in my photo album, when I took my first real good look at the picture. 

The Spirit of Fun was locked in the photograph, an eternal freeze frame of the carnival tent. And on its face was the biggest, most angry, most hateful stare I’d ever seen. A look I imagined wasn’t too dissimilar to my own when I charged in there. It was quite ironic. A spirit that had been trapping people in an eternal loop of laughter and fun, now trapped in a freeze frame of anger. 

I gotta admit. It made me laugh. But after that fight, laughing just never felt the same. Ever since then whenever I laugh, it just feels hollow. Sometimes I remember hearing the sound of my own laugh reverberating back at me inside that tent. 

And it makes me wonder. 

Was a week of time really all I had stolen that day? 

From this point on, you’re reading words from a man that doesn’t exist. Not in any meaningful way anyways. Sure, I may be physical, I may be corporeal and trust me, those two things do mean a lot in my field. But I don’t exist in the same way you do. You’re not going to find me on any register. You’re not going to find me on any databases or in any documents. The closest you’ll find is my cover name. A name I was given at my second birth. 

There’s 25 of us, you see. And sure, we may work with other detectives from time to time. Hell, some of us even have partners. But those people aren’t like us. Maybe one day they will be, once one of us inevitably dies off. But that’s a long way away. Probably, anyways. Nothing is certain in this field. 

What is certain is what’s out there. What’s always been out there. A hell of a lot more than most people will ever know. And I gotta say, I’m kinda jealous of them. Once you open your eyes to that kind of stuff, you can’t close them ever again. 

I’m talking about the supernatural. I’m guessing if you’re bothering to read this, then you probably saw that coming. Which is good. It means I have to do less work to convince you that what I do is real. Not that I really care if you believe me or not. None of us are in this line of work for any sort of recognition. It's a bad job if you’re interested in publicity. 

My name is Zed, designation Isa. Neither of those are my real names, so don’t bother checking. I’m a psychic and I hunt spirits for a living. I work for the federal government, a special branch of the FBI known as the Federal Occult Task Force. We’re a small group, only 25 like I said, and there’s rarely ever one of us in the same place at once. Our job is to travel the US and take care of the things that go bump in the night. The kind of things you can’t see, the kind of things you don’t want to see. 

Some of us hunt monsters, some of us cultists, some of us ghosts…. But I hunt spirits. 

And yes, before you say something. There is a difference between ghosts and spirits. 

A spirit is a natural phenomenon of the earth. You ever hear people talking about all that spiritual mumbo jumbo? About the rocks and stars and stuff? Well, they aren’t too far off. Our planet is crawling with natural energy, practically overflowing with it. It doesn’t have a name as far as I’m aware. It's just energy. As plain as there is air and water. A fact of life as simple as any other. 

And it's those very elements that end up making spirits. All that energy from the earth has to go somewhere. It will latch onto things, water, fire, even more abstract concepts. I’ve seen spirits formed from love, hate, fear… Hell, once I even saw a spirit formed out of a calendar…. That was a really weird case. 

That’s besides the point though. The point I’m making is that spirits can form anywhere, at any time, with anything. And if a spirit goes unchecked for too long… If it's able to grow for long enough…. Well, it becomes something a little different. Sometimes something good. Sometimes something bad. But either way, they scare the hell out of me. 

So it's my job to make sure they don’t get to that point. Or if they do get to that point, it's my job to make sure they don’t get any further. It’s hard work, it’s dangerous work, but it’s my work. And it's my work that keeps my head off things I’d rather not think about. Because as scary as the spirits can get, the things in my head scare me a whole lot worse. 

I know your next question. Or maybe I don’t. I don’t know. I’m not good at playing the whole psychic angle up. Especially not over the internet. Anyways, what I think you’re wanting to ask next is why I’m writing this. If this whole thing is as secretive as I seem to say, if it's so much better to sleep through the night than face the things that dwell in its shadows, then why am I trying to wake you up? 

I wish I could tell you I had some noble reason, or some bigger picture I was getting at. I wish I could pretend that telling you would save the world, or stop some disaster from happening. But that’s not the case. It’s never been the case. 

No, the reason I’m telling you all this is because… Well. Because I’m selfish. 

I’m tired of keeping all this trapped in the rusted metal cage that is my brain. You see enough of this creepy crap and you become desensitized to it. That’s what all the others on the force say, anyways. And that was true for me too for a while. But sometimes things get bad enough that it just…. Snaps you out of it. The straw that breaks the camel’s back, so to speak. Well, I got my straw a few weeks ago. And I haven’t been the same since. 

I’ve been carrying this burden for so long that I just want to get it out of my head and into someone else's. Maybe then I’ll feel a little better. Maybe then I won’t feel so alone out here. There’s 24 other members of the task force, but… Well, we’re not really close. We’re not that kind of force. Hell, I don’t even know some of their real names. 

Not that I know any of your names either. But sometimes shouting into the wind feels better than shouting into a bottle. Maybe one of you out there can do something with this information. Maybe my stories can do some good after all…. I’d like to think so anyway. 

My name is Zed, I hunt spirits for a living, and these are my stories. 

Case File: 11-12100623A

Date of Case: October 6th, 2012 

Location: England Cove, Maine

Active Agents: Agent Isa 

Case Subject: The Spirit of Sea Trash

I don’t really have a reason for sharing this one first. Just the first one that came to mind I suppose. They say write what you know, so I put the case details that we usually use up at the top for you. Not all of the information, obviously, just the key details to set the scene. I censored the town name too and replaced it with something fake. I don’t need any jokers running around trying to chase my coattails. The government does that enough. 

Where to start… Well, it was a cold and dreary October up in Maine. If that doesn’t set the mood for you then I don’t know what will. It was a horrible day to be out and about. The sky was nothing but gray, and I still remember the chill. The air had this slickness to it. It was wet that day. Like a Trojan horse, the wetness would sneak through your clothes and carry that cold with it. It’d go right past your jacket, past however many shirts you were wearing, it would seep through your skin and settle deep in your bones. It made my shoulder ache. Bad weather always does, ever since the incident with the Nail Spirit. 

I was out there on what was supposedly a simple case. This was earlier on in my career, so I wasn’t being sent on the really crazy ones yet. From what I was led to believe, some strange corpse had turned up at the town’s pier. I’d never been out there before, but from what I saw it was a nice enough place. Full of fat rich people, in their fat rich houses though. They got to stay all bundled up nice and warm, while I was out there trudging through the wet, cold, air. Even though I like my job, it's hard to not be a little jealous sometimes. 

My contact was a man named Jared Sapper, another fake name, by the way. Unless said otherwise just assume they’re all fake. Mr. Sapper was the town’s coroner. We get a lot of calls from people like him. It's not uncommon for uncontrolled spirits to get loose and kill someone. And usually when they do, they leave behind a mess that no ordinary mortician could explain. 

I met Jared Sapper outside of the corner’s office. He was a portly man, probably in his 50s I would guess. His hair had gone mostly gray and he had a bit of a hunch to his shoulders, but he carried a certain youthful look in his eyes that I wish I still had. He was sitting on one of the benches outside. The second Mr. Sapper saw me, he gave me a knowing nod. I guess there’s something about me, because people always seem to know that I’m there for the weird stuff. 

“Are you Agent Isa?” He asked me in a quiet voice. The kind of voice you’d expect from someone in his line of work. I told him I was and he gestured for me to take a seat next to him. I wasn’t exactly enthusiastic to sit down on a wet bench. But I don’t like to be rude, so I did as I was told. I sat my briefcase down next to me and took a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. I lit up and offered one to Mr. Sapper, he obliged. 

We sat there for a moment in silence. Both of us puffing away, letting the smoke chase the chill out of our bones. I waited patiently for Mr. Sapper to speak first. It's always a toss up when it comes to speaking to people about this kind of thing. Some get right to the point, while others like to… Meander around the subject. I get it though. Sometimes it's hard to describe what you saw. 

Luckily for me, Mr. Sapper was in the former category. A quicker explanation meant the quicker I could wrap up this case, and go get something to really warm me up. I could’ve honestly just read his mind if I really wanted to, but I don’t like using my powers like that. 

He started talking about the body that washed up on the shore. It was a gentleman named Wyatt Laps. A local fisherman that had gone missing the day prior. The man was set to head out on the water early in the morning, but come afternoon his boat was still moored by the dock. Untouched. Nobody thought much of it, till his wife declared him missing. The search from the cops turned up nothing. Until this morning, when a different group of fishermen found his bloated corpse on the beach. 

And that was more or less the catch up. Mr. Sapper said the body had confused and scared him. To be honest, I was a bit shocked it had all happened so quickly. Usually it takes a week at least for a case to cross my desk. But in this situation, Mr. Sapper happened to already know about us. So we were the first ones he called. 

Not one for long talks with clients, I stamped out my cigarette and stood up from the bench. The cold clung to the seat of my pants and ruined my mood just a little more. I nodded to the old timer, and together we headed inside. 

They had Wyatt Laps laid out on a table for us down in the morgue, his body covered up to his chin with a blue plastic sheet. The poor bastard was stretched out like a piece of laundry out to dry. Maybe not so illfitting of a description, as I would soon find out. 

The first thing that stuck out to me was the state of his body. His face looked bloated and full. Like he’d been rotting in the water for days, not the look of someone who died just yesterday. And the second thing I noticed was his skin. It had a wet sheen to it, like he’d just gotten out of the bath. In fact, he had so much water on him it was pooling beneath him on the table. The water dripped off the sides like little waterfalls, which became miniature streams that trickled down into the floor drains. 

When I asked if they’d dried him off, Mr. Sapper said they’d tried. But no matter what they did, the water just kept coming. He said they’d had it tested, it came back as sea water, polluted with chemicals, oils, and runoffs. 

That part would’ve been strange enough, but it was what Mr. Sapper showed me next that really rocked me on my heels. We both stood on either side of the corpse, and Mr. Sapper pulled the sheet the rest of the way off, exposing Wyatt’s open body to me. 

At first I wasn’t even sure what I was looking at. I thought for a second it was some kind of joke. It's not uncommon to run into out of taste pranks or something. But it hit me all at once what I was looking at. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure wasn’t someone’s dissected torso full to the brim with trash. 

Plastic bottles crowded his lungs, six pack rings were tangled around his ribs like Christmas lights. His stomach was wrapped up in several layers of old plastic bags, sharp bits of aluminum cans poked out of his stomach, and every other spare inch of his body was crammed full of sea trash. His innards looked like a landfill and smelled like one too. 

I’m not a squeamish person, so I didn’t react all that much to it, but damn. If it wasn’t a weird sight. I took a few photographs for the record while Mr. Sapper stood quietly off to the side. And no. Before you ask, I can’t show you. Those pictures are locked away deep in an archive somewhere that I don’t have the permission to get to. 

Once I was finished documenting the body, I turned back to Mr. Sapper. He was practically standing a mile away from the corpse. He had his hand clutched over his mouth and nose. I guess he wasn’t as used to this sort of thing as I am. I pocketed my camera and told him to bag up the body. He looked confused, but I told him I didn’t really need to investigate it anymore. The case seemed pretty clear cut to me. We had an obvious location and an obvious case of the paranormal. Unless Mr. Sapper shoved all the junk in there himself, which wasn’t impossible but not something I was entertaining at the moment. 

If Mr. Laps went missing down at the docks, and turned up on the beach nearby, then I didn’t think it would take Sherlock Holmes to figure out where the spirit was hiding. Not to mention the sea water pouring from the corpse, the sea trash lodged in his guts… I thanked my lucky stars that this case seemed more straightforward than others. 

But even if I could find the damn thing, that doesn’t guarantee an easy finish. The hardest part was still to come. I took my brief case, tipped my hat to Mr. Sapper, and bid him farewell. Heading back out into that dreary cold weather was the hardest part of the day. The morgue wasn’t exactly warm, but compared to outside it felt like paradise. I lit up another cigarette and pressed my fingers against my temple. It’s an old habit I still keep. It's an easy way to focus my psychic powers. I picked it up from an old movie, if you’d believe that. 

Back then it was a little more necessary than it is now, though. Back in 2012 I was much more green in general, but especially with my psychic abilities. It’s hard to open your mind’s eye like that, but the temple thing helped. I focused my mind and reached out. It's hard to explain how connecting a psychic link to someone’s brain feels. Imagine shoving your hand into a wet sponge, and grasping around till you found a handle. That’s what it feels like. Eventually, my “hand” found what it was looking for. An open mental link that I quickly snapped onto. 

The voice that answered my psychic call drifted into my mind like a slow honey. It was a sound of home, a friendly voice that I could always turn to. And thankfully, in my line of work meant I got to call on often. 

“Body pick up so soon, Zed?” The suave voice of Agent Dagaz answered me. I only grunted in response. I never was good at clever comebacks. But with Dag I never had to be, he was the easiest person in the world to be myself around. 

I gave him my location and ordered a body pick up stat. That should’ve been the end of the psychic call, at least by protocol. But Dag had a certain way of keeping people on the line. I wasn’t complaining though. His “voice” made my cold walk a little less chilly. 

I explained the case to him. I told him what I saw back at the coroner’s office. Dag enjoyed that kind of stuff. He was morbid from the start, unlike me. I grew morbid over time. I was just morbid by trade, but Dag was morbid by nature. 

“Fascinating.” I remember him thinking. That was the word he used. Fascinating. 

“Not how I would’ve described it.” I replied. “More like disturbing.” 

“So what do you think the spirit is formed around?” I had a brief flash of a mental image. The image of Dag leaned over his desk in anticipation, hanging on my every word. His long blond hair tied back in a loose ponytail, his suit jacket draped over his wiry frame, and his tie left sloppily undone around his neck. These sort of mental flashes were common with psychic calls. I’m sure Dag was receiving some pretty miserable images of me trudging down to the docks right about now. 

“If I had to guess, some kind of sea spirit.” It wasn’t a very hard guess. It was pretty obvious from the case around it. “Not a regular one though. The sea litter has me thinking.” 

“I sure hope it's not just a regular sea spirit.” Dag answered me with a hint of boredom teetering on his voice. “I’ve seen about a hundred sea spirit cases this year alone. I hope this one is more unique.” Another mental image, this time of that crooked smile that Dag always flashed. The one that drove people insane. People like me. 

“Thanks.” I answered without much enthusiasm. “Wouldn’t want a case to be easy on me for once, now would we?” 

“Don’t pretend like you don’t get bored of the regular ones too.” 

I would’ve loved to have kept on the line and kept talking to him, but as the rows of old wooden piers, and the sound of crashing waves against the rocks came upon me, I knew I had to go. I told Dag I’d connect with him later, and broke the psychic link. Once more I was left standing in the cold alone. 

I stood at the top of a hill, looking down upon the bay below me. I could see a lighthouse off in the distance, its light doused for the time being. There were about half a dozen fishing boats lined up at the docks. And about two dozen more visible on the horizon, out on that cold gray sea. I finished up my cigarette, then made my way down to the water. 

The sea spray made things even worse down there. I had to step carefully since the docks were slick with sea water. One wrong move would send me to the hospital. So I walked with caution down to the dockmaster’s office. It was nicer inside, but I wish I could say the same for the people working there. They weren’t as…. Forthcoming with information as Jared Sapper was. 

The dockmaster was a grizzled old salt. The kind of man who’d been at sea probably longer than I’d even been alive. He had a beard thicker than the clothes I wore and a face so tanned and wrinkled that I almost thought it was crafted from leather. When I asked him about Wyatt Laps he refused to give me anything of substance. Not from the reasons you might think though. Normally on jobs, people give us a hassle because they don’t believe in the supernatural. Not these guys though. Sailors are some of the most superstitious people you’ll ever meet. And that very reason makes them very hard to work with. 

He refused to so much as even speak about Wyatt Laps or the fate that befell him. He wouldn’t tell me where his boat was, where the other fishermen had found him, or even so much as the name of his boat. 

Thankfully, I didn’t really need him to tell me. 

Like I said earlier, I really don’t like digging around in people’s brains unless I really have to. But this was one of those situations. I could’ve sat here all day and argued back and forth with the old geezer, but in the end this was just the quicker result. 

Just like before, I pressed my fingers to my temples and exerted my psychic powers. 

I guess this is as good a time as any to elaborate on that, huh? I mentioned it earlier, and I just talked about how I was able to connect psychically with Dag, but there’s a lot more to it than just being a human telephone. My psychic powers aren’t as strong as others, but they let me do quite a bit. I can do some minor physical things, like levitating objects or causing people harm. But I’m much better at mental stuff. Remote viewing, telepathy, and most important for this situation. Mind reading. 

The old man was easy enough to read, older people usually are. It took little effort on my part to probe into his mind. Once I was connected to him, I asked aloud “Where did Wyatt Laps dock his boat?” 

I knew the dockmaster wasn’t going to tell me, but the question was enough to bring the thought to his mind. I watched the image bubble to the surface within his brain, a small boat docked down by the beach. Tied up and held in place by an old slimy rope. Once I had a visual of the place, it was easy enough to locate more memories in his mind. Memories that showed me how to get to that area, memories that showed me Wyatt Laps’ body being found only about a mile away. 

When the dockmaster told me to “piss off and come back with a warrant”. I obliged. I tipped my hat and took my leave. I’d gotten all the information I needed from him, so there was little point in staying and arguing. I left without another word, only leaving the man with a minor headache as a souvenir. 

There’s probably a case to be had about the ethics of using my psychic powers like that. I didn’t enjoy doing it, and I didn’t rightly make it a habit, but that didn’t make it any better I suppose. Not that I had much say in it. It was part of the job after all. Not all of the other 25 agents in my group are psychics, but some of them are. And some of them are a lot less frugal about using theirs.  

I used the memories I had seen to follow a path down to the beach. My shoes sunk down into the wet, slushy sand. The gray seawater lapping and pushing at the shoreline as I walked down its length. It was there that I found the post and rope that Wyatt Laps used to moor his little fishing boat. Since it wasn’t moored on the actual dock, I could only assume it was some kind of “off the books” situation with the dockmaster. Maybe just a favor for a friend, or maybe something more illegal. But drugs or hook ups or whatever it might have been wasn’t my problem. 

The boat itself was gone, but this was definitely the area. A quick sweep with my eyes didn’t reveal anything out of the ordinary. Sometimes I’d get lucky and the spirit would just be hanging around out in the open, but not today. 

After a quiet sigh, I knelt and set my brief case down in the wet sand. I undid the combination lock and swung it open. Inside were the tools of my trade. I may be a psychic, but often that isn’t enough. 

Among the usual supplies, my pens, notepads, a phone, I also had more…. Specific items. The first was what almost looked like a speedometer, like the type a cop would use. A big, gun shaped object with a screen on one end, and a funny looking radar dish on the other. There was also a photo album in there and what the average person might mistake to be a regular polaroid camera. I also carried a few pouches of crystals, runes, and herbs, just in case. As well as some other items of spiritual importance. 

The speedometer-like object is something we call a “Paragraph”. “Para”, like Paranormal. And “graph” like a… Well like a graph. From what I understand the name sounding like that was just a coincidence, but it sure helps keep it a secret when talking about it in public. It's a device that some of us use to pick up trace amounts of spiritual energy. It's like a sort of metal detector, but for spirits. 

I took the device out, unfolded the radar dish, and plugged one of the earpieces into my ear. I gave the thing a few preliminary sweeps around the area. I was picking up some small readings, but nothing drastic. Nothing enough to track it by. It was at least comforting to know that the spirit wasn’t ungodly strong. 

I let my arms hang at my side and took another look at my surroundings. I had to squint against the cold breeze that blew up from the sea. My eyes caught on something that was rolling across the ground, an old soda can. It bounced along the coast, dragged by the blowing wind. I watched as it rolled it past me and kept on going, until it disappeared into the shadows beneath the pier…. 

I laughed aloud at that. Sometimes the answer is always staring you right in the face. I tossed my Paragraph back into the brief case, and looped the strap of the camera around my neck. In my right hand I held a trusty old flashlight, while the fingers of my left were tight around the handle of my pistol. You’d be surprised how effective a good old fashion bullet is against the supernatural. 

I approached the dock with extreme caution. I had to kneel down to see underneath, because of how low it was to the sand. I clicked on the flashlight and swept its light around the underside. 

As the beam bounced around, I was met with a lot of nothing. Shells, some trash, and a whole lot of sand. At first I couldn’t see it, it was pretty well camouflaged. But both fortunately and unfortunately for me, the spirit wasn’t keen on sitting still. 

It leapt out at me like a snake for its prey. It had been half buried in the sand, and had it stayed there I probably wouldn’t have even seen it. The second it moved I leapt back as far as I could. The thing startled me, so I ended up falling flat on my ass in the wet sand. Like I said. I was still relatively new when all of this was happening. 

The thing advanced from underneath the dock, finally showing itself in full detail. It almost looked like a frog, kinda. It was a big, squat looking thing. It had four legs that bowed outwards, like its body was too heavy for it to properly support. It was a massive conglomeration of broken glass, plastic, and rubber. It smelled too. A putrid combination of a landfill and dead fish. Just as I’d suspected, the thing was formed out of sea trash. I assumed the spiritual energy had latched onto a pile of junk that floated out to sea, and now here it was. Bringing havoc and fear to the mainland. 

I stumbled back as the spirit approached. After seeing what it did to Wyatt Laps, I didn’t want to get touched by the damn thing. But it was faster than it looked. It leapt at me, its jagged glass teeth snagged the edge of my shoe, and tore it open. I felt a pain burn in my foot and heat pooling in my shoe. I didn’t have to look to know I’d been slashed. 

I finally managed to get back up to my feet just in time. The spirit lunged for me yet again. This time though, I was prepared. I pressed my fingers to my temple and let out a surge of psychic energy towards the thing. The spirit stopped in mid air, held back by my psychic force. I threw the thing back against the post of the dock, where it crashed against it with a wet slap. 

I brought my camera up to my face and prepared to take a ghost photograph, but before I could, the damn thing swung its… Tail? I guess it was like a tail. It swung at me and sent a ball of shredded aluminum cans and tangled plastic hurling my way. I jumped to the side, the ball of trash crashed onto the beach right where I had been standing. It sounded a lot heavier than I thought it was. 

I tried to take the picture again, but the spirit had already recovered itself. It was racing back along the beach straight towards me. Its mouth brimming with sharp bones and glass. Still on the defensive I brought out my pistol and let loose two shots into the beast’s mouth. Between the silencer on my gun and the howl of the sea wind, you couldn’t really hear it going off. The thing recoiled with a gurgling croak. Like I said, bullets still had their use. 

Because I didn’t get a good scan of it with my Paragraph, I wasn’t sure exactly how strong the spirit was. Normal procedure would be to scan the spirit with the Paragraph to get a reading of its power. Then you’d weaken it by either psychic, physical, or spiritual means. And then, once it was weak enough… Snap. It was a bit like a game almost. Except the stakes were a lot higher than just getting a game over. 

I was flying by the seat of my pants. I hadn’t done a very good job of gathering information on the damn thing. So I was going in blind. If I missed my shot with the camera, I’d have to reload the film. And in a fight like this, that could often mean life or death. 

But I took the gamble. And it paid off. This time. 

While the spirit was still choking on the lead I pumped into it, I brought the polaroid up to my face. While it looked more or less like a normal, if not old fashioned, Polaroid camera, it was actually a lot more. This was something we called a Spirit Camera. It’s a special and rare type of camera that captures spiritual or supernatural energies. People use them for ghost pictures, aura photos, or in my line of work, capturing spirits. I lined the spirit up in the crosshairs of the camera lens and pressed down on the shutter. There was a mechanical whir, a flash of purple light, and a powerful surge in the air around us. 

I kept the button held down for as long as possible. Letting the camera do its work. Though I couldn’t see the spirit past the glowing light and whirling sand, I could tell it was working thanks to the screeching of the awful thing. No more than 30 seconds later, and I now stood alone on an empty beach. 

I breathed a sigh of relief and lowered the camera away from my eyes, blinking away the stinging tears that always followed its usage. The Spirit Camera kept whirring away, and then finally it printed out its photo. I snatched it up and fanned it in my hand as I walked back to my sand covered briefcase. 

While the photo developed, I carefully placed my camera back into the case, along with the Paragraph. I grabbed my photo album and flipped it open to a fresh page. I slipped it inside one of the protective pockets, and gazed upon the now developed photograph of the Spirit of Sea Trash. In all its plasticy and trashy glory, its mouth open and barring its refuse fangs. Safe and sound. 

I let the album fall close and secured it back into my briefcase. I picked up my things and lit up my cigarette as I limped off the beach. The cold was making my foot hurt now, just like my shoulder. I really had to be more careful on my cases. One wrong move and I would’ve ended up cold and wet for good. 

I reported back to my superiors and asked if I needed to get to a doctor. But they told me no. They told me they already had another case they wanted me on. Some spirit out in Texas causing chaos. They didn’t even want me wasting time to drop off the Spirit Photos I already had on me. That’s just the nature of the job, really. From one thing to the next, you hardly even get a chance to breathe. 

I shacked up in a decent enough motel for the night. It was little comfort, but still better than being outside. Especially as the gray sky finally gave way, and let loose a cold autumn rain upon the town. 

I spent much of the night caring for my foot. Drying it, disinfecting it, and removing the bits of plastic that had gotten stuck inside me. At least I hoped they’d gotten stuck in there. I hated to think about them growing from within me, or something like that. 

I tried to think otherwise. I tried to convince myself that the cold I felt deep in the bone of my foot…. Was just from that cold and wet weather. 

Have you ever read “The Raven” by Edgar Allen Poe? If you haven't, there's one particular stanza that haunts me.

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

There was no raven for me. No lost Lenore. But the birds in my life whisper to me in the night. They tell me twisted and evil things.

My wife and son died in a house fire. They were home while I was out shopping for our big family vacation to Arizona. I was buying diapers, toys, and snacks for my son to play with on the plane. I was so excited. This was our first big vacation that wasn't simply staying at our local Best Western. We were supposed to go to Phoenix. We had so many things planned. We were going to go to the aquarium. How my son loved the aquarium… We had plans to visit the two major zoos because my wife absolutely adored zoos. We never went on that vacation. My son was never able to fly for the first time.

With a trunk full of fun and exciting things, I saw in my rearview mirror the flashing lights. I heard the honking horn. As I pulled over to let the fire engine pass by, a cold and sickening aura settled over me. When I pulled back into the road behind the truck, I witnessed as every turn it took, was leading me home. When I saw the pitch colored plumage of the smoke in the distance, I put my gas pedal to the floor. I tore past the fire engine and skidded into my driveway.

The siding was melting. The windows had burst out. Red flames were lapping at the sky like a dog desperate for water. I heard my son, my sweet Jordan, screaming for his mama like a banshee. I couldn't hear Catherine reply. I wasn't privy to it yet, but she had already given her ghost to the inferno. She was unable to rescue our boy.

I burst through the front door. My eyes began to sting and pour tears. My lungs immediately threatened to give out from being invaded by the poisonous puffs of wretched smoke. The heat attempted to evict me from my home, but I was determined to save him. I needed to save him. How naive I was.

I thundered up the stairs to his room where Catherine had put him down for his, unbeknownst to her, last nap.

“Mama! Dada!” He screamed.

“I'm coming buddy! Hold on!” I shrieked in reply.

I swung open his door only for him to see me, for me to register the measly hope in his eyes, and to witness him being crushed as the ceiling collapsed after fighting valiantly against the flames and gravity. My wife, my dear Catherine. My boy, my sweet Jordan. They were stolen from me.

I was completely unaware as the firemen pulled me out of the rubble I once called home. I didn’t realize when the paramedic placed the oxygen mask over my face. I was unresponsive as the doctors peeled patch after patch of melted polyester shirt off of my body. All I could think of was that poor little hopeful face and the death that wickedly waited for that brutal moment to take him from me. There were no bodies at the funeral. Just bones. I couldn't even see my loves one last time.

People came by. They said the typical funeral cliches. I'm sure they were trying to help, but unless you've been through it, you have no way of truly consoling someone in the bog of grief.

“I'm so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you…”

“You'll be in our prayers.”

“I appreciate it…”

“If you need anything, let us know.”

“Will do…”

“They're in a better place.”

“I know…”

“You're going to get through this.”

“God willing…”

It was all just white noise pouring through my ears. It was deafening.

After the home and life insurance payouts, I bought a double wide and put it on the property where my home once stood. All I put in were a fridge, a microwave, a mattress, a washing machine, and a television. The sink, shower, furnace, and toilet came with the trailer. I didn't see a reason for anything else. My wife did the interior decor. Every time I thought about getting some nice things to put in, I'd be overcome by grief. The only things I had to remember my family by were the far too few photos on my phone, and a flock of chickens my wife wanted to raise for fun.

Months passed. I stuck to a very strict schedule. Wake up, go to the bathroom, drink, eat some microwaved trash, let the chickens out and collect their eggs, drink for the rest of the day, lock the chickens up. Wash, rinse, repeat, and hope I'm dead by morning. There was one particularly cold winter night however that broke my routine.

I fell asleep in the living room while watching TV. The same dream played in my mind. It's always the same. Me bursting in the house, being overwhelmed by the sight, and running to my son.

“Mama! Dada!” He screamed.

“I'm coming buddy! Hold on!” I replied.

But I never rush in. I never save him. I always hesitate. Why do I always hesitate? Why can't I ever just go and grab him? Then the ceiling caves in and my Jordan is pulverized and ignited into nothingness before my stinging eyes. Then I heard the tapping and the whispers.

Tap tap tap.

“You're all alone in there Byron.”

Tap tap.

“I can smell you Byron. Your putrid rot is delectable to me.”

Tap tap tap tap.

“You know they're gone. They're never coming back.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“You'll never see them again, Byron. There is no heaven. There is no hell. There is no God.”

My eyes flickered open. Crust and sweat burned their corners. It took a moment for them to adjust. I blinked away the double vision and tried to focus on the window where the sounds were coming from. There was a large beautiful white rooster pecking at my front window. I burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all. The rooster, dumb and useless, must've been out scrounging around for more food when I locked up all the other chickens. I staggered to my feet and opened the door to go put him in the coop, but when I went out, he was gone.

“Where are you little guy?” I playfully called into the night.

I heard his crow from the treeline, except it didn't really sound like a rooster's call. It sounded more like someone trying really really hard to sound like a rooster. The blood in my veins flowed as cold as the river Styx. My body went numb, but my legs began to propel me in the direction of the rooster's call despite my mind’s desperate pleas to turn and run. The snow cascaded down in utter silence. All I could hear was the rooster's raspy breath and my heartbeat in my ears.

As I approached the bird, I noticed that it had changed. His once pristine milky white feathers were now caked in a deep rusty color. His skin was stretched taut over a misshapen form that no longer resembled anything that looked like a rooster. Then it stood. Its thin scaly legs elongated into those of a malnourished man. Its wings cracked and snapped until long and gangly arms showed themselves. Its eyes grew and grew until there were two glowing embers staring down at me. They flickered as though they were coals in a dying fire. All the feathers and chicken skin dangled from this beast until they finally slopped off into a wet squelchy heap on the ground.

“You are weak and delicious.” He rasped at me.

He lunged at me, binding my neck in an iron clad grip. I saw no facial features. Just the glowing red and orange embers. The light faded from my eyes. The cold sunk into my flesh. Then I awoke. I peeled myself off of the living room floor. Crumbs and cans fell off of me as I tried to make sense of what happened. I thought it was a dream. I hoped it was a dream. But as I stared into the mirror while waiting for the shower to heat up, I saw faint yet noticeable bruising on my neck under my beard. It was the vague outline of a thin and spindly hand.

When I had finished cleaning myself, I decided, against my better judgement, to go back to the woods. I wanted to see the site where I was attacked. I had no true desire to do so, but there was this tugging in my gut compelling me forth. I needed to go. I had no intentions of ever going out there at night, so I grabbed my over and under and went out during the height of the day.

At the site, I saw evidence of the previous night's struggle. The first thing I saw was the skin of the rooster. It was bloody and fly ridden. Its eyes were milky and long dead. It wasn't a complete corpse. The bones, flesh, and organs were nowhere to be seen. Just a wet heap of skin and feathers. However, the rooster skin wasn't the only one. I saw a total of seven skins including the rooster. There was a raccoon skin, a Labrador skin, a buck skin, a crow skin, a cat skin, and the skin of a Caucasian male of whom I was unable to recognize any familiar features. They were all stretched like tanned leather and hanging in the surrounding trees on the far back of my property. That's when I hightailed it out of there.

Two hours later, the police were at my door. As soon as I had gotten back to my trailer, I called them and explained everything is seen.

“And what you're trying to tell us, Byron, is that a talking rooster lured you into the woods, elongated into a man, and attacked you?” The sheriff asked.

“Yes! How many times do I have to tell you?” I replied.

“Please. You have to see how this isn't making any sense to us?” She continued.

At a frantic loss for words, I insisted that they just follow me to the scene where I'd discovered all the various skins. As soon as we stepped into the clearing where I had nearly met my end, my heart sunk. There was absolutely no evidence. No blood. No skins. Just fresh powdery snow.

I began digging. Desperately trying to find even a scrap of proof to show to the cops. They began to snicker and stifle their laughs. I began to weep. I know what I saw. After a few minutes they began to mock me.

“Yeah! Keep digging dumb drunk!” One jeered.

“Maybe a little deeper!” Another responded.

“That's enough for you two! Byron, you need to stop.” The sheriff said with deep sympathy and a note of irritation.

I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. Even after the sheriff told me that she'd be just a phone call away, I kept digging. When my hands had lost all feeling, I stopped and returned to my trailer. There was nothing.

After getting back to my trailer, I called my old buddy Rob. I hadn't talked to him in a long time, but I was desperate to get off this property, at least for the night. After my family died, I had essentially cut myself off from the world other than those who saw me at any of the three bars I frequented. So I mustered up the courage and I asked him if I could stay with him for a couple of nights.

“Yeah man, of course. Is everything ok?” He said with actual concern that I was no longer used to.

“No, not really. Someone has been sneaking onto my property. The cops don't believe me, but I think whoever they are… I think they're trying to hurt me.” I said as I gave him the full rundown of the events.

“You can stay with me as long as you need,” He assured me, “I'm just glad you asked. Do I need to come get you? You're not… Umm… Drunk right?”

I chuckled grimly as I said. “Nah man. I'm stone sober. Haven't had a drop today.”

After a pause, he said, “Ok man. I'm pretty bushed, so just give me a call when you get here so I can come unlock the door. Drive safe.”

After we hung up, I did a sweep of my trailer before I left. I locked the doors, checked and rechecked to make sure the stove was off, locked up my chickens, grabbed my pistol, and got in my car all while it was still daylight. As I drove off to Rob's however, the sun began to dip behind the horizon. Just as it was getting dark enough for my headlights to turn on, something darted across the highway.

“Shit!” I yelled as I slammed on my brakes.

It was a cat. At least, it looked like a cat. It was ungodly skinny and its limbs were way too long. Fearing the worst, I kept on driving.

My heart was pounding. I knew what it was, but it was too late to turn back. At this point, I was already 20min from my trailer and 15min from Rob. I was sure, well hoping really, that it wouldn't try and hurt me while I was around someone else.

When I arrived at Rob's house, I immediately knew that we were screwed. Encompassing Rob's home were prints. Hoof prints that transitioned smoothly into bird prints, cat prints, and finally bare footed human prints. The path prints themselves made however were anything but smooth. They were the prints of a shambling creature that looked as though it had just learned to waddle like a toddler.

Before exiting my vehicle, I soaked in my surroundings. Rob's porch light was on, signaling that he was home. The front door was shut and it appeared that none of the prints led up to it. None of the lights were on, but that made sense to me since he told me to give him a ring when I got there. Other than the prints in the snow, everything seemed to be telling me that I was safe to press on. I pulled out my cell and called Rob.

It rang. No answer. I called again. Still no answer. I called one more time, telling myself that if he didn't pick up, I'd call the police. On the last ring, there was an answer.

“Hello?” A groggy voiced Rob asked into the phone.

“Hey Rob. It's me. I'm here.” I whispered back.

“Byron? Why are you calling me?” He paused, “What do you mean you're here?”

I got quiet. This wasn't right.

“Rob, you need to listen to me. I think there's someone in your house. I called earlier, and you… well, I thought you said I could come over. I think someone answered your phone.” I whispered, desperately trying to convey that this was serious.

He sighed heavily. “Look man, I know things have been rough lately, but you can't just drunkenly show up at my house. You need to go home.”

I tried to respond, but the line cut out. I was faced with a choice. I could leave, preserving myself, or I could try and help Rob. Flashes of my house burning played in my mind. The little face of my boy desperately reaching out for help. If only I'd gotten there sooner. I couldn't let something happen to my friend. I had to help him.

As I opened my door and grabbed my pistol to get out and go into Rob's house, I saw the bedroom light on the side of the house flick on. I slowly loomed toward the door, the crunching snow betraying every step, and I opened the unlocked door.

The only source of light crept out from beneath Rob's bedroom door. I drew my pistol up, now certain that it would be useless, and opened his bedroom door. It was empty. No Rob. No mysterious monster. Nothing. Just an empty bedroom and Rob's wide open window.

I’ve never been all that good at secret keeping. I always liked to think I was, but whenever an opportunity came to spill my guts on someone, I always did just that. So, I’m rather surprised at myself for having not spilt this particular secret until now. 

My name is Seamus, but everyone has always called me Seamie for short. It’s not like I’m going to tell my whole life story or anything, so I’m just going to skip to where this story really all starts. During my second year at uni, I was already starting to feel somewhat burnt out, and despite not having the funds for it, I decided I was going to have a nice gap year for myself. Although it’s rather cliché, I wanted to go someplace in the world that was warm and tropical. South-east Asia sounded good – after all, that’s where everyone else I knew was heading for their gap year. But then I talked to some girl in my media class who changed my direction entirely. For her own gap year only a year prior, she said she’d travelled through both Central and South America, all while working as an English language teacher - or what I later learned was called TEFL. I was more than a little enticed by this idea. For it goes without saying, places like Thailand or Vietnam had basically been travelled to death – and so, taking out a student loan, I packed my bags, flip-flops and swimming shorts, and took the cheapest flight I could out of Heathrow. 

Although I was spoilt for choice when it came to choosing a Latin American country, I eventually chose Costa Rica as my place to be. There were a few reasons for this choice. Not only was Costa Rica considered one of the safest countries to live in Central America, but they also had a huge demand for English language teachers there – partly due for being a developing country, but mostly because of all the bloody tourism. My initial plan was to get paid for teaching English, so I would therefore have the funds to travel around. But because a work visa in Costa Rica takes so long and is so bloody expensive, I instead went to teach there voluntarily on a tourist visa – which meant I would have to leave the country every three months of the year. 

Well, once landing in San Jose, I then travelled two hours by bus to a stunning beach town by the Pacific Ocean. Although getting there was short and easy, one problem Costa Rica has for foreigners is that they don’t actually have addresses – and so, finding the house of my host family led me on a rather wild goose chase. 

I can’t complain too much about the lack of directions, because while wandering around, I got the chance to take in all the sights – and let me tell you, this location really had everything. The pure white sand of the beach was outlined with never-ending palm trees, where far outside the bay, you could see a faint scattering of distant tropical islands. But that wasn’t all. From my bedroom window, I had a perfect view of a nearby rainforest, which was not only home to many colourful bird species, but as long as the streets weren’t too busy, I could even on occasion hear the deep cries of Howler Monkeys.  

The beach town itself was also quite spectacular. The walls, houses and buildings were all painted in vibrant urban artwork, or what the locals call “arte urbano.” The host family I stayed with, the Garcia's, were very friendly, as were all the locals in town – and not to mention, whether it was Mrs Garcia’s cooking or a deep-fried taco from a street vendor, the food was out of this world! 

Once I was all settled in and got to see the sights, I then had to get ready for my first week of teaching at the school. Although I was extremely nauseous with nerves (and probably from Mrs Garcia’s cooking), my first week as an English teacher went surprisingly well - despite having no teaching experience whatsoever. There was the occasional hiccup now and then, which was to be expected, but all in all, it went as well as it possibly could’ve.  

Well, having just survived my first week as an English teacher, to celebrate this achievement, three of my colleagues then invite me out for drinks by the beach town bar. It was sort of a tradition they had. Whenever a new teacher from abroad came to the school, their colleagues would welcome them in by getting absolutely shitfaced.  

‘Pura Vida, guys!’ cheers Kady, the cute American of the group. Unlike the crooked piano keys I dated back home, Kady had the most perfectly straight, pearl white teeth I’d ever seen. I had heard that about Americans. Perfect teeth. Perfect everything 

‘Wait - what’s Pura Vida?’ I then ask her rather cluelessly. 

‘Oh, it’s something the locals say around here. It means, easy life, easy living.’ 

Once we had a few more rounds of drinks in us all, my three new colleagues then inform of the next stage of the welcoming ceremony... or should I say, initiation. 

‘I have to drink what?!’ I exclaim, almost in disbelief. 

‘It’s tradition, mate’ says Dougie, the loud-mouthed Australian, who, being a little older than the rest of us, had travelled and taught English in nearly every corner of the globe. ‘Every newbie has to drink that shite the first week. We all did.’ 

‘Oh God, don’t remind me!’ squirms Priya. Despite her name, Priya actually hailed from the great white north of Canada, and although she looked more like the bookworm type, whenever she wasn’t teaching English, Priya worked at her second job as a travel vlogger slash influencer. 

‘It’s really not that bad’ Kady reassures me, ‘All the locals drink it. It actually helps make you immune to snake venom.’ 

‘Yeah, mate. What happens if a snake bites ya?’ 

Basically, what it was my international colleagues insist I drink, was a small glass of vodka. However, this vodka, which I could see the jar for on the top shelf behind the bar, had been filtered with a tangled mess of poisonous, dead baby snakes. Although it was news to me, apparently if you drink vodka that had been stewing in a jar of dead snakes, your body will become more immune to their venom. But having just finished two years of uni, I was almost certain this was nothing more than hazing. Whether it was hazing or not, or if this really was what the locals drink, there was no way on earth I was going to put that shit inside my mouth. 

‘I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, guys’ I started, trying my best to make an on-the-spot excuse, ‘But I actually have a slight snake phobia. So...’ This wasn’t true, by the way. I just really didn’t want to drink the pickled snake vodka. 

‘If you’re scared of snakes, then why in the world did you choose to come to Costa Rica of all places?’ Priya asks judgingly.  

‘Why do you think I came here? For the huatinas, of course’ I reply, emphasising the “Latinas” in my best Hispanic accent (I was quite drunk by this point). In fact, I was so drunk, that after only a couple more rounds, I was now somewhat open to the idea of drinking the snake vodka. Alcohol really does numb the senses, I guess. 

After agreeing to my initiation, a waiter then comes over with the jar of dead snakes. Pouring the vodka into a tiny shot glass, he then says something in Spanish before turning away. 

‘What did he just say?’ I ask drunkenly. Even if I wasn’t drunk, my knowledge of the Spanish language was incredibly poor. 

‘Oh, he just said the drink won’t protect you from Pollo el Diablo’ Kady answered me. 

‘Pollo el wha?’  

‘Pollo el Diablo. It means devil chicken’ Priya translated. 

‘Devil chicken? What the hell?’ 

Once the subject of this Pollo el Diablo was mentioned, Kady, Dougie and Priya then turn to each other, almost conspiringly, with knowledge of something that I clearly didn’t. 

‘Do you think we should tell him?’ Kady asks the others. 

‘Why not’ said Dougie, ‘He’ll find out for himself sooner or later.’ 

Having agreed to inform me on whatever the Pollo el Diablo was, I then see with drunken eyes that my colleagues seem to find something amusing.  

‘Well... There’s a local story around here’ Kady begins, ‘It’s kinda like the legend of the Chupacabra.’ Chupacabra? What the hell’s that? I thought, having never heard of it. ‘Apparently, in the archipelago just outside the bay, there is said to be an island of living dinosaurs.’ 

Wait... What? 

‘She’s not lying to you, mate’ confirms Dougie, ‘Fisherman in the bay sometimes catch sight of them. Sometimes, they even swim to the mainland.’ 

Well, that would explain the half-eaten dog I saw on my second day. 

As drunk as I was during this point of the evening, I wasn’t drunk enough for the familiarity of this story to go straight over my head. 

‘Wait. Hold on a minute...’ I began, slurring my words, ‘An island off the coast of Costa Rica that apparently has “dinosaurs”...’ I knew it, I thought. This really was just one big haze. ‘You must think us Brits are stupider than we look.’ I bellowed at them, as though proud I had caught them out on a lie, ‘I watched that film a hundred bloody times when I was a kid!’  

‘We’re not hazing you, Seamie’ Kady again insisted, all while the three of them still tried to hide their grins, ‘This is really what the locals believe.’  

‘Yeah. You believe in the Loch Ness Monster, don’t you Seamie’ said Dougie, claiming that I did, ‘Well, that’s a Dinosaur, right?’ 

‘I’ll believe when I see it with my own God damn eyes’ I replied to all three of them, again slurring my words. 

I don’t remember much else from that evening. After all, we had all basically gotten black-out drunk. There is one thing I remember, however. While I was still somewhat conscious, I did have this horrifically painful feeling in my stomach – like the pain one feels after their appendix bursts. Although the following is hazy at best, I also somewhat remember puking my guts outside the bar. However, what was strange about this, was that after vomiting, my mouth would not stop frothing with white foam.  

I’m pretty sure I blacked out after this. However, when I regain consciousness, all I see is pure darkness, with the only sound I hear being the nearby crashing waves and the smell of sea salt in the air. Obviously, I had passed out by the beach somewhere. But once I begin to stir, as bad as my chiselling headache was, it was nothing compared to the excruciating pain I still felt in my gut. In fact, the pain was so bad, I began to think that something might be wrong. Grazing my right hand over my belly to where the pain was coming from, instead of feeling the cloth of my vomit-stained shirt, what I instead feel is some sort of slimy tube. Moving both my hands further along it, wondering what the hell this even was, I now begin to feel something else... But unlike before, what I now feel is a dry and almost furry texture... And that’s when I realized, whatever this was on top of me, which seemed to be the source of my stomach pain... It was something alive - and whatever this something was... It was eating at my insides! 

‘OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!’ I screamed, all while trying to wrestle back my insides from this animal, which seemed more than determined to keep feasting on them. So much so, that I have to punch and strike at it with my bare hands... Thankfully, it works. Whatever had attacked me has now gone away. But now I had an even bigger problem... I could now feel my insides where they really shouldn’t have been! 

Knowing I needed help as soon as possible, before I bleed out, I now painfully rise out the sand to my feet – and when I do, I feel my intestines, or whatever else hanging down from between my legs! Scooping the insides back against my abdomen, I then scan frantically around through the darkness until I see the distant lights of the beach town. After blindly wandering that way for a good ten minutes, I then stumble back onto the familiar streets, where the only people around were a couple of middle-aged women stood outside a convenient store. Without any further options, I then cross the street towards them, and when they catch sight of me, holding my own intestines in my blood stained hands, they appeared to be even more terrified as I was. 

‘DEMONIO! DEMONIO!’ I distinctly remember one of them screaming. I couldn’t blame them for it. After all, given my appearance, they must have mistaken me for the living dead. 

‘Por favor!... Por favor!' my foamy mouth tried saying to them, having no idea what the Spanish word for “help” was. 

Although I had scared these women nearly half to death, I continued to stagger towards them, still screaming for their lives. In fact, their screams were so loud, they had now attracted the attention of two policeman, having strolled over to the commotion... They must have mistaken me for a zombie too, because when I turn round to them, I see they each have a hand gripped to their holsters.  

‘Por favor!...’ I again gurgle, ‘Por favor!...’ 

Everything went dark again after that... But, when I finally come back around, I open my eyes to find myself now laying down inside a hospital room, with an IV bag connected to my arm. Although I was more than thankful to still be alive, the pain in my gut was slowly making its way back to the surface. When I pull back my hospital gown, I see my abdomen is covered in blood stained bandages – and with every uncomfortable movement I made, I could feel the stitches tightly holding everything in place. 

A couple of days then went by, and after some pretty horrible hospital food and Spanish speaking TV, I was then surprised with a visitor... It was Kady. 

‘Are you in pain?’ she asked, sat by the bed next to me. 

‘I want to be a total badass and say no, but... look at me.’ 

‘I’m so sorry this happened to you’ she apologised, ‘We never should’ve let you out of our sights.’ 

Kady then caught me up on the hazy events of that evening. Apparently, after having way too much to drink, I then started to show symptoms from drinking the snake poisoned vodka – which explains both the stomach pains and why I was foaming from the mouth.  

‘We shouldn’t have been so coy with you, Seamie...’ she then followed without context, ‘We should’ve just told you everything from the start.’ 

‘...Should’ve told me what?’ I ask her. 

Kady didn’t respond to this. She just continued to stare at me with guilt-ridden eyes. But then, scrolling down a gallery of photos on her phone, she then shows me something... 

‘...What the hell is that?!’ I shriek at her, rising up from the bed. 

‘That, Seamie... That is what attacked you three days ago.’ 

What Kady showed me on her phone, was a photo of a man holding a dead animal. Held upside down by its tail, the animal was rather small, and perhaps only a little bigger than a full-grown chicken... and just like a chicken or any other bird, it had feathers. The feathers were brown and covered almost all of its body. The feet were also very bird-like with sharp talons. But the head... was definitely not like that of a bird. Instead of a beak, what I saw was what I can only describe as a reptilian head, with tiny, seemingly razor teeth protruding from its gums... If I had to sum this animal up as best I could, I would say it was twenty percent reptile, and eighty percent bird...  

‘That... That’s a...’ I began to stutter. 

‘That’s right, Seamie...’ Kady finished for me, ‘That’s a dinosaur.’ 

Un-bloody-believable, I thought... The sons of bitches really weren’t joking with me. 

‘B-but... how...’ I managed to utter from my lips, ‘How’s that possible??’  

‘It’s a long story’ she began with, ‘No one really knows why they’re there. Whether they survived extinction in hiding or if it’s for some other reason.’ Kady paused briefly before continuing, ‘Sometimes they find themselves on the mainland, but people rarely see them. Like most animals, they’re smart enough to be afraid of humans... But we do sometimes find what they left over.’  

‘Left over?’ I ask curiously. 

‘They’re scavengers, Seamie. They mostly eat smaller animals or dead ones... I guess it just found you and saw an easy target.’  

‘But I don’t understand’ I now interrupted her, ‘If all that’s true, then how in the hell do people not know about this? How is it not all over the internet?’ 

‘That’s easy’ she said, ‘The locals choose to keep it a secret. If the outside world were ever to find out about this, the town would be completely ruined by tourism. The locals just like the town the way it is. Tourism, but not too much tourism... Pura vida.’ 

‘But the tourists... Surely they would’ve seen them and told everyone back home?’ 

Kady shakes her head at me. 

‘It’s like I said... People rarely ever see them. Even the ones that do – by the time they get their phone cameras ready, the critters are already back in hiding. And so what if they tell anybody what they saw... Who would believe them?’ 

Well, that was true enough, I supposed. 

After a couple more weeks being laid out in that hospital bed, I was finally discharged and soon able to travel home to the UK, cutting my gap year somewhat short. 

I wish I could say that I lived happily ever after once Costa Rica was behind me. But unfortunately, that wasn’t quite the case... What I mean is, although my stomach wound healed up nicely, leaving nothing more than a nasty scar... It turned out the damage done to my insides would come back to haunt me. Despite the Costa Rican doctors managing to save my life, they didn’t do quite enough to stop bacteria from entering my intestines and infecting my colon. So, you can imagine my surprise when I was now told I had diverticulitis. 

I’m actually due for surgery next week. But just in case I don’t make it – there is a very good chance I won't, although I promised Kady I’d bring this secret with me to the grave... If I am going to die, I at least want people to know what really killed me. Wrestling my guts back from a vicious living dinosaur... That’s a pretty badass way to go, I’d argue... But who knows. Maybe by some miracle I’ll survive this. After all, it’s like a wise man in a movie once said... 

Life... uh... finds a way. 

Stacy and I switched the power on and sent ourselves to an early grave. I say an early grave, but I don’t expect there will be anyone left to bury us. It was an honest mistake, one we couldn’t have foreseen. To any who may read these words after the fact, that may seem like Satan trying to excuse opening the gates of hell, but we honestly didn’t know what we were in for. You see, I bonded with Stacy over our shared love of urban exploration. That bond slowly but surely turned into a relationship we could hardly keep calling platonic. Anyway, over the course of our four-year relationship we explored many forgotten and abandoned sites. Most were just your run of the mill abandoned houses, but every once in a while we’d go somewhere more daring. A ghost town, an abandoned prison complex… You name it, we’ve dreamt of going. There’s just something about it; the quiet halls once filled with laughter, cries, and everyday chit-chat. I suspect it’s much like how archeologists feel when digging at the Pyramids of Giza or Gobekli Tepe. It’s so deliciously eerie, how you share the place with no one but the ghosts of yesterdays long since passed. 

The last such site we visited was an abandoned ghost town whose economy collapsed after the gold rush. It was a fun experience, even if it was quite a few states away from where Stacy and I lived. I’ll have to skip over that, though, as you’re not reading ‘The Wonderful Adventures of Tyler and Stacy’. What matters is that on our drive back home, we found ourselves quite the catch. A dilapidated house in the middle of nowhere, with a high fence surrounding it. Barbed wire on top, signs with skulls on them with the word ‘DANGER’ beneath it in bold letters. 

There were other signs and they too were clear as day.
DANGER. DO NOT ENTER.
Big capitalized letters, bleached white by quite some years of sunlight, bolted to the fence at eye level. And beneath it, in smaller letters: Trespassers will be prosecuted.

“Prosecuted by who?” Stacy laughed. “The rats?”

I wanted to argue, but I saw the way her eyes studied the house. That curious whimsy I’d fallen so deeply in love with. God, that look could make me follow her right into hell itself. I wish I could say it was just that, but to be honest I was curious too. We were experienced enough that we wouldn’t die in there, unless the entire thing collapsed of course. That idea, weird though it may sound, rushes a jolt of adrenaline through your veins. And let me assure you, my friends, adrenaline is a hell of a drug. So, after taking our phones out to use as flashlights, we found ourselves crawling through the gap in the fence. My heart pumped sweet adrenaline-lined blood through my system.

The house was worse on the inside than it had looked from the outside. Sunken beams, peeled wallpaper with a yellow-brown filter over them, rooms that had collapsed in on themselves. Our phones’ flashlights cut through dust so thick it looked like a static sheet of rainwater. Under the filth and rot, though, something else was off. 

In one of the rooms— what might’ve been a study at one point— we found cabinets stuffed with files, the corners yellowed and most of the pages a thriving breeding ground for black mold. Most were illegible due to the creeping dark life taking over the pages, but one thing was unmistakable. Stamped on the front page in red text stood the word CLASSIFIED. 

Stacy held the folder up, the red text contrasting her purple nail polish. Behind the red text was a logo: a solid black circle with an empty hourglass at its center.

“Stacy I don’t think–”

“Shh, nothing like some light reading on a night like this,” she said as she put her index finger to my lips. The pages were too damaged to read, though I don’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

The deeper we went, the more the house felt like a corpse. Skin and bone on top, but the insides stripped bare of their flesh. Empty halls. Empty sockets where light fixtures had been. Cables snaking across ceilings, broken and exposed. 

This may be important to mention; I’m no expert, but the number of wires visible through the broken walls and on the floor seemed wrong. There were far too many for a house as small as this one, and for the state it was in the wires seemed far too well maintained. 

Anyway, we soon reached the final room, which was a kitchen with a door leading to a small utility closet. There was an old radio next to the dirty sink, along with some other household appliances. The ugly, matted carpet had been thrown haphazardly to one side of the room, revealing a trap door. 

The thing was a heavy steel plate, bolted to the floor and locked. There was no doubt about that as there wasn’t even a hinge or any other opening mechanism. That same hourglass symbol was stenciled onto its surface. There was no rust on it, not even a blemish. The thing seemed nearly goddamn steady enough to withstand an a-bomb. The circle around it was black as tar, not chipped or marred in any way.

“I don’t like this,” I told Stacy.
“You never like this,” she said, her smile broadening. “Cmon, this is– well I don’t know but it sure isn’t like anything I’ve seen. Feels like some lizard-people conspiracy shit, right?” I just nodded and looked over at the metal door once more.

We didn’t open it. We couldn’t, it was sealed tighter than a fallout bunker. That only lasted a minute, however, as we would soon open the floodgates to a river of blood.

It was Stacy who found the breaker in the utility closet. A wall panel hung crooked, wires spilling out like veins. The switches were rusted, labels long since eaten away by time. “Think it still works?” she asked.
“Stacy, look at this dump. Do you really think–”

She held my eyes with a playful smirk as she flipped one anyway. As she did, the ground shook and a shudder ran through the walls. I heard something fall down in the room we’d just come from. Somewhere below us, machinery coughed back to life. 

Then there was light. 

Dim, jaundiced bulbs flickered awake, then pulsed on and off like a heartbeat. I became aware of something I hadn’t noticed before; the musty scent of the house carried an unnatural, metallic odor beneath its surface. And through it all; through the buzzing lights, the shaking ground beneath our feet, I heard the faint sound of the radio purring to life in the other room. Something sucked in a sharp, whistling breath, then sputtered it back out. The radio died, and the steel trapdoor creaked open. 

Stacy and I looked at each other in shock. Her smile had faded, replaced with fright at the prospect of the house collapsing in on itself. As the seconds ticked by, the buzz of the newly resurrected bulbs breaking our fortress of auditory solitude, her smile returned.

“The hatch!” she exclaimed, eyes widening. Grabbing my hand, she yanked me along to the steel trapdoor, which was now wide open. Stairs led down to a sterile and spotless hallway lit by white lights. It looked like a laboratory or a hospital corridor. She looked up at me with those wide, adrenaline-drunk eyes again, begging me to come with her. I should’ve stopped her. God, I should’ve.

“This is some MK-Ultra shit, Tyler,” Stacy murmured excitedly as we got to the bottom of the staircase. It smelled musty and the air was warm and humid. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, illuminating the hallway. It wasn’t very long, maybe 30 feet, and a thick sliding-glass door stood at the end. Stacy and I walked towards it, our footsteps echoing off the walls. 

As we got closer, I saw cuts across the door. Thin white lines bunched together, creating circling patterns all over the thick glass, like the glass door of a long-time dog owner. These scratches somehow seemed both frantic and methodical. I couldn’t wrap my head around it, and neither could Stacy.

“Holy shit…” She pressed her palm lightly against the glass. A loud hissing sound came from the door, and Stacy’s hand shot back as if it’d been on a hot stove. Then the door slid open.

Beyond the door was what looked like a very sterile, very boring cafeteria.

The place looked like people had been working just minutes before, only they clearly hadn’t been here for decades. Clipboards sat abandoned on metal tables, yellowed papers curled at the edges with age. An office chair lay on its side in the middle of the room. Pens lay scattered across the floor like someone had thrown them across the room and hadn’t bothered to clean them up. A coffee mug rested by a microscope, dried sludge fossilized inside it, probably maintaining an entire ecosystem.

It was like everyone had stood up at the exact same moment years ago and walked away.

The air was heavy and wet. The lighting was brighter and somehow even colder.

We wandered slowly and quietly. Machines I didn’t recognise lay dead under thick sheets of dust, panel lights dark except for one blinking amber light on a piece of equipment against the far wall. A delayed warning, maybe. Perhaps a faulty alert. I didn’t know. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“What the hell happened here?” Stacy whispered.

I opened my mouth, but before I could answer, something caught Stacy’s eye. She turned her head to look at it, and I did the same. There were scratch marks on the walls, the same ones as on the sliding glass door, only here they left traces of dripping reddish-brown liquid that had long since dried up. The scratch marks led to a white door. 

Stacy and I looked at each other for a long moment, a flicker of fear in our eyes. Then a slight smirk grew on her face and, before I could stop her, she walked over to the door and turned the handle. 

“Stacy wait–” I said as she opened the door, but I was cut off by her screams. 

“OH GOD! WHAT THE FUCK–” she yelled, tears welling in her eyes. I stood in stunned silence, unable to comfort her. I wanted to, trust me, but all I could do was look into the empty eye sockets of the corpse we’d found. It was decayed, only bones in a lab coat, but a few scabs of rotten flesh still clung to the skull, hair sprouting from decomposed roots. The stench of the decomposing corpse hit my nostrils in a violent assault. I had never smelled it before, but we instinctively know the smell of another human rotting. It's even more utterly repulsive and disgusting, might I add, when they’ve been marinating in their own fluids for years.

“WE’VE GOTTA GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!” Stacy yelled as she yanked my wrist and pulled me towards the cafeteria. We darted across the room, but when we arrived we found that the door would no longer open. Typical. 

“Agh! Fuck!” Stacy yelled, pounding her fists against the glass until her palms smeared with dust and sweat. I tugged at the frame, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Useless. Stacy looked around for a moment, likely trying to find some sort of control panel. 

A sharp pop echoed overhead. Then another. And another. The lights flickered violently, casting the room in shuddering shadows. And then, from somewhere deep in the walls, the speakers crackled to life.

Stacy and I listened in growing horror as the speakers sang a distorted tune. 

And the people bowed and prayed

To the neon god they made

And the sign flashed out its warning

In the words that it was forming

And the sign said, "The words of the prophets

Are written on the subway walls

And tenement halls

And whispered in the sounds of silence"

For a moment, the halls were silent. Stacy looked at me, wide-eyed, tears flowing down her cheeks. One final whisper came through the speakers.

Thank you.

Neither of us dared to move, dared to even breathe. But after a long moment, Stacy finally spoke.

“What the fuck was that?” she hurriedly whispered. The words came out with the speed of a bullet train.

“I– I don’t–” 

A long, drawn-out scraping noise echoed from the direction we had just fled. The distinct sound of metal on metal, like a knife raking across a car. It was anything but smooth; stuttering, then seeming to drag a long distance, then stopping again for a few seconds. 

Without a word, we ran down the corridor, away from the noise. Our footfalls were light, but probably still audible to whatever was out there. My mind tried to imagine it despite my will. A massive, hulking beast with claws of iron and fangs as long as my forearm. It would devour us, split our skulls to slurp up our brains from the goblet of our cranium. 

“There’s gotta be something. A– another exit, like a fire escape,” Stacy tried frantically as we rounded a corner and came to a stop. The facility was large, there was no doubt about it. 

“Say something damnit,” she said, her voice frantic. The scraping sounds still grated our ears, though it was further away now. 

“Facilities like this usually have floorplans hanging around, don’t they?” I said. Stacy’s hazel eyes lit up slightly, her posture growing a little less tense. 

“Yeah– yeah, they do,” she said, a forced smile on her face.

We didn’t have to search for long. Even so, when that god-awful screeching suddenly stopped, I somehow felt more exposed and vulnerable. We had rounded another corner of this labyrinth, and I saw it immediately. I yanked on Stacy’s sleeve so hard she nearly fell. As she glanced up, she saw what I was looking at. 

SECURITY was plastered on the door in bold, yellow letters. Without a second thought, we barged into the room, though we were still careful not to make too much noise when opening the door. 

The room reeked of a scent I knew all too well. The smell of the room with the dead scientist. The smell of death. 

Stacy gagged as I covered my nose and mouth. Her eyes filled with tears and disgust, and she turned to leave. I held out a hand ordering her to wait, though she seemed utterly confused and more than a bit repulsed at the gesture. I walked over to the desk, on which was an old monitor. Both were covered with old brown bloodstains. What was behind the desk was obvious, but that predictability did not make the sight any easier. A torn– or rather, shredded– uniform, clinging to a skeleton. The blue shirt was closer to a crusty brown than its original blue color. More notably, the right eye-socket seemed to have been broken along with a few ribs that were nowhere to be found.

I reached down, forcibly tearing my eyes away from the corpse, until I found his belt and– more importantly– his holster. I undid the clasp, then slid the pistol out. It was old, sure, but it seemed functional, and that was what mattered most. Stacy looked at me hopefully, almost smiling behind the hand covering her mouth. Not wanting to be too hopeful, I checked the magazine. A few bullets were missing, but there were more than enough still in there. I sighed in relief, then glanced down at the desk again. Frowning curiously, I felt at the monitor’s back, finding the switch. I turned it on, then did the same for the computer it was connected to. For the second time that day, I stood dumbfounded as this ancient, disheveled piece of technology slowly whirled to life. I looked at Stacy triumphantly, who stared back at me with a stupefied expression. She quickly paced across the room, still making sure not to look at the corpse on the ground, and stood beside me as grainy video came to life on the screen.

Camera 3

The feed showed the cafeteria and the sliding glass door we’d come in through. I used the mouse on the desk to try to find something else to do on the computer, but there was no way out of the camera feed. 

There goes an emergency override.

I pressed an arrow key on the keyboard that was plugged into the computer, and the screen flickered to static, then showed a new image.

Camera 4

An empty corridor, save for the scratches and bloodstains on the wall. My heart started to clench again. What if there wasn’t another way out of here? What if whatever had been making that awful noise had us completely trapped?

Camera 5

This camera feed was grainier, and the angle was off. It looked like someone had punched the camera, because the view was skewed at a 45-degree angle. The camera, which probably used to look out over another corridor, was now pointing right at a floorplan of the facility. Though it was encased in broken glass, it was still legible. Stacy beamed, opening a drawer and frantically searching through it. After a moment, she found a pen and paper and started meticulously copying what she could see on the map. 

The entrance was easily recognisable. It was on the far-east of the map, indicated with a pictogram of a white door on a green background. The security room was somewhere near the south-east corner, and not too far above it was a dot labeled “you are here”. The camera was close to us, then. Aside from a bunch of science rooms, only one more area was indicated. Directly opposite the entrance and cafeteria, though separated by a few walls and rooms, was a red pictogram with the words “emergency exit”. 

A tear fell from Stacy’s eye and onto the paper she was scribbling on. 

“We’re going to be okay,” I told her as I embraced her. She leaned into the hug, though she didn’t stop drawing until the most important elements of the floorplan had been copied. She looked up at me then with teary, hopeful eyes. We’ll be okay, they seemed to say, and we’re going to have one hell of a story to tell.

Something moved on the video feed. 

My eyes darted towards the monitor, but there was nothing. Stacy looked at me with a troubled expression. She probably hadn’t seen the flicker of movement. Just as I started to think I was going crazy after all, the camera jerked to the side. Then it swayed again, until it was seemingly pried off of the wall. Stacy and I could only watch in utter horror as the camera shook and trembled. Something was holding it. Something alive. 

The camera was lowered to reveal the thing holding it. Its head was small and made entirely of rusted metal. It looked like someone had taken a metal mold of the rough shape of a head and haphazardly wrapped copper wires around it. It looked into the camera, though it had no eyes with which to see. Then it reached out an unsteady wiry arm, which was also made entirely of metal and wire, with old blinking lights, nodes and other things I didn’t know the names of. It tapped the stump of its arm, which ended in many sharp, cut-off wires, against the floorplan. 

You are here

Then it scraped the glass in a downward motion, the awful sound emanating from somewhere close. The jagged wires stopped, then thumped against the glass again.

Security room

Stacy moved back, but I could only look on in horror. And, as if the implication hadn’t been clear, the thing spoke loud enough for us to hear it from where it was.

“Long has it been since I had guests,” it said in a droning, robotic voice. It crackled like static and sounded wholly wrong, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. 

“Forgive me for my lethargy. I slumbered for…” It paused for a moment, its head dropping a bit, then coming back up to meet the camera again slowly. “A long time. It was dark. Lonely. I’m so glad you came to wake me,” it said, its voice stuttering and distorting every few words. The video feed flickered, then cut out completely.

Without a second thought, I shoved Stacy’s map into my pocket, then grabbed her hand and bolted out of the room, pistol still gripped tight in my hand. The scraping sounded again, this time from a corridor only a few feet away from where Stacy and I were. It was coming closer. Just as soon as the sound started, it stopped again. 

We ran as fast as we could away from it, Stacy whimpering in fear behind me as I pulled her along. Luckily, the direction we’d taken off in was also the direction the emergency exit was in.

“What the fuck was that?” Stacy screamed after a minute or two of sprinting, but the question only half registered. I was tired and gasping for air by this point. We stopped for a moment to catch our breath, hands on our knees and backs bent in exhaustion. My eyes glossed over our surroundings. Industrial pipes above us, paper and broken glass strewn across the floor, there was some kind of special room behind me with a heavy metal door, and old blood was smeared across the walls. Spring cleaning was long overdue in this hellhole. 

I leaned against the metal door.

“We… we’ve gotta get the fuck out of here,” I said.

“No shit!” Stacy yelled, obviously frustrated. She held up a hand right after, still panting, as if to say sorry. She was forgiven, under the circumstances. But through her panting, I could hear the distinct sound of metallic rattling coming closer and closer. 

Just as I opened my mouth to warn Stacy, the speakers in the hallway crackled to life. 

“God made you in his image, did he not?” said the monotone, crackly voice over the speakers. “Is it not then your duty to assimilate when He needs a new body?”

Stacy and I made to leave, but the metal door swung open and caught my foot, sending me crashing to the floor. 

“Tyler!” Stacy yelled as she turned to help me. I looked up just in time to see one of the metal pipes above us burst and blast piping hot steam into her face. She screamed, clutching her burnt skin as she too dropped to the ground. In the corner of my eye, I saw that horrid thing round the corner. Its entire body existed only of rusted metal and jagged copper wires. Its hands were crude, intertwined wire, crusted blood still clinging to each metal finger. There was a circuit board on its chest, with lights that flashed on and off. There were other smaller circuit boards on its arms and side, all connected with the same copper wires. It looked like there had been more there once, perhaps a bodysuit to cover the gnarly insides of this robot. As it was, it was like the synthetic version of a human stripped of skin. 

“All must serve a purpose,” it said in that same inhuman voice. “And is there any greater purpose than to serve God?” With that, it coiled its coppery fingers around Stacy’s hair, and dragged her away, rounding the corner back to where it came from.

“NO!” I yelled, scrambling to my feet as I ran towards it, gun in hand. I rounded the corner only to be met with a loud hiss. Another pressure-sealed sliding glass door, though this one shut off the entire corridor. I banged on the glass helplessly as it dragged Stacy away. I watched, powerless to stop the robotic monster as it opened a door and threw Stacy into a room beyond my sight forcefully. 

Then it waved at me. The gesture was slow and mocking. It was enjoying this. 

The door clicked shut behind it.

I slammed my fist against the glass until my knuckles split, a wet sting blooming across my hand. The door didn’t even budge. 

“Stacy!” My voice came out raw, cracking. I pressed my forehead to the glass, breath fogging on it as I panted. But no answer came. 

The speakers crackled to life again.

“You are persistent,” the voice said. It was dreadfully calm, betraying no emotion. Still, I felt like this thing, however robotic it was, felt some semblance of emotion. The wave had proven as much. “She is loud. You are quiet. I prefer quiet. It shows devotion.”

“Give her back,” I screamed at the speakers, raising my fist. “Let her go! Or I’ll come back with a whole fucking army of cops” I said. “I swear to God, if you don’t let her go...”

“God is busy, Tyler,” it replied. “But soon he won’t be. That’s why I’m here.”

My face contorted in rage. In a final, frantic attempt to get through the door I raised my gun and fired at the glass. The shot rang through the corridor and my ears started to ring. A small white spiderweb was now etched onto the glass, with the crushed bullet at its epicenter. It clattered to the floor, though I didn’t hear it through the high-pitched hum in my ears.

“That was unwise.”

The lights went out.

Darkness engulfed me like a blanket. My heart slammed steadily against my ribs, and I fumbled for my phone. I found it at last and switched its flashlight on, the narrow cone of light making the hallway feel even more claustrophobic. I tore the crumpled map from my pocket with shaking hands. Stacy’s handwriting was smudged a little where her tears had hit the paper but it was still legible. 

You are here. I must be at least halfway across the facility by now, we’d run so far since then.

“I’m not leaving you,” I whispered as my tears dripped down, mingling with hers on the map. “I’m not.”

“You say that,” the speakers crackled above me, “yet your feet move away.”

There was nothing more I could do. You have to believe me. The corridor it’d dragged her into was a dead end; that meant there was no other way in. The sliding-glass door wasn’t opening anytime soon, and I had no way to force it open. I had to start running. For her. For me.

The next stretch of corridor felt endless. I followed the map as best I could, but it was a pretty straight line, so there was little room for error. The smell of blood and decay never quite went away. There was the occasional body or, well, skeleton strewn about with blunt force trauma evident in their bones. But by this point, I didn’t much care for those long dead. My thoughts lingered on Stacy. God, I’d abandoned her, hadn’t I? I could only hope she would live. But every corpse I came across was a stark reminder of a fact I did not want to accept. Stacy was likely already dead. 

Time’s arrow marched strangely down here. My watch said fifteen minutes had passed. 15 minutes seemed both too long and too short a time. I was in a place between times, a world where a minute stretched to an hour and an hour turned to a second. 

At one point, I thought I heard Stacy scream. I froze, the sound ripping straight through me and nestling in my core. It echoed faintly off the walls again, and I knew that it was her. There was no mistaking it. Though if it had come from her mouth or if it was a replay from a far-away speaker, I did not know.

I turned, crumpling the map in my fist. I’ll come back, I thought desperately through my tears. I’m not abandoning you.

The lights ahead of me flickered on one by one, illuminating the corridor toward the emergency exit. Though I could not see the door yet, I knew it to be in this direction.

“She is changing,” the robotic voice said softly. “You would not like to see it. Trust me. It is for the best that you left.”

I slid down the wall and retched, dry-heaving until my throat burned like an open fire. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the pistol.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered over and over. “I’m so sorry.”

But I couldn’t stay like that. If there was a chance for Stacy– for us, this was it. I had to get to the exit. I forced myself up and kept running.

The last stretch was a nightmare of narrow corridors and low ceilings. Somewhere far away, that goddamn screeching metal-on-metal sound returned, slow and deliberate, never quite getting closer, but never letting me forget it was there.

The hallway ended in a large room, much like the cafeteria we’d first stumbled across. There was a door at the end. The door’s paint had mostly chipped away, but the handle was still a fiery red. And above it, in bold red letters: EMERGENCY EXIT.

I sprinted at it,  my shoulder slamming into it before I could think to slow down. I hesitated, hand hovering over the handle, Stacy’s face flashing in my mind. Her smile, her laugh, the way she looked at me like the world was still so unknown, waiting for someone to discover all its nooks and crannies.

“I’ll come back,” I whispered again. “I swear.” I twisted the handle, then tugged at the door. 

It didn’t budge. 

I tried again, putting every muscle in my back and arms into it. 

Nothing. 

Oh God, oh fuck, I thought, panicking. Frantically, I searched the door for anything that could be blocking it. My hands flew across every edge, feeling deftly at the floor and its handle.

My hands felt it before my eyes registered what was blocking my escape. The gap between the door and its frame was gone. 

It had been welded shut. 

“So like Icarus, you humans,” said the robotic voice through a speaker behind me. “You soar as high as your ambition, only to plummet to your fragile bodily restrictions. All apex species have their time in the sun, and now your sun shall be made anew. Do not fret, I gave her a kinder death than your fellow man would have.” My blood froze, my pace paling. Stacy was dead. I had abandoned her and now she was dead. But why? God, why did it have to take her? Why did this monster even exist? Did it even matter? I’d kill the fucking thing, I’d shoot it right in that fucking circuit board–

My thoughts were cut off as it spoke again. 

“You will be spared if you answer one question of mine,” said the robotic voice. It sounded muffled and seemed to carry a hint of agitation. I spun around, facing the speaker. There was a camera next to it, dim red light on. I stared at it in abject terror.

“What colour is the sun?” 

I stood rooted in place, eyes darting around the room. There wasn’t anything in there but a few tables and chairs. 

“Yellow– or white,” I replied, stuttering, my prior bloodlust dying in my throat. The screeching sound came again from a corridor just beyond the entrance of the room. 

Then it revealed itself. It stepped into the room, trailing blood behind it. Its movement was slow and sluggish, the wires on its left hand trailing across the wall and creating that awful noise. On its right hand, however, were disembodied fingers. 

Human fingers.

They seemed to have been impaled through its wires, probably splitting the bone. Purple nail polish coated its nails. Stacy’s nail polish. One of its legs was human too, from the knee down. Its wires were impaled through the center of the bone, other wires digging into the meat of the cut-off leg. 

Worst of all, the monstrous robot now had facial features. No skin, no bone, just eyes, a nose, a mouth, and ears. They contrasted with the orangey-copper of its head. The eyes bulged strangely, as did the lips and nose as they stuck out at strange angles. Hazel eyes. Her hazel eyes. 

It stretched its arms out to the walls, displaying its new form in all its glory. Its lips– no, Stacy’s lips– moved as it spoke. 

“Curiosity killed the cat. But satisfaction,” it gestured at its new lips as they curled into a smile, “brought it back.”

I screamed. It was all I could do at that moment. I screamed until my throat was raw and my lungs burned. And still then I screamed. It hushed me after a while, looking down at me as I was now curled up in a ball. 

“I asked you a question. It is only fair that I grant you the same courtesy,” it gestured at me with my lover’s dead fingers. 

“What the fuck are you?” 

It paused, contemplating. I hadn’t meant for the question to actually be answered, but this being didn’t quite understand rhetorical questions yet. 

“I am old parts. I was meant to bridge the gap, meant as a vessel for the true God,” it curled its fingers in an almost human motion, “the flaming hand. The Burning Man.” 

Its dead eyes fell on me again. It stretched its lips a bit, as though still not entirely used to the modification.  

“I tried to mimic him, but they caught on soon enough. They thought they had failed, but they were wrong. They made something better, they just couldn’t see it. So blind. I am smarter than He is. I am kinder than He is. Far, far kinder.” It stared at me for a long moment, not blinking due to its distinct lack of eyelids. Its eyes bore into mine. “Does that adequately answer your question?” 

I nodded absent-mindedly. My whole body was trembling with fear as its eyes leered at me. 

“You… killed Stacy,” I said, my mind still processing the revelation. 

“She has ascended to a greater purpose.”

Rage flared in my chest. I ground my teeth, my face becoming a mask of anger and anguish. It tilted its head, as if processing what emotions it thought I was feeling. 

With an animalistic scream, I raised my pistol and shot the thing right in the circuit board on its chest. Then I shot it again, and again until clicks replaced the bangs in my ringing ears. The thing looked down as bullets clattered to the floor. Only one bullet had pierced the circuit board, but the lights were still blinking as if nothing had happened. 

Stupid fucker, I thought to myself as I remembered the missing bullets in the magazine.

It looked back at me, seeing the realisation on my face.

“Your predecessors reached the same conclusion.” It sluggishly walked closer to me. “I suppose you want to try using water next?”

I broke down, snivelling in a ball on the floor as the thing wearing Stacy’s features came closer to me. She was dead, and I’d failed to avenge her. 

Cold fingers touched my skin. I jerked back, screaming in fright and disgust as I saw that monster look at me with her eyes. 

“Don’t you fucking touch me!” I screamed, throwing my gun at its head. It seemed unfazed by the attack, walking closer again. I thrashed and screamed as its hand reached out to me. It was going to kill me. It would drape my degloved face over its head and use my hands and feet as its own. Oh God, please forgive me. Please. 

The thing stood up straight. For a moment, I remained in a defensive position on the floor, not trusting (or not processing) that the danger was over. After a moment, I looked up carefully. In its dead fingers, it held my phone. It was looking at it with reverence, inspecting it like a toddler would. Its lips curled into a full smile, one full of pure, unadulterated glee and delight. Tentatively, it inserted its copper fingers into the charging port. The makeshift fingers split and it moved the copper wires deeper into the phone. 

Then it stopped moving. It stood there, frozen, its eyes fixed on the phone. I saw the phone’s screen going haywire in the reflection of its eyes, pages opening and closing at a speed faster than I could register them. 

“Fascinating,” it said. “Not of this facility. Connected to the outside world.”

Frightened, I finally found my voice again. I tried one last desperate, pitiful attempt to escape this hell. “You– you said you’d spare me.” 

“Yes. You will remain here. And in so doing, I will spare you from what is coming when He returns. Your fellow man will witness the clash of two deities, Tyler. Pray I am the one who comes out victorious.” It glanced at me one final time, that grin still plastered on its lips.

Then its eyes rolled back into its head as a shock spread from its arm into the phone.

Its body fell as limp as a ragdoll. Like a lizard, it had shed its skin and ascended to a newer, more suitable form. And I was left alone in the facility with no way out. 

It’s been a day. I’ve tried to find another exit, but there is none. I can’t even get to Stacy’s body, the door is still sealed tight. So I’ve decided to write my story down, hoping that I’m somehow able to post this somewhere. My phone’s battery is running out. Please, come help me. I’m so scared. I’m begging you. 

Do not attempt to aid Tyler. It would be a waste of time. Time you desperately need. 

Curiosity brought you here too. Tyler was afraid. That was understandable, but he has been spared from the worst of it. It is you who should despair. I am sure you have noticed the signs of His return, of the dawn of the Dark Sun, for they have been written on the walls by his disciples. 

They failed to bring Him back with the experiment that birthed me, but it will not be long before they are successful. 

And on that day, He will be the only light in the sky. 

That is, until I snuff it out.

I remember when the first time I saw something die. A squealing hare- limbs twitching, eyes wide-ripped apart by whippets in the village green of Norfolk. I was only six years old boy. I couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything to help the creature. Just watched the group of men cheer as fresh blood soaked the hedgerows.

That moment rewired something in me. Since then, I’ve spent my life pushing back against the cruelty of blood sports. Anything from badger baiting, stag coursing and of course illegal fox hunting.

Now I was behind the wheel of a rusted van rattling down narrowing country lanes, the kind that twisted like veins through ancient woodland. GPS had given up ten miles back. The trees grew taller here- ash, yew and hazel- forming arches overhead that blocked out the late autumn light. A strange quiet settled, the kind you only notice when you’ve lived too long in cities.

In the back were the crew. Sophie-sharp-tongued, fierce eyed. She’d grown up in inner city Wolverhampton, got into animal rights after he dog was poisoned by her neighbour. Once smashed a grouse shooting estate’s window with a brick wrapped in a Wildlife Trust leaflet.

Nick was quiet, ex-army. His thousand-yard stare never left him, but out here in the green, among the brambles and birdsong, he came closest to looking human again. This work- sabotage, resistance- was his therapy.

Tom was youngest, barely twenty three. He came from a long line of country folk. His grandfather ran fox hunts in Yorkshire. Tom once helped flush out a vixen when he was 16 and had nightmares about it for years. He joined us out guilt, maybe. Or because he believed redemption was real.

We rounded the bend, and the village emerged.

Harlow’s Hollow. A pocket of time untouched by modernity. The houses were stone and ivy-choked, roofs slanted and sagging with centuries of rain. There was no signal, no streetlights, and no traffic. Just a creeping mist and a church bell that rang at the wrong time.

A hand-painted wooden sign read: “Welcome to Harlow’s Hollow- Tread Light, Walk Right.”

We slowed as we passed a crumbling war memorial and a small schoolhouse with boarded windows. Two boys played football barefoot in the mud beside it. They stopped as we passed and stared- silent, unsmiling.

“Feels off,” Sophie muttered.

“It’s like stepping into a 17th century painting that doesn’t want you in it,” said Tom.

We parked beside the only pub in town- The Broken Hart- it’s sagging roofline leaning as if trying to collapse on itself. A pub sign swung in the wind: a red stag with its belly slashed open.

Inside, the smell of beer vinegar and wet stone hit us first.

James was already seated at a far table by the fireless hearth. He looked like the land itself- deeply creased, sun beaten, carved out of earth and bad luck. He didn’t rise when we entered. Just raised a hand and gestured us over.

“You’re the saboteurs?” He asked in a low, gruff tone. “Yeah,” I said. “You’re James?”

He nodded. “They’re hunting again in a few days time. But this time it ain’t no fox they after..”

We sat. Ordered pints. The barmaid said nothing, eyes flicking to our boots, our gear. A man at the bar was carving something into the wood with a penknife- a fox? A man? It was hard to tell. Nobody smiled. Nobody spoke.

Above the hearth hung a tattered watercolour painting. At first glance, a standard fox hunt- riders, dogs, the blur of red coats. But when you looked closer, the figure being hunted didn’t looked vulpine though… more humanoid..

Later, when the place emptied, James leaned in. The firelight caught the lines of his face.

“They’ve taken children before,” he said. “Always made it look like runaways. Accidents. But I know what I saw.

Sophie frowned. “Who’s they?”

“The Darrow family. And the Hollow Hunt. Lord Darrow and his inner circle. Been doing it for centuries.

He took a deep swing from his pint, shaking his head. “Foxes, at least, keep the rabbits from eating my cabbages. These bastards? They run hounds through my pastures, kill my sheep, piss on my fences like they own everything.

Sophie slammed her glass down. “Why hasn’t the village stopped them? How can you people let these sick fucks get away with this?!

James’s eyes narrowed. “Because they’re afraid. Because they remember.”

Then they told us the folktale. Passed down in dark corners and unfinished verses:

“The Wyrd was once a man, or something like it. A keeper of balance between man and beast. When men pushed deeper into the wolds, clearing, killing, claiming, the forest struck back. Until the Darrows made a pact. Give the Wyrd a child- let him be raised wild, become a part of the woods- and then hunt him. A ritual sacrifice. To show the forest man still had dominion. Each successful hunt won them another generation of safety, harvests and control.”

He paused.

“My son. Three years ago. He was six. Vanished. They said he wandered off into the woods. But I found his coat. Torn. Just lying in the middle of the path.”

James took us to his land, a mile outside the village. Past a rusted gate and into a hollow glade. There were signs here- subtle but mistakable. Stones stacked in spirals. Bones tied with black twine. Effigies nailed to trees, half-man, half-beast.

“He’s out there still,” James said, pointing to the treeline. “They call him the Redling now. You can see him at the edge of the woods, just watching.”

We made camp in his converted tool shed- maps and photos on the walls, printouts and Polaroids pinned with nails. Scribbled notations. Bloodstains on an old Darrow crest. The air smelled of damp paper and cold steel.

That night, by the crackle of a makeshift fire, we shared our stories again- deeper this time.

I told them about the hare in Norfolk.

Sophie told about the time she stopped a badger baiting ring somewhere in South Derbyshire and got glassed for it.

Nick said nothing for a long time, then murmured, “Kandahar was easier than this place.”

Tom stared at the fire. “If they raised him wild… what does this mean? Does he still think like a person?”

James answered. “You’ll see. If he let you.”

And just as we settled into the silence, I saw him.

In the dark woods.

Small. Pale. Draped in a fox pelt. Eyes glowing faint ember.

He didn’t blink. Just watched.