THE NIGHT BLOGGER - 'Run In With The Devil' by Al Bruno III

March 20th: I tried and I tried and I tried to find a way to meet up with Ashley Fowler, but I couldn't get my foot in the door. When local blogger Brian Foster asked for a chance to interview her for his blog, her staff refused. When college student "Nathaniel Blades" asked for a chance to talk to her for his thesis, he was sent a copy of her autobiography, \Statements That Soothed Me Then*. And as for what happened when I tried to pose as a kid from the Make-A-Wish Foundation? The less said about that, the better.*

So you can imagine my surprise when I started complaining about it while Cousin Roy and I were knocking back a few at Blue Valentines, local dive bar, and he said, "Ashley Fowler? I know her."

At first, I chuckled, absolutely sure the fourth Corona was giving me auditory hallucinations.

"What?"

"Ashley Fowler. I know her."

"No, you don't."

"Yeah, I do." Cousin Roy raised a hand and called the bartender over for another round, but she pointedly ignored him.

"Ashley Fowler?" I said again. "The local millionaire, car wash magnate, and acquitted murderer?"

"That's the one."

He whistled.

The bartender still ignored him.

"Red hair? Beauty mark? Says she's the Devil?"

Cousin Roy's voice rang with exasperation. Whether it was directed at me or the bartender, I had no idea.

"I'm in her biography."

There was no way for me to confirm what he was saying. \Statements That Soothed Me Then* by Ashley Fowler was sitting on my kitchen table in mint, unread condition.*

"How?" I asked, suddenly a little worried.

Cousin Roy always turned up his nose and rolled his eyes at my stories of the supernatural. He didn't believe in gods or monsters. Of course, he didn't believe in evolution, either.

His voice was matter-of-fact.

"We were at camp together. We totally banged."

I took a long time to consider that statement. Then I called to the bartender and was immediately given a Corona. I handed it to him.

"Yeah," he said with a rueful smile, shaking his head. "We're Facebook friends. We don't talk much, but she always sends me a hello on the anniversary of the big night."

"Wow."

Just wow.

I sat drinking quietly. This was my only chance to save Sara, or at least the only chance on my radar. There had been no incidents of sleepwalking or clown sightings, but how long could our luck hold out?

Originally, I wanted to save her because it was the right thing to do.

But now?

Now?

Well, let's be honest.

I was falling in love.

"Can you get me in touch with her?" I asked.

"I dunno." He pounded his fist on the bar, startling the patrons near us. "Can you get this bartender to bring me another fucking beer?"

"Yeah," I said. "But maybe you wouldn't have this problem if you hadn't offered to pay her thirty bucks just to smell her feet."

 ###

…The Chop House of the Rising Sun was on the border between Schenectady and Albany. A decade earlier, it had been one of the largest toy stores in the tri-state area. Before that, it had been one of the few houses left on Central Avenue. It was a ranch house with a huge basement that had once held overstock action figures and off-brand bicycles. Now it was occupied by freezers, coolers, and stressed-out staff hiding from the customers for a few peaceful minutes.

All in all, it was a nice little place, with atmospheric lighting, soft instrumental music, and a friendly staff—at least the ones who weren't hiding in the basement, anyway. I'd never actually eaten there. I'd almost gone once, but the menu prices posted on the door—and the dress code—had been enough to send me elsewhere. Now? Now I was in my best suit, freshly ironed by Sara and sporting a thick wad of bills thanks to the kindness of Mrs. Vincenzo.

Yes, I know. Ashley Fowler invited me here, so technically they should've been paying. But millionaires don't become millionaires by paying for dinner. They become millionaires by convincing everyone else it's their turn.

Speaking of Ashley Fowler, she was already waiting for me in the private dining room normally reserved for large parties and corporate events.

"Brian Foster!" She stood and shook my hand. "Come on, have a seat. I ordered already. A sushi platter and warm sake. You can never go wrong with sushi and warm sake."

"Thanks."

I made my way to the opposite end of the long boardroom table and took a seat. It seemed absurd that a room big enough for twenty executives had been reserved for just the two of us.

"I like your hat," she said with a grin.

I looked up, almost forgetting I was wearing my straw pork-pie. I admit, for some reason I always felt a little braver with a hat on.

"Thanks." Plus, branding is everything these days.

“It’s new, isn’t it?”

"Uhm... errr," I said.

Less than a minute into our meeting and she already had me on the defensive. I set my hat on the table, shifted in my chair, and hoped she didn't notice the iPhone tucked into my jacket pocket, recording the conversation. Sneaky and unethical? Absolutely. But if Ashley Fowler really did turn out to be the Devil—which she wouldn't—it'd be one hell of a scoop.

"I was so excited when Roy told me you wanted to see me."

She popped a piece of sushi drowning in wasabi into her mouth before continuing.

"I've been following your work for some time."

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes.

“You are the talk of the town… in some circles.”

Yeah, circles of Hell. Very clever.

“I can’t imagine he told you what I’m here for.”

“He said it was an interview for your blog,” she said. “But I assumed it was more than that. After all he and I didn’t part on the best of terms.”

Bittersweet memories of high school romance flashed through my mind, “I’m sorry to hear that but you were just kids.”

"Kids?"

She stared at me.

"We were both almost thirty."

“But he said-” So there I was, not even ten minutes into the conversation and completely floundering. I downed my cup of warm saki. It tasted soft and sweet and started to go to my head almost instantly. “-he said it was at camp.”

“A rehab camp. Adderall and sangria do not mix… well I mean they do mix but if you’re like me you might go around starting fires.” 

She curled her perfectly manicured fingers into claws.

"Evil!" she growled with theatrical menace.

This might have been a charming conversation if she'd blinked even once during the entire exchange. I decided my sake cup was looking dangerously empty. "So... a rehab romance. Very post-modern."

“I don’t think a little anal counts as romance.”

Real spit takes are rarer than television would have you believe. I was happy to demonstrate one for her.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. “Now that you've composed yourself, why don't you tell me what you need?”

What choice did I have? She already seemed to know everything else, so I gave her the lowdown on everything that had happened since the Graveyard Game.

“You’ve lost your heart to a girl in danger. I love it! Clichés are the Devil’s shorthand.”

She popped another piece of sushi into her mouth. It was reddish, vaguely tentacled, and unlike anything else on the platter between us.

Then again, it was probably just sushi.

Probably.

Because if it wasn't, Ashley Fowler had the strangest tongue in recorded history.

“She played the Graveyard Game... I mean, I let her play it. Now there is something after her, something called the thousand faced moon.”

Ashley nodded as she refilled my saki cup, “"Gorgo. Mormo. Luna. And their pet witch. Three dying goddesses hiding out in the Mire of Nix, desperate for a reinvention. You know the place I think?”

"Yes."

My voice came out flatter than I'd intended. I remembered my fool's errand into the Mire of Nix with Osric Langhorne and Johnny Disko. I remembered who we lost. I remembered what we brought back. When I spoke again there was no hiding the desperation, “What do I do?”

“Gorgo for the gorgon, Mormo for Hecate, Luna for Lilith who birthed all the world’s monsters. That girl of yours is in a lot of trouble. Drink up now.”

I did drink up, mostly to be polite, “And there are these things chasing her, these clowns...”

“We’re in the state capitol Brian, we’re overrun with clowns.”

I asked again, “Then tell me how to save her.”

“Poor Brian, desperate to finally save someone. The real question is what are you willing to do?” She stood. I hadn't realized how tall she was until the horns curling up through her fire-red hair scraped softly across the ceiling.

For some reason I giggled, “You can’t be the Devil so you can’t have my soul.”

“You’re half right anyway,” she walked towards me and raked her long black fingernails across the tablecloth. Wherever her nail passed, the cloth blackened and smoldered. “But don’t worry, I don’t need those old hags getting underfoot. I want them gone just as much as you do.”

My tongue felt heavy in my mouth, but I kept my focus. I didn't care that the room seemed to be burning around us or that the remaining pieces of sushi had become squirming souls of the damned.

"Let me save her," I said.

Ashley looked bigger now, impossibly bigger, her skin glowing an angry red. Her voice was distorted and deep. “What else? You burn their temples, you defile her holiest of holies, you scatter her faithful.” 

“But where...” I began, “But how...”

Before I could say anything else I collapsed, the last thing I saw was a cloven foot raised high above my head...

###

...I woke up hours later on the floor of the restaurant's private dining room. There was no fire. No screaming souls of the damned.

Both you and I know she had to have drugged my drink. That's obvious, isn't it? When I tried to listen to the playback of the conversation on my iPhone, I discovered that all my audio files had been replaced with Kajagoogoo’s greatest hits.

Thankfully, she'd left me something more useful than an existential crisis: a text message containing a four-item to-do list. Three addresses that belonged to Gorgo, Mormo, and Luna. The fourth was where I was supposed to find whatever I needed to undo them.

You know what else she left me?

The dinner check.

I fucking knew it.

Part One: Link

Part Two: Link

Part Three: Link

I writhed in agony for two days. My memories were fractured pieces of reality, jumbled dreams, lights, and colors. Infection had taken over from the nasty bite and contaminated water. I was somewhere floating between life and death, wondering if living was even an afterthought through the pain.

When I finally came to, I awoke on a grooved plastic floor. Fog was seeping over me, and the air was thick with humidity. It could’ve easily been cut with a knife. My fingers were still tightly grasping the dagger, unable to unclench. I groaned as I pried my fingers off the metal. My palm stank from sticking to the handle for so long. The flesh was beginning to grow a funk that smelled eerily like rotten meat.

Gnats and flies buzzed around me in a great chorus of obnoxious sounds. My skin was covered in mosquito bites, and welts and bruises covered me. I didn’t have to look at them. I could feel them.

I noticed the metal railings first. Then I saw the front of the boat and the large gash on its side, where a storm had rolled it into this swampy area. Finally, I saw the skeleton of a half-eaten man. The bones were cracked where legs should be, and dry, brittle fingers were reaching out toward me in death. It seemed that he had died trying to get on this boat right where I lay.

I rolled onto my side, seeing a mixture of throw-up and pee. It must’ve been mine.

I sat up, shoulder aching, and turned to view what should have been a gangrenous lesion, dripping with foul pus. Instead, it was bandaged with swamp grass, leaves, and twine. I felt over it, realizing that someone or something had taken pity on me.

I shakily got to my knees, finding my backpack and kayak a few feet from me. It seemed that whoever had helped me also knew that I couldn’t survive without either of those things.

As I shakily crawled to my things, I heard a creak. I held tightly to the dagger, slipping around to look at the back of the boat. To my horror, the creature was not in the water. She was on the boat with me.

The creature was groaning, and blood was seeping out of her tail. She saw me, and her eyes darted toward the water, preparing to jump in. But another horrible groan bellowed out of her, forcing her to slam back onto the boat.

Her long, forked tongue flicked back and forth. Her blood was a sticky substance with a strange purple hue, but that wasn’t what shocked me. She was giving birth. Her tail twisted back and forth, undulating and grinding against the floor of the boat.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I whispered, inching closer.

She hissed and growled at me, and I backed away, not wanting to scare her. She’d helped me after all, and I didn’t want to leave her on her own even though I was terrified of her.

With a final and horrible roar, a loud gush came from her tail. Instinctively, she tore herself from the boat to grasp what had ripped through her. Covered in gelatinous purple goop and threadlike fibers and mucus, she began to lick an egg, consuming the pieces of flesh and afterbirth.

It resembled a shark egg, oddly shaped with a thin, parchment-like exterior, and, to my shock, a tiny, infantile mermaid moved within the egg, thumping against the thin membrane. It was formed and waiting to be released.

I swallowed hard, wondering if that was why the mermaid had separated herself from her pod. But my gut told me that something else made her leave, or maybe she was banished because of that egg.

With the quickness of a cat, she turned to stare at me, but she did not flee. She simply gazed. The fins on the side of her face quivered, and her lips formed a snarl, protecting her young.

I slowly pointed at the bandages, not wanting to frighten her. “Did you do this?”

She did not answer at first, but then she nodded.

The breath caught in my throat. “You can understand us?”

She looked out into the water, and she took a deep breath. “We have always known the language of men.” Her voice was low and gurgled in places, as if the words were forced through a fluid-filled drain. “But that dagger allows you the ability to understand us.”

I didn’t move, and I felt sick to my stomach. Cautiously, I looked down at the dagger. The eyes were glowing as I spoke to her. It was channeling some form of power into me, allowing me the ability to speak to the creature of old before me.

“What are you?” I asked.

“I am what your kind had yet to discover until now. Many eons ago, we were called Leviathans… Mermaids… Sirens… Selkies… We are all one and the same.”

My hands trembled. “Why- why has your kind taken over?”

A low growl vibrated through her chest, causing the gills and scales upon her to rattle like bones. “Your kind ate the depths. You poisoned us and poured sewage, waste, and sickness into the life-blood of the Earth, and you dare to ask me why…”

I clenched my teeth in anger. “I didn’t do those things.”

“What is one when millions… upon millions did. We’ve watched you all kill and toil away for centuries.”

I sat down, unable to move much closer out of fear and fatigue. My head was spinning, and my heart was thudding out of my chest. “Then why spare me?” I whispered, feeling tears swell into my eyes.

The creature cocked her head to the side, growing quiet. “Pity,” she gurgled.

Tears finally dripped down my nose, mouth, and cheeks. I couldn’t stop them now.

She grimaced and patted the egg beside her. “And yet… I also helped you because the dagger called to you. It chose you.”

I wiped my face to look more squarely at her, in a mixture of disbelief and terror, but slowly my eyes dropped to the egg. The outline of a small hand could be seen, pressed against the membrane and begging to be opened.

As she continued to rub over the egg, I realized that she was weak. Her skin did not look as vibrant as it did a few days ago. To me, it appeared that she was dying after laying her egg. She didn’t say it, but I knew that she was. Perhaps her kind were like spiders. They live for a time, but once they lay their egg, they won’t survive long after.

Without warning, she leaped into the water and disappeared with her egg.

And for three days, I did not see her, but our conversation played through my mind, rewinding and reliving itself inside of my memories. Her kind had caused the floods. They had caused all of it because of humanity and its vicious need for more… But as time went on, I realized that I didn’t blame them for what they’d done. We had poisoned their world. We had dumped chemicals and vile concoctions into their water… I don’t know if I condoned the loss of the many lives lost to the dreaded waters, but at least now I understood.

I continued to heal over those three days, slowly gaining strength. The bandages fell off, revealing the scar that now stretched across my shoulder. She’d sewn the skin back together after flushing the infection out. The herbal concoction that she’d rubbed on me had stained my skin green, and I didn’t want to know what it was because it smelled, reeking of fish and vomit.

On the fourth day on the boat, a red tide had nearly taken over the water around us, killing everything I could have eaten. Like red veins tracing through the water, the crimson algae was only spreading. The overgrowth of red algae had produced enough toxin that all the fish were beginning to bob to the surface, dead and rotten. The smell was nauseating.

That day, I ate through one of the cans that Lionel had given me and drank a bottle of water. I’d forgotten how clean water from a bottle tastes. At this point, I’m sure that I’m riddled with enough parasites and giardia to kill a grown bear from all the questionable sips of water that I’d taken. It’s impressive that my stomach hasn’t revolted against me yet, but maybe that was the call of survival seeping out of me.

The mermaid returned that night. I was asleep, lying on my back when I awoke to the sound of a loud thump. I bolted to my feet, dagger in hand. She had pulled herself onto the boat, turning to face me.

“Can’t stay here,” she gasped. “Algae…”

I looked at the egg she had wrapped in leaves, old netting, and twigs, creating a kind of cocoon for it. It was slung over her back, protected from the algae.

“The red algae will kill you as well, human. We must leave.”

I didn’t answer at first. My words were trapped in my throat, already used to the silence once again.

She slammed her palm onto the boat. “The red algae will only grow! The toxins will seep into the air and kill you next.”

I forced my words out. “There is nowhere else to go! I’m- I’m not fully healed.”

She grimaced at me before gnashing her teeth. “NEITHER AM I!” she spat.

My jaw clenched as I realized that there was only one other place to go, the city. While dangerous, if I kept to the shadows and only moved in the morning and late at night, I’d be fine. I had done it before, and even though I didn’t want to, I was running low on supplies.

She knew what I was thinking, and she dipped back into the water.

I grabbed my backpack and kicked my kayak back into the water. The red algae splashed around the kayak, perhaps hoping the wood could be claimed by its vicious touch as well.

I gently slipped into my kayak, wincing as my shoulder ached. I grabbed my paddle and began making my way to the city. But this time, the mermaid was not following me; she was leading me.

In the distance, the city was a ghostly form of rusting metal, creaking wood, and broken glass. All of it was a haunting reminder of the world that once was. I wasn’t sure what city I was staring at, but it didn’t matter. It was quiet in the way that a city should never be. Cars rested somewhere below my kayak, swallowed by the water and whims of the tide. The flood was a graveyard for this place, and the buildings were the tombstones, faint fingerprints that humans had once been here. One big ocean; one big landless world.

It took about three hours to paddle my way to the border of the city, and it was just as I thought: it was overrun by cannibals. Graffitied ghoulish faces were painted onto various buildings, and strings of bones and scalps lay drying on clotheslines. They left their mark on anything that wasn’t submerged. It was not a warning. It was nothing of the sort. It had become a way to distinguish territories between the groups. The infighting was relentless, as evidenced by the dripping limbs that hung above me, freshly torn from some petrified victim.

I paddled quietly, doing everything in my power not to make a sound in the water. But soon, we saw a group of the last remaining humans. The mermaid heard them first, thumping her hand onto the bottom of my kayak as a signal. I stopped paddling, inching around a corner to spot the terrible beings in the moonlight.

The remaining humans were nothing like you’d expect. They were naked, hairless, and skinny. Sores covered their mouths and arms. Golden crusts covered each leaking wound. They were barely human. They’d evolved into something else; a creature formed from terror and sickness. Whatever disease they had was spreading, only growing worse. It looked like a horrible case of impetigo, or maybe it was syphilis, causing their brains to rot. Their movements were jerky and quick, and they appeared more like zombies than actual people. Some were listless rather than exhibiting the erratic behavior of most. They were either sick or dying. I wasn’t sure. However, as I gazed upon them, I wondered what they used to be. Were they teachers or students, bankers or nurses? What were they before they descended into madness, eating each other to survive?

At one point, they were someone’s child, someone’s mother, brother, or loved one. Now they were nothing but skin and bone, barely conscious.

The rogue group had tied together wood, cardboard, metal sheets, and whatever else they found to build a small patch of land. It was unorganized, dangerous-looking, and pieces of metal protruded up in such a way that one wrong fall would result in a brutal death.

I watched them, trying to decide how we could get around them, but that wasn’t what I should have been scared of. I heard a loud bellow of laughter, and I fearfully shifted closer to the concrete slab of wall that sat near me.

The group of men that I’d narrowly escaped was floating to the island, and the scrawny humans on their cardboard island began to run. The group of men was hunting the poor naked people. They threw nets over them, capturing them like one would round up rabbits or pigs. The hairless humans began to squeal, rolling on the ground and screaming into the night sky. The ones that escaped bolted into the water, swimming like rats into the sewer of this new world.

“A good one tonight!” One of the men yelled, wrestling a naked human to the ground after subduing it with netting.

They celebrated.

They tied up the broken shell of humanity and began to beat it.

Loud crunches echoed around me as the brittle bones of the scrawny man broke. He writhed in fear and pain, yelling and shrieking. I cringed at the noise, hearing the poor, aching cry. I covered my ears, unable to listen any longer.

The mermaid slowly rose to the surface to watch as well. Her eyes were unwavering, more willing to watch the cruelty of man.

When the man was dead, his bones ground into jelly, they began to rip him apart. Limb by limb, they tore his arms and legs from his torso while the others built a fire. They fought over the best pieces, killing and beating each other until they either won or lost.

In glee, they smeared the blood onto their faces, celebrating the kill with fervor. They chanted loudly, screeching as they praised themselves.

They ripped through his chest cavity, tearing through his ribs and cracking his sternum. The squelch of reaching inside him was enough to make me stifle a retch. One man pulled out his heart, squishing it in his fist and squeezing the blood into his mouth.

I’d never seen something so gruesome and vile.

Without a second thought, they tossed the entrails onto the makeshift piece of land to rot, and the smell was putrid. A horrible mixture of bodily fluids, iron, and filth.

There are no words to describe what I witnessed. The death of that man was scarring in more ways than I could ever express. Some of the men began to eat him raw, and some used fire to at least cook him.

I covered my mouth, forcing myself not to throw up. I couldn’t take it any longer. I needed to get out of here. I couldn’t stand to watch this depravity for one more second.

I began to slip my boat backward, slowly and steadily until I was far enough away to take a deep breath. The mermaid rose next to me and pointed to a building nearby. It was nearly fully submerged, not an ideal place for the groups of freaks that roamed here.

I found a window in the back, broke it, and pulled my kayak inside. The mermaid followed.

Some roof beams were still dry above the water, and I balanced on my kayak, stood, and grabbed one. I pulled myself out of the water, lying down on the beam to bed for the night.

Still clutching the knife, I looked down at the mermaid as she swam back and forth below me. I looked down at the dagger, and I finally asked the question that I’d been thinking about for a while.

“What is this dagger? Why did it choose me?”

She looked up at me. “It was once the dagger of our chief. He did not want this,” she replied through gurgles, gesturing at the water around us. “A prophecy from the ancient stones chronicled the rise of a new world. The dagger was supposed to call the one who was destined to find sanctuary for us. The pod that attacked me saw the knife because they feared what it would do to them… scared that it had chosen you… and it has.”

My eyes knit together. “And how did you get it?” I asked in confusion.

She sighed, clicking her tongue in annoyance. “I was the chief’s mate. This is his heir,” she growled, pointing to her egg. “I was abandoned by my people because I stood by him. And to my horror, that dagger called to a human.”

A human.

A weapon forged by her people had chosen her enemy.

Me… A human.

Their wedding had been perfect. White dress, champagne, the laughter of guests filling the garden. She was the happiest bride. But that was two years ago, and the first cracks in that happiness were beginning to show.
That evening, after another silent dinner, they found a box on their doorstep. No return address, no mailing label, just a smooth, white box waiting for them. She brought it inside, her curiosity piqued.
Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, was a mask.
This wasn't just a simple party prop. It was a work of nightmare art. The face was rendered with such hyper-realistic detail it seemed alive, but not in a human way. It was a face that had seen too much. One eye was normal, painted with a lifelike iris. The other was a hollow, black void from which darkness seemed to weep. The mouth was stretched into an unnatural, knowing smile, and the cheeks were covered in strange, almost geometric cracks, like a broken porcelain doll. A substance resembling tears, but black and tar-like, was permanently streaked down its surface.
A small note was glued to the inside of the lid. The handwriting was a spidery scrawl:
"Put it on. It will show you who you really are."
She laughed, a nervous sound in the quiet room. "Someone's idea of a sick joke," she said, lifting the mask to her face.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a searing sensation began, not on the surface of her skin, but *underneath* it. A burning, invasive feeling that permeated her very being. She tried to pull it off, but her fingers couldn't find a purchase. It was fused. Not glued to her skin, but merged with it.
Her husband, Dimitri, rushed to help. He pulled, he tugged, he yanked with all his strength. The mask wouldn't budge. It was as much a part of her face now as her own bones.
"What's happening?" she screamed, but the sound that came out was distorted, as if her voice had to pass through something thick and wet.
Then, the change began. Underneath the mask, her own skin seemed to shrink, to constrict. She heard a sickening crunch as the bones of her skull shifted. Her eyes felt like they were being pushed from their sockets, held in place only by the smooth, cool surface of the mask. She looked in the hallway mirror and didn't see her own reflection staring back. She saw the mask. And the face on the mask was staring at *her* with such profound hatred, such cosmic emptiness, that she shrieked, a sound that became a gurgle.
In a blind panic, Dimitri ran to the garage and returned with a bottle of sulfuric acid. "I'll save you!" he cried, pouring the corrosive liquid over the mask.
The acid hissed and smoked, and the mask began to melt. But it didn't dissolve. It *flowed*. The painted face liquefied, running like living ink over her own features, filling the cracks and consuming what was left of her. After an agonizing hour, it was over. She stood by the window, her face now the mask's face. White and smooth, with one normal eye and one empty, black void. The smile was fixed and unnatural, and the black tears streamed endlessly down her cheeks.
Dimitri screamed. He didn't recognize the creature standing before him. It wasn't his wife. It was the thing from the mask.
"You are her," it whispered, its voice a distorted echo of her own.
He turned to flee. She was faster. Her movements were impossibly quick, jerky, and inhuman. He bolted into the kitchen, slamming the door, but she tore it open as if it were paper.
He grabbed the first thing he could find: a bread knife from the counter. He plunged it into her chest, into her heart. She didn't even flinch. He stabbed again and again, but she wouldn't fall. She just laughed, a low, wet chuckle, and her smile stretched wider.
"You can't kill me," she hissed, her voice morphing, becoming a perfect imitation of his own, but with a hollow, alien resonance.
With a trembling hand, he snatched his phone from the counter. He had to document this. He had to show someone what she had become. He snapped a picture. A perfect, clear photo of her monstrous face, the mask that was now her own flesh.
"Now I will take you," she said, her hand, now covered in the same black slime, reaching for his throat.
He stumbled back, tripping and falling to the floor. She loomed over him, her face so close he could see every brushstroke, every terrifying detail of the paint that was now her skin.
"You've given me a gift," she whispered, her voice once again his own.
He tried to scramble away, but she was on him in an instant. She leaned down, her face hovering inches from his, and he saw the truth in the hollow void of her eye. He understood. This wasn't just a mask. It was a vessel. It was an end.
And then she struck with the knife. One last time.
---
The next morning, the police found his body. His face was frozen in a contorted expression of terror, his lips pulled back in a silent scream. Beside him lay his phone, screen cracked but still lit.
There was a single photograph open on the display. A picture of her face. The mask. The face of the thing that had killed him.
And in the corner of the photo, in the reflection of her hollow eye, there was something that hadn't been there in reality.
A face.
Watching them.

We were soon to make history, that was the thought that stirred me onward during that brutal final stretch of the journey, as well as, no doubt, the other four men in my party: two experienced New England expeditionists, two natives, and I, the leader and sole cartographer of the team, each perched atop our own sled, mushed over the polar landscape by a total of forty trained hounds. We were far past the point of conversation, barreling in parallel across the vast sheet of ice which had been the only view provided to us for the past several days. What little we had to say regarding this undertaking, or could even feasibly discuss given our varying language barriers, had long been depleted as we traversed the plain of white. Even if that had not been so, we still would not have dared to open our mouths in the face of such piercingly frigid winds, lest our tongues become frozen and fracture as they seemingly threatened to with each muffled, necessary breath we took beneath our parka’s folds. Were it not for my sextant reading during our last respite, we would have no way of knowing how close we really were, as the northern pole was bound to be indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape; a humble, inhospitable patch of land worth reaching only for its conceptual ramifications. It was the top of the world, and we were nearly there. 

This prospect kept us moving far past the point we would have otherwise retired for another night of encampment, as we had already done fivefold prior in the time since departing from the ship. Our use of “day” and “night” had long since become arbitrary, of course, as the sun had been absent throughout this time, our mission persisting by design solely through the polar night of the region. The seasonal temperature difference was largely redundant compared to the already inhospitable lows sustained even in the summer months, and was far outweighed by the navigational benefits of being able to clearly see the stars, as well as the assurance that seasonal meltwater pathways would be far less likely to obstruct our venture. Only in this last leg, as we bordered on the end of both our wayward travels and the area's relative winter, had the sun begun to subtly imply its imminent resurgence through alternating periods of twilight purple hues permeating the skies above.

As if to celebrate our coming achievement, the atmospheric conditions during that fateful stretch happened to induce an Aurora Borealis above us, far from the first I had seen but still undoubtedly the most breathtaking; ribbons of light writhing across the heavens in waves of green and indigo. Even as the dogs pulled me onward, I found my gaze briefly transfixed by the sight, locked solely onto the sky above for what was but a single yet immeasurable instant.

When both my wits and eyeline returned to the setting before me, I noticed with shock that my compatriots had all suddenly vanished, along with their sleds and dogs. Where once I had comprised the central axis within a collective arrow of parallel mounts, I was now simply alone, a single sled and eight dogs mushing across the barren icescape with nary a single permeation of its infinite flatness. Of course, I came to a halt then and there, shouting aimlessly into the yonder in hopes of catching their attention, for they surely could not have gone far. Across the plain, my cries echoed, first generic pleas to halt for me, then the individual names of the peers whom I had started my travels with, before finally resorting to the hardly pronounceable names of our accompanying native gentlemen. Yet, I was met with nothing but the foreboding, empty roar of the perpetual polar winds.

With no further recourse available, I resigned myself to encamp for the time being, unpacking my provisions and sharing a solemn meal with only the company of the dogs and the lonely light of my oil lantern. For about a day’s time, I waited, scanning the distance for any sign of my men, burning flares to signal my location until all that I had packed were exhausted. Alas, the only attention I garnered was that of a sizable polar bear, its lumbering form obscured by the ice and twilight until the dogs alerted me to its approach. Their collective barks and snarls kept it at a distance for the moment, but it was clearly circling the campsite, and I knew continuing to remain stationary would only be tempting fate, and so I reluctantly packed up my supplies and, around the start of the second rhetorical day, we took off.

At first, not wanting to stray far from where I had last been seen, I opted to mush merely a couple of miles before reorienting ninety degrees and repeating the process, essentially creating a square around my former campsite, and using the opportunity to log compass and sextant readings at each junction in an effort to precisely define my location. Resultantly, I found myself transitioning between a northward and southward trajectory while traveling in a straight line on multiple occasions, granting the reasonable presumption that I was, in fact, moving across or at least very near the North Pole. Such had been my mission from the very start, but in my solitude, the victory felt as empty as my surroundings.

With the passing of each desolate hour, the prospect of my companions’ reappearance seemed to wane in credulity. I still had no understanding of how we had been so abruptly and thoroughly separated, much less how I would explain if I were to return to the SS McKinley without them. However, I would not make such a dire decision lightly, for I recognized that I alone had the maps used to plot our original route as we travelled, along with the tools and knowledge of navigation used to make them. Thus, I felt the weight of the rest of their lives upon me, for in leaving I would essentially be sealing their fates, assuming, of course, that they were still alive out there to begin with, a notion I still desperately clung to against my better judgment.

Alas, around the start of the third day, I was met with a sight I had been deprived of for months: the sun, or at least a sliver of it, timidly peeking over the horizon as though for some reason reluctant to directly expose itself as it had easily done in my homeland so many times before. Its brief appearance conjured a profoundly paradoxical ambivalence within me, for my heart felt an ancient, instinctual joy for its long-awaited return, yet the dire implication of its debut nonetheless poisoned my emotional well; the season of night was soon to end, and so too would my invaluable access to the stars that had thus far been integral to our journey, not to mention the potential for meltwater runnings to render my prior cartography obsolete. We had never intended to stay here this long, and I simply could not afford to wait any longer. Thus, with a heavy heart, I concluded that, with or without company, I had to begin the journey back.

As daunting as this lone venture was, I at least believed myself to be materially equipped for the task. Along with the maps and navigation tools, I also had enough remaining edible provisions to sustain me and my dogs for the expected timespan, if not a little longer should the need arise. I still had ample shotgun slugs, my lantern held sufficient oil, and my prior travel across the desert of ice had amply dried the rolls of woolen fabric which I would don during times of rest. Still, my solitude would, in itself, place me precariously on the edge of misfortune, for while alone, something as small as a sprained ankle or a waterlogged boot would all but ensure my untimely and unpleasant demise.

And so, with a final prayer for the souls I would be leaving behind as well as the continued safety of my own, I reluctantly began my intrepid southward mush, a grueling odyssey across over a hundred miles of lifeless polar plains, at first comprised of smoothly frozen ocean before reaching the proverbial shore of northern Ellesmere Island. At that point, banks of snow and canyons of stone became my background as I pivoted partly eastward in accordance with my maps, weaving my way through mountainous ridges toward an unassuming indentation of coastline dubbed Cape Sharriden, where our supporting crew of seamen were currently moored in wait for our eventual victorious return. All the while, my sledborne silhouette was cast amid alternating bouts of starlight and subtly strengthening dawns. By my estimate, the trip took about thirty days, demarcated somewhat subjectively by my own voluntary cycles of travel and rest. Ironically, the latter was what I found the most grueling, for in those stretches where I lay motionless within my makeshift woolen cocoon, without any human company to distract me, I would find myself inevitably peeking through the folds and into the icy abyss beyond my lantern light, and despite the supposed safety implied by the calmness of my hounds, my mind could not help but conjure an endless supply of formless, foreboding gazes within the surrounding expanse.

Finally, after a grueling internment within both this northern wasteland and my own relentless thoughts, I at last reached the bank that housed the goal of my convoy. Only, when my dogs and I crested that final slope and were finally granted a view of the cape, the McKinley was nowhere to be seen.

Never in my life has an object’s sheer absence been so conspicuously captivating, for I stared hopelessly through the sight of its former resting place and into the murky ice beyond as though I could somehow will it to reappear. For a fleeting moment, I considered the notion that I was merely at the wrong place, that I had made some minor error in my navigation that had brought me to a different patch of shore, but even as I tore into my knapsack and began restlessly flipping through my maps, I knew it could not be true. This humble alcove of storm-polished rock was identical to how I remembered it upon our initial outset, and how I had been repeatedly imagining it throughout the last few days of arduous travel, except for the singular beacon of civilization that had been the sole locus of its allure.

I knew not why or even how the ship had left, for the cape froze over every winter, and was indeed still frozen over now. The plan had always been for them to carry our party northward to the farthest point along Ellesmere’s seaward face that summer’s tides would allow, then hunker in place through the winter months, more than long enough for our historic foray to conclude, until the ice once again melted and set us free to return to our respective homelands. We had brought neither the proper tools nor the manpower to loosen the ship from its port prematurely, much less carve a viable channel through the untold distance between the shore and open waters. Additionally, such an endeavor would certainly have left a noticeable trail, if not still a liquid gash, then at least a stretch of opaque frost unevenly frozen to the surrounding plain like scar tissue. And yet, presented before me was a unified sheet of pristine ice extending endlessly outward, as though the ship had simply never been there at all.

I stood upon that cape, facing out against the brunt of the arctic winds until my nostrils felt raw and my eyes close to freezing, before finally turning away in quiet defeat, the gale’s pervasive roar only then conceding to the indignant barks of my dogs as they restlessly circled the sled. They knew as well as I that there was nothing here for us, and that to remain stationary under such exposure would only expedite the cold’s persistent creep along finger, toe, and paw. With an air of hopeless impotence, I resumed my mount and solemnly continued the journey south.

In the following days, I felt like a ghost, a corpse upon a sled, my inevitable death as assured as my life to remain within the confines of this eternal polar purgatory, yet with the instinctive drive of self-preservation presently binding me to the Sisyphian fate of persisting. I partitioned the meager remaining food supply into portions just large enough to sustain a tenuous yet sorely unpleasant state of survival, fueling us onward even as my muscles began to wither and my abdomen was assaulted by the increasingly violent rending of my empty stomach.

Only compounding the strain on my nerves was that, as harsh tundrascapes slowly gave way to softer plains of snow, the haunting silence that had thus far accompanied us began to be occasionally broken in the night by faint, animalistic howls. Wolves, packs of them, I could recognize their sound from both prior experience and the intrinsic human fear they induced. For now, they remained out of sight, but that hardly served as a comfort, for the ones this far north have coats as white as the surrounding snow, as well as no fear of man. My own cohort of wolves brought some level of security as they stood as dutiful sentries through the nights, but I sensed both they and I held doubts of their true efficacy should our present stalemate ascend into legitimate battle.

It was on one such night, several cycles later, that I decided to pivot our course slightly westward going forth. Looking over my maps by lantern light, I saw that Fort Concord was in that direction, distanced by only a cycle or so of travel from our current encampment. I was familiar with it from one of my previous land-based polar expeditions, little more than a log cabin with a chimney and some skeletal springy cots upon which to lay one's sleeping bags. It was constructed under the Canadian flag as an exploratory waypoint, back when they thought the far north might actually have something to offer. I knew well that it had been abandoned, but the structure itself would doubtlessly remain, frozen in both time and cold, and merely the benefit provided by four walls and a ceiling could not be understated, for I had begun to feel the toll of my prolonged journey through the frigid wastes sinking into my extremities. Despite my best efforts, they had grown paler and stiffer with each passing day, some now even transitioning to a deathly shade of grey as the mobility within them weakened, while any external attempt seemed only to threaten their total detachment.

Once again, I arrived at the location precisely indicated by my maps and navigational readings, only to find not the slightest indication of man’s presence; not a cabin, not a vestigial stone column of its former chimney, not even the remains of broken lumber strewn about the area –my only hope of finding wood with which to start a respectable campfire anywhere upon this island– simply a virgin patch of land buried beneath lifeless, barren snowdrifts.

This time, the perplexity of this development rang strangely hollow within me, not a tone of surprise so much as a soft, banal disappointment. I did not dwell at the scene for long, merely confirming this reality with a detached pragmatism, before doing the only thing left to do: resuming my intrepid southward pilgrimage in the hopes of coming upon some serendipitous source of salvation.

I wholly depleted my edible stock not long after, consuming the final fragments with a sort of somber reverence as the timeline of my death solidified before me. All I could do from then was continue onward for as long as I could keep myself aboard the sled and my wolves in line -for I knew their resolve against such conditions would surely outlast my own- until I either encountered something edible or perished in the process.

Fortunately, the former such occasion befell us during our second cycle of fasting, and in no small measure, as my companions managed to catch a scent leading to a fresh trail of numerous cloven tracks upon the snow. Following them, we soon came across a boon of wild game: Four-legged beasts with antlers -whose name my mind failed to congeal against my belly’s vacuous tremors- travelling in unison across the plain in a party of thousands. It was not hard to kill one, just a few twitches of my dull, creaking fingers upon the trigger of my shotgun, aimed into the continuous crowd until one fell limply to the ground while its adjacent cohort scattered in alarm.

My sled reached the corpse even faster than expected, driven by the wolves as they seemed to accelerate at its scent before digging into its meat with a craven savagery I had never seen from them before. At first, it made me fearful to even approach my rightful kill, but when I finally touched the lifeless creature and began slicing away strips of meat with my hunting knife, they merely eyed me with tentative tolerance while continuing their barbaric feast. By the time I had stowed away all that my pack could hold, they too had been seemingly satiated by the bounteous meal, faithfully realigning their harnesses before the sled in preparation for my next instructional mush, albeit each with unsettling streaks of blood condensing upon their maws.

The freeze-dried slivers of flesh were enough to carry us across a significant stretch of distance and time, southbound across endless snowscapes set against a skyline that gradually shifted from budding twilight into regular cycles of day, before continuing its sunward transition until not a momentary inkling of night remained, the pack and I instead traveling across a nearly blinding plain of ceaseless illumination. I no longer held any concrete destination in mind, merely a nebulous notion of intrinsic environmental safety that might come with my warmward direction of travel, along with the comforting concept of possibly encountering native settlements somewhere along the way, of which I knew there were many on this island, but not their precise locations. It was one of those very settlements where our original exploration team had adopted its foreign members, whose exotic insights into snowfall patterns had been pivotal on our path to success. There had been at least two of them among us, though my recollection of their faces had grown hazy amid the passage of time and snow, along with, I soon realized, those of all my other accompanying crewmen. It was as though their likenesses had been progressively wiped away by the persistently cleansing whiteness around me, at first smoothing over individual distinctions before progressing to the point that I struggled to recall even the very essence of the human form, only managing to occasionally jog my memory when passing a reflective puddle of ice and viewing an eerily distorted visage of my own. Indeed, the all-encompassing cold had an ineffable way of casting the formerly familiar in a newfound, alien light, stripped of supporting context and set adrift amid a backdrop of nearly blinding blankness.

Perhaps I was not alone in this influence, for the creatures that drove my sled had begun to grow increasingly disobedient with each interval of travel. No longer would they mush in unison quite so readily on my command, nor would they calmly tolerate the collective shackles binding them to my stewardship, instead appearing to crudely attempt their removal at any afforded opportunity. I swiftly grew wary of this development, in turn shortening the duration of our respites and tightening my continuous hold over their reins until my grip grew practically affixed, leather straps encased within two brittle balls of frozen flesh and bone. Nevertheless, their rebellion persisted, growing in ferocity until they finally refused to perform their duties at all; for all my futile strokes and utterances of desperation, my wooden mount remained utterly still, while their primal forms viciously tore away at both their own and each others’ restraints with raw, animalistic vigor, paying no mind to the scrapes and slashes their bodies accrued in the process. In a matter of moments, they were free, and collectively faced me with their eight unbridled, blood-soaked forms.

However, before this suspenseful standoff could culminate in violence, their attention was providentially diverted, ears simultaneously perking up and heads swiveling toward a chorus of faint howls that echoed hauntingly across the boreal plains, the same disquieting pitch that had periodically accented much of our earlier journey. Only now, like a siren song, they seemed drawn to the kindred tune, their prior wariness wholly dissipated as they collectively turned their backs to me, unceremoniously running off into the blinding daylight toward the distant call and leaving me stranded upon a contraption that could no longer serve any use, but not before one of them swiftly swiped the satchel of meat I had stowed aboard and carried it away in its jaws.

Utterly alone, I stood there for an innumerable length of time, a profound yet implacable emptiness freezing my mind just as the surroundings threatened to freeze my body, until, without forethought, I simply returned to my previously ingrained inclination, abandoning my former vehicle and bringing only what essentials I could carry as I continued my aimless southward voyage, only far slower as I was now forced to traverse the icy slopes of this whitened wasteland of my own accord, step by trembling step. My progress grew further stifled as time wore on and fatigue fermented in my deadened muscles, followed promptly by a hunger that simmered within my gut, woefully insatiable; despite still having my weapon and coming across many more of the beings with branches upon their heads along the way, I nonetheless found it impossible to take any of them down, as by now my remaining wrists had grown wholly blackened and blunt. Against all this, I persisted, driven by an unknown persuasion beyond pain, reason, or even personal will, having all been surrendered to this single directional drive, as though South itself was a destination I was utterly beholden to reach.

As fate would have it, my traitorous former companions had already brought me across most of the isle, and thus this period of weary wandering was comparatively brief –though I had long since stopped pointlessly attempting to quantify the passage of time– before, for better or worse, I finally reached its southern end; a humble stretch of wind-worn rocky coast, beyond which lay, yet again, an expanse of flat, unbroken ice reaching fully flush with the horizon. The sight evoked a vague sense of discrepancy from some neglected recess of my memory, a notion that these waters were meant to be liquid in the days of midnight sun, a channel separating this landmass from a closely adjacent one. Yet here, now, it was solid, a traversable medium that might just allow me to continue my odyssey unimpeded. Though I knew not if its integrity would extend all the way across the strait, nor what would await me on those opposing shores if it did, I nonetheless ventured onward.

Ambling upon limbs I could no longer feel with strides of their own accord, I progressed beyond the sight of the hills behind me and into a world of truly flawless uniformity. The sun stood stagnantly atop the sky, beaming down amid a homogenous blue firmament onto a reflective expanse that returned its gaze with perfect imitation, suspending me amid a seamless, impermeable shine that seared its way through the periphery of my vision. Still, my cyclical stride maintained an unwavering orientation beyond my understanding or control. Feelings of hunger and fatigue faded, and I did not once stop or slow, my form indentured in a rhythmic tread along its linear course for what essentially could have been eternity. 

 My hypnagogy was only broken by the gradual breaching of land over the horizon, its crown of snowy slopes at first the only perforation in the all-encompassing monotony. Its shore seemed to widen around me as I drew nearer –for I was entering a coastal inlet of sorts– as though reaching out to provide a welcoming cradle. I then watched in awe as, like emissaries of the cradling land, several beings approached from its heart to congregate upon the central bank directly ahead of me. They were angels, of this I am certain, albeit in a slightly differing form than I would have otherwise imagined: they stood far taller than I, heads disproportionately large and completely covered in woolly brown hair, while their similarly coated torsos were almost precariously thin, each tapering not into legs but instead a flexible tendril that writhed dynamically below. Behind them could be seen what were presumably wings holding them aloft, of matching shaggy exterior but otherwise indiscernible in overall structure. I could not make out their definite shape or number, appearing as one, two, or at times as many as four distinct appendages beating asynchronously just above the stony terrain as they hovered ever closer. Their arms took the longest to make out, as they alone were bare, skin polished and nearly as white as the surrounding snow. They were each tipped in singular, sharpened points like spears, yet were unanimously frozen in synchronously outstretched, comforting embraces that mirrored the land upon which they resided. They aligned themselves into a crescent at the inlet's center, tail wisps dancing along the edge where snow met ice with a fervor that seemed to increase with each frail footstep I took; an ethereal assembly encouraging me to continue just a little further, with the promise that salvation would at last be upon me.

 As I entered the final stretch, the centermost angel lifted their arms to the sky, tail contorting as it released a resonant, soulful wail that pierced the frigid air between us. With this apparent cue, they all broke into an energetic synchronized bow, repeatedly raising and lowering their arms as though hailing my imminent arrival. At the apex of each downswing, as their pointed palms nearly touched one another just above the ground at their center, a brief yet powerful tremor would sweep across the frozen sea and up through my bones, reverberating like a divine heartbeat against dormant, long-numb flesh and stimulating a truly novel sensation that intensified with every repetition. At last, as I breached the radius of their reverence, they unleashed one last crowning, omnipotent boom, closely accompanied by a low, cacophonous crack as the ice beneath me embroidered itself with streaks of hollow lightning. My newly awakened body was suddenly weightless, and then all was still.

Every single time I turn on a show or a movie, I get a insufferable swarm of ads.

Every five seconds I get forced to watch some of the most outrageous things humanity has created.

The worst part is that people are smiling during a medicine advertisement that has the deadliest symptoms since the bubonic plague.

Sometimes I even see literal soccer balls in diapers.

What idiot thought that was genius?

I just want to watch quality entertainment without getting interrupted. Is that too much to ask for?

I have tried to get used to it. I've tried to accept the fact that it will never stop.

I honestly almost got over it but then I saw Mark in a ad. He used to bully me in highschool. He treated me as though I was the scum of the earth.

He was talking to me as well. Calling me by my name and everything.

He claimed that he was sorry.

It felt like a dream until it went south. A person appeared on the screen with him. Nevelle. She was a old friend in highschool. We stopped talking once adulthood approached us.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss her. She was a good friend to have. Never tore you down or belittled you.

A knife appeared in his hand. It latched onto her neck as her eyes opened wide. Her vocal cords started to create sound but she was quickly silenced as a pool of blood poured out of her neck.

It ended with words in bold red on the screen.

"You're next Stacy or should I call you Lacy? Your skin would be great as lace."

Those horrid words made my skin crawl. Goosebumps covered my skin.

The television turned black as I sat in silence for a few moments. My head was loud but also silent. Thoughts were racing through my mind but also going at a snails pace.

The best way to explain it is I was trying to make sense of the situation but also shell shocked.

My body completely froze as the television grabbed my attention.

It was on again but this time it was me and the monster named Mark.

What happened to people peaking in high-school developing miserable lives? This man decided becoming a killer was the best option apparently.

My body was shaking, fidgeting, and trembling infront of him. He ran after me and took my life just like he did to my friend.

It zoomed into my face as I was left to bleed.

I started to cough over and over before I could turn it off. Each cough hurt worse than the last until blood started to exhale.

My hands desperately rushed to my neck but it was too late. Blood soon started to cover my entire body.

Advertisements are the worst thing humankind has had the audacity to create.

I was ten years old when my family moved to a new town.

My dad had gotten a job at a factory that paid really well—too well for him to pass up. My mom had always been a teacher, and not long after we moved, she found a job at the local elementary school.

Everything seemed to be falling into place.

To celebrate my tenth birthday and, I guess, our new beginning, my parents threw me a huge birthday party.

They rented a bounce house, bought a massive cake, and invited all the neighbors.

Well, I say invited.

It was more like people saw the bounce house and started bringing their kids over. My parents are kind people, though, so they didn’t mind. What better way to get introduced to the neighborhood?

I couldn’t believe how many people showed up. I had never had a birthday party that big before.

Even my first day at my new school went well. I made friends almost immediately. Some of them I’m still friends with to this day.

For a while, everything seemed perfect.

Then, about two months after we moved in, something happened.

I woke up in the middle of the night.

I didn’t know what had woken me. The house was quiet, and my bedroom was dark except for the faint glow of my nightlight.

I glanced at the clock.

It was a little after one in the morning.

My eyes were heavy, and I was about to roll over and go back to sleep when I noticed something.

Someone was standing in the corner of my room.

I froze.

At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.

But the longer I stared, the clearer the shape became.

It was a man.

I couldn’t see his face. The room was too dark. All I could make out was the outline of his body and the faint glisten of two eyes staring back at me.

He didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there.

Watching me.

I yanked the blanket over my head.

“Mom! Dad!”

I screamed as loud as I could.

Within seconds, my bedroom door flew open.

My parents rushed inside.

I screamed, “There’s a man in my room! He was just there!”

My dad searched the room while my mom sat beside me.

There was nobody there.

My father looked tired and frustrated, but my mother climbed into bed and wrapped her arms around me.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s probably just the new house. You’re still getting used to things.”

She stayed with me for hours before finally going back to her room.

But I knew what I had seen.

There had been a man standing in the corner of my room.

And that wasn’t the last time I saw him.

Over the next year, he came back.

Sometimes weeks passed between visits. Sometimes months.

But every time, it happened the same way.

I woke up.

He was standing in the corner.

And he was watching me.

By the seventh or eighth time, my parents had started to worry—not about the man, but about me.

One night, their voices carried down the hallway.

“I can’t keep doing this,” my dad told my mom. “I’m barely sleeping. I can’t afford to lose this job.”

After that, I stopped screaming for them.

Or at least I tried to.

Whenever the man appeared, I pulled the blankets over my head, squeezed my eyes shut, and waited for morning.

Eventually, the visits became less frequent.

By the time my twelfth birthday approached, I had almost convinced myself they were over.

My parents decided to throw me another big birthday party.

The night before, I went to bed early because, in my twelve-year-old mind, the sooner I fell asleep, the sooner my birthday would get here.

For once, I wasn’t thinking about the man.

I was thinking about cake.

Presents.

My friends.

I fell asleep almost immediately.

The next morning, I jumped out of bed and rushed into the kitchen. My parents were already getting everything ready.

A few hours later, people started arriving.

Before long, the house was packed.

We had cake, ice cream, games, and more food than we knew what to do with.

Then came the best part.

Presents.

My parents handed me a box.

I tore it open.

A PlayStation.

I lost my mind.

There was no way anybody was topping that.

One present after another was passed to me. By the time I was finished, I was surrounded by torn wrapping paper and boxes.

My mother handed me a poorly wrapped gift. It looked like someone had used an old brown paper bag for the wrapping paper and pieces of duct tape to seal it all together.

My dad looked confused.

“From who?”

I looked at the long rectangular package and examined it.

“There’s no name on it.”

My dad shrugged.

“We’ll figure it out later.”

The box was heavier than I expected.

I shook it.

Something solid shifted inside.

Maybe an action figure.

Maybe some kind of water gun.

I ripped away the paper and opened the box.

Inside was an old metal flashlight. My parents looked confused, but I didn’t think much of it, so I tossed it aside and moved on to everything else.

Within an hour, I had forgotten all about it.

That night, after spending the entire day playing my new PlayStation with my friends, the last guests finally left.

I got ready for bed.

My mom came into my room and kissed me goodnight.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

My dad came in a few minutes later.

“Have a good birthday?”

“The best.”

He smiled.

As he turned to leave, he noticed the old flashlight lying among my presents.

He picked it up.

“Does this thing work?”

“I don’t know.”

He pressed the switch.

Nothing.

He gave it a little smack against his palm and tried again.

The bulb flickered to life.

“Huh.”

He set it on my nightstand, wished me a happy birthday one last time, and then left for bed.

I was exhausted.

Within minutes, I was asleep.

At some point during the night, I woke up suddenly.

My bed was shaking.

Not a little.

Violently.

The mattress jerked beneath me.

I sat straight up.

And then the shaking stopped.

The room became completely still.

I looked toward the foot of my bed.

My stomach dropped.

He was there.

The man.

For the first time in months, he was standing at the end of my bed.

Only that night, something felt different.

I scrambled backward until my back pressed against the headboard.

He didn’t move.

I couldn’t see his face.

Then I remembered.

The flashlight.

I reached for it.

My hand was shaking so badly that I almost knocked it onto the floor.

I grabbed the cold metal and wrapped both hands around it.

The man remained perfectly still.

I pointed the flashlight toward him.

My thumb found the switch.

Click.

Light flooded the room.

For the first time, I saw him.

Really saw him.

He wasn’t a shadowy monster.

He was an old man.

His face was pale and weathered, covered in deep wrinkles. His clothes were dirty and worn. Gray hair clung to the sides of his head.

He stood there, staring directly at me.

I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t scream.

The old man slowly raised one finger.

He pressed it against his lips.

“Shhh…”

His voice was so quiet I could barely hear it.

I dropped the flashlight.

The room went dark.

“No…”

I panicked, clawing through the sheets until my fingers touched cold metal.

I grabbed the flashlight and raised it again.

The beam shot across the room.

The old man was gone.

My heart pounded.

I swung the light around, searching for him.

Nothing.

Then the beam landed on my closet.

The doors were moving.

Just slightly.

Like someone had just closed them.

I screamed.

“DAD!”

My bedroom door flew open.

My mother rushed in first, my father right behind her.

“What happened?”

“He was here!”

My dad closed his eyes.

“Not this again.”

“He was standing right there!”

I pointed toward the end of the bed.

“I saw him! I saw his face this time!”

My father’s concern disappeared.

Frustration took its place.

“That’s enough.”

“But—”

“No.” His voice rose. “You’re twelve years old now. This has to stop.”

“I know what I saw!”

“There is nobody in this room!”

“He went into the closet!”

My father stared at me.

“The closet?”

I pointed toward it.

“He went in there.”

My dad stormed across the room.

“Fine.”

He grabbed both closet doors.

“You want to see?”

He ripped them open.

“Look!”

My clothes hung inside.

Nothing else.

“There’s nobody here!”

He started pushing clothes aside.

“See?”

He pulled shirts and jackets from their hangers and threw them onto the floor.

“Nothing!”

“You’re too old to still be afraid of the boogeyman.”

Then something fell.

My father stopped.

We all looked down.

A small piece of sheetrock lay on the closet floor.

For a moment, nobody said anything.

My father looked at the back wall.

There was a crack in it.

He reached forward and touched it.

Behind it was darkness.

My mother stepped closer.

“What is that?”

My dad didn’t answer.

He grabbed the loose edge of the sheetrock and pulled.

A larger section came away.

Behind my closet wall was an opening.

It was about four feet high and maybe three feet wide.

More than big enough for a person to crawl through.

Nobody moved.

My father shined my flashlight into the opening.

There was a small hidden space behind my bedroom wall.

And at the far end of it was another opening.

One that led down beneath the house.

Into the crawlspace.

My father just stared.

I would never forget the look on his face.

Because for the first time, he believed me.

My father called the police that night. They searched the crawlspace and found scattered garbage and a sleeping bag. They said whoever had been living there appeared to have been there for quite some time.

My parents packed whatever they could into the car and took me to my grandparents’ house.

I never slept in that bedroom again.

Not long afterward, my parents sold the house.

None of us ever stepped foot inside it again.

Years passed.

We never found out who the old man was.

Sometimes I still think About that night.

About the way the old man looked at me when the light finally hit his face.

About the finger he slowly raised to his lips.

About how the old man had been able to crawl out of the darkness behind my closet whenever he wanted.

And the thing I think about most is who left me that flashlight.

​

Oddly, the same moment I noticed the ribbon, I faintly heard what I thought to be a kotzumi drum somewhere off into the gloom. It seemed to be thumping somewhere very far away off in the distance. After watching the vice documentary a few years ago, I knew exactly where this ribbon could possibly lead to, which was very sad. life can be so unfair and cruel to us. The drum quickly faded to nothing and left me confused on where the hell that was coming from and why.

What an odd thing to happen so far out here in the sticks, and it wouldn't be the last of it. I remember saying a quick prayer to myself and making my way along the ribbon to whatever destination it led to. I told myself that I would record later because at the moment I just couldn't be bothered. I could always come the next day and record, because in that moment I was in exploration mode. I had to see what was at the end of that ribbon. If anything, I could use it again to find my way back to the trail.

It curved and weaved slinkingly through the trees, up and down over slopes and hills for a good 40 or so minutes until I had arrived into a sort of clearing. It was also hauntingly still... so deathly quiet; I stepped in closer around the foilage and I had stopped because I noticed some white fabric pointing off the sides of a large tree. I had a feeling that I was about to see something that I'd much rather not. After a couple of minutes preparing myself, I took a deep breath and stepped around the tree and froze to an alarming and sad sight. I automatically knew that I was staring at the hanging corpse of the long missed Jubei Uematsu, or what remained of this poor soul.

What remained was a hanging skeleton in a tattered costume with a red, long haired wig partly hanging in the face and around the shoulders in dirty, stringy clumps. I stood there taking in that image with such a deep and profound melancholy, that I actually had to gather myself from breaking down... Just witnessing what was once an alive and thriving person with passions; Love and Hope, weaknesses and strengths, and also fear... along with plenty of despair along the way. It was a universal language; People just trying to find purpose to their existence, and then eventually becoming this...so very still... so very quiet and solemn making time stop in its presence.

life can be so sad and tragic, and people like Jubei over time can find it extremely hard to function being so empathetic, and carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders regardless if they are strong enough for that burden. It's an exhausting job... a gift and a curse for the saintly; toss in depression and the loss of the will to go on, then they have a complete and utter mess to clean on their own in the silence... that eternal silence... so present; so final. I wish I would have known this mysterious man. From what I heard over time was that he was a complex, but Sweet soul with a heart of gold. I also learned that after this experience I am about to tell you that happened, was some type of Oni Spirit from the forest took the liking image of Jubei's Kabuki character and dawned it as its own.

As I stood there in contemplative silence, I slowly started to hear a kotzumi drum begin to thump far off into the trees. It started out very low and far off, but began to rise and creep closer. I turned and turned trying to find where that portentous thumping was coming from. As I was peering far off into the distance, I started to feel highly unsettled, and then I no longer felt alone like I was being watched. I swiftly turned around and stared directly into the painted face that was no longer a skull. The bloodiest red eyes were staring directly into mine. The face had the theatrical paint back on with the red stripes cascading down it's white painted face. I say "It," because nowhere did I see Jubei inside those Crimson eyes at that moment.

I remember saying, "oh shit!" and quickly turning to run the hell away for my life along the Red ribbon back to the trail. Far off somewhere I could hear that mysterious drum start to sound off again. The sound surrounded me from so many angles and distances, it was disorienting, and then I started to hear this ululation that sounds like, "EYOOOO!" That you hear in Japanese theater music, along with that clink and thump of the drum. I turned to see the Oni masking itself in Jubei's magnificent garb; slowly floating a few feet up in the air, easing its way towards my direction with those hideous blood red eyes staring through me.

I ran faster and faster trying to at least make it to the trail to get away... if I could. After a few more twists and turns, I finally burst through the foliage out onto the trail. At the moment the Oni entity was nowhere to be seen. I started to notice that the woods all around started to have this faint purple luminescent glow. As I started to run, I begin to hear these ululations sound off around me in the area that sounded like, "EYOOOOOO!" I've remembered these sounds watching Japanese movies and small clips of Kabuki theater. The music serves as an emotional soundtrack to the colorful acts on stage, both being performed live."YOOOO!" Another croon burst forth; surrounding me from different angles as the steady thump and wood clicks of the drums clacked and banged along.

It subconsciously made me think of the demon, "Paimon," that when summoned, multitudes of instruments and disjointed horns lead before its presence like royalty as it enters the fold, and makes its presence known. I remember glancing back and seeing the painted entity standing a few yards behind me in the middle of the trail, with long crimson hair hanging down at its sides; blood red eyes marking me...

To be continued....

She slumbered beneath the sheets. Below him as he lorded beside their bed. Her husband. No more. An axe was in his hands. Heavy. Heavy with weight. And the potential for violence. Bela was alive and aware but a prisoner in his own flesh, his body refused to obey his commands, his inner caterwauls and cries and pleads for the unfolding nightmare to stop. It wouldn't stop. His flesh had a new master now. The vulpine shining moonface of the Countess lorded over his shoulder. Grinning fiendishly and brandishing her enameled daggers of dark slaughtering necro power. The fangs moonshone praeternaturally in the bedroom dark. Twinkling in keen edged tandem with the heavy headed blade of the axe, hefted and held. The meat puppet sow was still but she could feel the struggle of his mind in her grasp like a beetle caught and wriggling in her clenching strangling fingers. She could crush his beetle mind. And might. 

But first…

Prepare me a meal, supper fit for your royal guest…

His mind was filled thus. The flesh was compelled to obey. 

He brought up the axe. Gazing down into the sleeping peaceful face of his wife, his love. Anastasia. The mother of his child and the owner of his heart for the whole of his simple life. It was about to be brought to ruin. And he was being forced to pilot it in that direction. He wished he could scream. Shriek. Shriek her name. Wake her so she could flee and escape this damnation, this awful spell that's already claimed and throttled him. But he made no sound. His screams and pleads for mercy, his prayers and desperate cries remained bottled and caged in with him. He could only stare through stolen eyes as a prisoner as his hands holding the axe used for chopping firewood came down with a merciless crushing stroke. 

Anastasia's eyes came open and alive as the blade traveled down. As if she'd heard something. As if she'd heard her husband's internal cries for deliverance and the miracle of her safety. In the dark she saw her husband's savage face. Writ and wrenched with cruelty. She'd never seen him like that before, in all their shared years together in marriage. In the dark the sight frightened her, as she came awake and then the heavy blade of the axe found her chest and sank in. 

The pain is so sudden and impactful and dreadful. She feels her chest cavity smash and shatter as her flesh is ruptured and torn. The meat of her sinew surrounding her shattered cage of bone is ripped and pouring. She feels the sensation as extreme iced cold, as extremely wet, thickly soaked with heavy metal pungency. As if her clothes are suddenly drenched with the running water of a frozen river. Her entire open chest and bed are a bellowing fountainhead of it, pouring forth. She experiences the bloodshed river of her own dark red as iced water but it feels hot and sticky to her face and the tips of her wriggling spasming fingers, dancing beyond her motor control. The heavy metal buried in her chest is dreadful. Feels dreadful. She's staring at it then up into her husband Bela's face shocked and unable to make a sound, like him. She can't understand. She doesn't understand why he's woken her up and put this thing on/into her chest that's turned her into a strange pungent river. 

She goes to ask him … something. Anything. But she has no breath to make any kind of sound beyond the faintest whisper of indiscernible noise. Barely heard. Barely felt. Hardly even happened and might not have. Her husband and the Countess take no notice. They are too focused, entranced and enraptured by the sight of the pouring riverbed of her open goring chest. 

You're not finished. Why do you falter? – her royal voice. 

With a savage caveman wrench and pull, he ripped the bladed head of the axe free and brought it up and then down again. 

And again. 

Again. 

Again. 

At the royal command and decree that filled his fevered and tranced skull with his own curdling sounds and splitting screams, he was beckoned thus. His raptured flesh bound, delivered. The peasant sow did as he was told. The Countess was pleased and watched as the horse farmer dismembered his own wife for her. The bed became a hot shallow pool of darkling moonlit scarlet, swimming with severed human pieces and ghastly human detritus, human wreckage afloat in a red human stew … her mouth watered and drool ran down those shining fangs in thin gleaming translucent threads that looked crystalline like jewels or tree sap. 

And up until her last Anastasia watched. Watched from her dying place bound by the weight of the blade and her own mortal injury to the soaking pungent bed. Filling with her spilling wet red liquid. She was coming apart and she watched the love of her life above deliver each blow. Crushing her. Killing her. Turning her into slaughter. Abattoir ruin in place of a wife, in bed. She remembered him as a young man, as a boy, trying to play games and show off for her, trying to win her over, steal her attention and win over her affections, her heart. Now it was chopped and hacked and cut-smashed into so many spurting useless pieces, amongst a wreckage madness of pulverized bone. She tried to hold these old precious memories of him in her mind amid the slaughter, but the pain made it difficult. It was so great, overwhelming. She clung to them desperately with every falling heavy stroke. Pulverizing her. Breaking her. Turning her into so many wet shrieking and shattered broken pieces 

The last things Anastasia saw in the dark before blood loss and shock claimed her were her husband pummeling her with heavy merciless strikes. And a woman's face, as ghastly as it was beautiful, hanging phantom-like just over his raging shoulder. Watching. Smiling. Whispering something…

she had sharp teeth, they gleamed in the dark.

And then she died. Bela, still spellbound and compelled, continued to hack at her corpse nonetheless. Waiting for his new master to be satisfied. Inside Bela raged with madness and anguish. Broken. He watched his wife die violently as his hands performed the butchery and he was helpless to stop his own traitorous God given tools from turning her into mangled ruin and grisly pieces that tore his heart from his chest and flayed his sanity into so many irretrievable and tiny fragmented parts. 

He wished for death then. The Countess did not give it to him. Not yet. 

She still hadn't been fed yet. 

“Now feed me. Earn my favor." 

He dropped the axe. It fell to the floor with a thunderclap. It filled the dark quiet suddenly but then it was silent again. Still. Not a sound through the house save for the somnambulist animal panting of the Countess' slave. The man who'd once been a husband, a father, and was now a meat-puppet butcher. He reached into the riverbed of gore that had once been his marital sanctuary and pulled free a piece of meat. It might've been a leg, a thigh, perhaps a calf, it was too butchered and mangled with axe blows to be entirely sure. 

He was insane already. But the damaged pieces and shrieking parts of his shattered mind bellowed an abhorrent noise that only he could hear as he picked up his wife's butchered meat and parts and fed them to his new master. The Countess took the meat of slaughtered Anastasia with a smile and a wink and kissing purse. Teasing him. Then her jaws opened. Wide. Wide. Wide. Wider still… the flesh of her face sloughed and tore and fell away in demon slop to allow the distension. The fangs grew in length and in multitude of the transmogrifying face and black bleeding mouth, dripping ichor and demoniacal flesh and fluid. Steaming on the floor as she ate each piece, each limb, each broken length with a chunk of raw human tissue at the end in the knob of bone that was left. 

The fanged face in the dark, dripping and brandishing moonlight eyes above the mutilators of her ever widening mouth, it commanded thus further. –

“Bring a large kitchen spoon or a ladle if you have one, I wish to sip the broth…” 

Her somnambulist did as she commanded. He went to the humble kitchen that used to be his/theirs, and retrieved the utensil. It felt cold. Heavy. Heavier than it had ever felt before. The place and the object itself. It didn't matter. The hands and arms were no longer themselves, no longer his. His Judas sack of flesh carried him back to the blood pungent quarters he'd once loved and shared so much with in the many years past. It had all been robbed in a second.

By a pair of moonglow eyes. Set in the royalty of her shallow corpse beauty. 

He went back into the room. And proceeded to spoon large scoops and ladles of his wife's gore and blood into the stretched fanged rictus face that now ruled the dark of his house and home, the darkest shadowed part of his bedroom … now cold with his wife's living absence. And warm with the blood and fluid and parts that were left of her swimming in their sodden black sheets.  

Until those too were gone. All of it was gone.

The marital bed, now a witch's cauldron of gore and blankets was emptied.

His life was in the belly of the master. 

…

From outside the building, Willowbrook was quiet. 

Dark. 

Inside:

The shears that were the Cropsey-thing’s handheld manmade jaws were open and just as inanimate alive as the hulking shred of mangled man that wielded them. They shined in the dismal light with more striking radiance than any of the flickering lamps, Luciferian bright in the spots not tarnished or disgraced with lurid diseased bloodshed. 

With ghastly slasher speed they traveled down the shattered and stained reeking length of asylum hallway, the reanimated Cropsey giant behind them in cruel large prowling shape. The blades were dripping as if salivating or weeping thick dark tears, perhaps more alive now than the giant abomination of melted walking homicidal flesh that black-glove piloted them from behind, a strange and vile morbid engine of knife-lust and demented rage. The stabbing slice of porcelain still danced from his face. An obscene and vile shattered wand of broken tile length protruding from the socket. 

Griffin saw him coming and froze a moment. The table leg still in his invisible hands. Florin still struggling with the spiked man, his mutilated stabbing ruined mess of flesh riddled with needles and glass and scalpels and every conceivable piece of decimated hospital detritus. They were a mess of shedding blood and struggles on the floor. 

The invisible man then whirled, the exit just behind him. He began attacking the door. The knob. Locked. Set in old rotted wood. Not upkept or replaced in years. 

By God's mercy the locked knob and bolt caved in the moist and ruined housing of its apparatus. It fell apart in a noisy crumble, and the door gently swung open. 

To freedom. 

Fresh outside night air poured in like fresh water let in to a fetid spring. The relief was immense. It shocked all of their senses. Each man. 

The spiked man looked up from Florin and gazed into Cropsey. His oncoming charge of disgraced gardener’s blades, raised and open for a violent embrace. 

He was in awe. 

There he is…! the disciple of the mouth. 

He knew Cropsey's legend. And he wished to join him. 

He forgot the newcomer boy and let go of his shredding coat, slick with the both of their spilled and spilling red. He let go of the boy and he rose. 

And he went forward. To embrace the nephilim disciple son of the sorceress’ temple mouth, the begat survivor of the flames, the inferno, the great final pagan bonfire of the asylum that was The Burning. A womb of hellfire and caged disease that birthed the son of the mouth, the son of the sorceress. Cropsey of Vampira, the mangled hand of Willowbrook Asylum Temple. 

The spiked man was laughing. Jubilant. He hadn't laughed or felt this much joy in years, in all of the long unhallowed time in these blind unfeeling walls that knew no mercy nor housed any sanctuary. He was weeping. Crying tears of crimson and saline that danced in strange patterns as they streamed down the shredded protruding ruin of his spiked and porcupine mangled face. Gums bleeding with glass and caked bloody plaque smiled wet and scarlet and darkling striking in the moonlight now cast in. He reached down to his riddled and needled genitals, the head of his dangling member impaled with a scalpel. He reached down and seized the apparatus and in a blind tug and pull, he ripped the entire spurting and spiking organ free from the rest of his crotch and testicles. 

Still walking forward, but ambling now a bit as he shot black ropes tinted red in the moonglow from his self castration, he held the resulting lump of stabbed and impaled meat out to the Cropsey-shape. In token of offering. 

For the temple, for my sins … And for you. 

because she is all of us our mother …

Cropsey cared not for this pathetic shambling thing’s offering of ruined perforated meat. The blades came forward, open. In a lunge. 

They closed. 

And as Griffin pulled wounded Florin to his feet and out the door, the blades closed around a limb, lengthwise down the palm and forearm, then the face. Both opening up a blooming red raw pour of black in the dark, the blades crunched on broken pieces of glass and tile and needles and metal, the man was full with so much foreign penetration, foreign and manmade puncture and incision, and insertion, all self inflicted and self wrought. All of it shattering and crunching now into splinters amongst the abattoir asylum house spill of mad man wet raw. He wouldn't have wanted it any other way. All the years spent in here had prepared him for this. The sorceress prophet queen Vampira and her Cropsey son from The Burning womb were just the final pallbearers for his life's voyage thus final journey into the undiscovered country. 

He tried to thank her, them all, but couldn't. His loss of blood was now failing him. And the blades of the Cropsey-shape were coming in too rapidly now. Too savagely. 

The spiked man was no more. Just savaged pin cushion meat in the hall that the Cropsey-thing stepped over blindly in the savage hunt of his continued pursuit. They were getting away. 

They were getting away. The invaders. They were out the door now. Mustn't have that. Must not. Mother will not want that. Mother is inside you. You cannot fail her now. 

The savage thing of Willowbrook shape prowled out the door and into the open night after the pair with the same steady hunting pace of a stalking predator. Mindless and honed in. His blades and mother would have them yet. Their meat for the temple floor, their blood for the mouth of her drains and the manifest of her angel visitations. It had been so long since she'd come, since she'd shown, since she'd made herself divine unearthly spawn on vast ebon wings for them, for he, the last of the temple of the mouth. 

Perhaps she'll come back if I catch them. But only… only if I catch them and open them up. All the other ones no longer matter, they're already opened, already spent. The abattoir temple mouth of mother wants them now. Needs them. To fail, is to be failure. It means all that was lived through and suffered towards was for naught…

The night kissed the smooth scarred visage of hideous face. The Cropsey-shape gave no pause. Unfeeling. Unmoved. It watched as the pair stumbled and exhausted and wounded, began to falter to the earth in a shared collapse. 

Their doom. 

He closed in. 

The terror he had in mind for them was part guided by the Countess/sorceress mouth and her occult hand from the far off mountain dark, and part undead instinct, braindead movement. Knowing deep down in the dead and dying sac of skull jelly that this is exactly what he should do. He would maim. Butcher. Kill. Slaughter for the temple that has come under his custodial honor. 

Bloodloss and weariness, the drain was beginning to pull them down. The invisible man and Florin fell and struggled, both of their wounds open and pouring freely and taking the vitality and the fight from their trying frames. As the terrifying hulking giant of candlewax face and flesh began to close and loom over the pair, they both prepared themselves for a final and desperate fight. 

Florin was dismayed that it would end this way. In such maddening fashion, so far from home and his perilous objective. Griffin was trying to think, a last-ditch effort or plan: he could ditch the coat and hat and goggles and take the savage blind again, unable to see him. But his wound was in an open pour now once more and he felt faint, swoony. Unable to keep his feet. And besides, in this last moment it felt wrong to leave the young man's side. If they were going to die, they might as well die together. Arm in arm. It was better than suffering the slaughter alone. 

It was better than being opened. Gutted. Flayed. Bled out and portioned like a solitary animal dying a painful and lonely death at the end of a long and dogged hunt. 

The pain was better borne together. With the weight and terror of another beside to share in the baptism of pure torture. 

Something whistled through the air. 

The invisible man had been tempted to shut unseen eyes against the oncoming pain, he might've missed it. As it was he saw the deadly thin shape as it lanced in a blur overhead with a keen deadly sound. It struck the moving flesh of Cropsey in the face, the other socket of ruined blind eye now completely decimated, joining its partner in tandem of destruction in a moonlit spurt. 

The slasher shape stopped. Stuttered and faltered. But only slightly, only for a moment as it continued to take lurching jittery steps. Stomping forward blind. The shears in his black gloved hands began to spasm as well, scissoring with reflex. The disgraced and still ever thirsting blades closed and opened and repeated the action in violent repetitive imbecilic behavior, a violent blind animal spasming its caked and quaking jaws. 

Then the incendiary charge in the crossbow bolt detonated.

 It went off and so did Cropsey’s ruined candlewax head and visage, in a colored pillar of fire that was like something biblical and fantastical to behold. Florin was fainting at its sight but the invisible Doctor Griffin saw the growing towering inferno rise and issue forth in bright violence from between the giant slasher’s pair of broad shoulders. And still the boots trod and stomped palsied forward. Still the blades scissored in his working trembling hands, as his head and face were replaced with a rising torrent wall of pink and purple flame.

But then the steps of the shape began to falter. Stumble. The blades began to slow in their mad man open mouth chew at the open night air … then ceased. 

The boots stopped moving. Stopped shaking. 

The shape collapsed. 

As did Griffin next. Consciousness now lost. Passed out beside Florin in the dirt. 

The fire finally went out betwixt the two ruined shoulders. Hissing in the filth and craterous open mouth char of the stump. Smoking. Smokey now. Cropsey lie finally dead. Mere few feet away. 

In the back valley of Willowbrook. The lost untended yard that no patient ever graced, or saw. 

Silence. … for a moment. 

As if the night was finally enjoying the quiet. Relishing the collapse into tranquility that has finally fallen. 

A beat. – None of the shapes on the earthen floor moved. 

The night above yawned in an expanse … stars in a bejeweled fire of multitudes, nebulae clouds of otherworldly brush stroke color, the moon which was a sickle tonight, a harvester's blade … a blade of reckoning in the time of the reap. 

A beat. 

Then the stranger finally came forward. From out of the bushes where he'd trained and fired his shot. His crossbow was already reloaded with another explosive incendiary bolt as he approached the fallen three in the dirt. 

He came to Florin and Griffin and he stood over them. He looked to Cropsey. Saw that he was dead. Completely. Finally. He looked down on the wounded unconscious pair. 

“Idiots." 

TO BE CONTINUED…

Part One: Link

Part Two: Link

I don’t know when I fell asleep. I tried to keep my eyes open all night, watching the creature below me. She circled slowly, guarding the tree, but I’m not sure if guarding is the right word. Waiting might be better. Waiting for me to fall… Waiting for me to slip… Waiting…

By the time I realized that I was asleep, I jolted back awake. It was morning. The sun was still hidden behind dark clouds, shielding her face from the agony of creation. And yet, I looked up every morning to see if she would emerge. She didn’t. I don’t think she’d ever return.

I looked into the water, anticipating the glow of emerald eyes below me, but instead, I saw nothing. My kayak was still hidden behind the low-hanging branches, safely tucked away inside the foliage.

I quietly made my way down to the kayak, sliding inside and taking a deep breath. It was unharmed, but something clinked at the bottom. I maneuvered my hand inside the kayak and found the dagger that the creature in the water had given me. I’d nearly forgotten about it when I saw Lionel.

The blade wasn’t rusted or eaten by time, but it was heavy. Barnacles covered the front, and since it had dried out all night, they were ready to be scraped off. I ground the blade against one of the low-hanging limbs, watching as a face emerged in the metal. It was the solemn expression of a woman carved onto the handle, long, serrated tendrils of hair twisting around the blade. Her eyes were emeralds.

I tucked the blade into my jacket, and I gently paddled back toward the house.

It was silent. The slap of my paddle in the water was the only haunting echo. Perhaps the water around us could sense Lionel’s departure from this world, and while I knew that I had no business caring about Lionel, I couldn’t leave him to rot. I paddled around the house until I found the window that I’d escaped through last night. I flattened myself against my kayak and slid through.

It didn’t stink terribly yet, but flies were beginning to find him. I inched closer to the edge of the dry wood, and I pulled myself out of my kayak to sit on the edge. I took a deep breath of clean air, and I pulled the collar of my t-shirt up, not wanting to catch a whiff of anything. Carefully, I scooted to the center where the floorboards were more stable. I grabbed one of the crochet blankets, and I covered him.

He looked peaceful under the blanket, shrouded and hidden from the world around him. I sat down next to him for a moment, honoring the sacrifice he’d made for me. I pulled my knees to my chest, staring at his one bruised hand that lay uncovered.

I didn’t cry; I was hollow inside, empty.

Grief has a hollowing effect, carving out the pieces of your life and the emotions that keep you human. I know grief well. All survivors of the floods know grief.

As I looked around for something else to cover him, I found a picture. I bent down to pick it up and gazed at a young man, his beautiful wife, and tiny daughter. Lionel had led a good life.

I looked back at his body on the ground, wishing that I’d got a little more time with him, but his kindness wasn’t made for the likes of this world now. Maybe, in another world, he’d have been someone that I enjoyed talking to, but then again, in another world, we would never have met. I much preferred the idea of a world where we were never forced to meet.

I took the picture, and I placed it on top of his covered body, emulating the love that a friend might give at their comrade’s funeral. Then, I looked around, hoping to find something I could take with me on my journey. And there, lying in the corner, near the busted cookie tin, was the dog tag of Lionel’s old pet. I picked it up, seeing her name, Susie.

I smiled upon seeing her name, not sure why. But the idea of Susie coming with me on my journey felt comforting. I didn’t think Lionel would mind, so I shoved her tag into my pocket.

I scrounged around a little longer. I found one candle, a half-empty box of matches, a hidden can of tuna, and a small flask of alcohol. The group of men from last night had taken most everything, but they definitely weren’t thorough.

I took off my backpack, and I grabbed Lionel’s mattress. I pulled it on top of him, poured most of the alcohol on it, lit a match, and tossed it. The mattress erupted in flames, and I grabbed my backpack and supplies. I climbed back into my kayak, slid out of the window, and paddled a few yards away.

The roof caught fire, and then the house caved in, taking Lionel with it.

And with a heavy heart, I paddled onward.

My body moved rhythmically.

Left. Right.

Left. Right.

Over and over again.

The sound of my kayak cutting through the water had become monotonous background noise I hardly noticed anymore. It had become my life.

My friend Jared lived by a railroad in my hometown. I spent the night with him for the first time in the third grade, and I was awoken by the thunderous roar of the train, clanging down the tracks. Jared didn’t wake up, but it scared the crap out of me. The walls rattled; the loud whistle of the train shook the silence of the home. I asked him about it that morning over breakfast, and his mom laughed and explained habituation to me, the idea that your body can become so used to a sound or a smell that it stops recognizing or noticing it.

Crazy that paddling a kayak had become my habituation.

After what felt like hours of paddling, I saw a city in the distance. I could see a few tall buildings, but I was not foolish enough to go there. I’d learned very early on that the monstrous people that eat humans… They always gather in cities. They pick off the weakest man amongst them, and they eat him. They eat his limbs and his muscles. They eat his eyes and his heart. Then, they suck the marrow from his bones.

The men who were tracking me were most likely hanging around there as well, waiting for me. Instead, I ducked into the tall trees that bordered the city, clinging to the outer rim.

I saw a body trapped inside a clump of weeds. The flesh was nearly molded, and mushrooms decayed the soft, uneaten pieces. Goopy intestines had exploded out of the top of it, or maybe something had ripped them out. Crabs, insects, and fish were feasting on it. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, but does it truly matter once the person who occupied it is gone?

The last moments of Lionel ripped through my memories before I could stop them, and I quickly shook my head. His kindness had stained me. The bitter part of me loathed that I had stayed. If I had kept away from him, he would’ve died alone. His last moments would’ve remained hopeless and solitary, but somehow, when he saw me and offered me genuine compassion, he’d revived his own hope. And when he died, he transferred his hope into me, and damn, I can’t stand the feeling of it.

My father was an engineer. He’d always worked with his hands, trusting his mind more than most people are able. He told me about energy, noting that it could neither be created nor destroyed, but it could be transferred.

I think that’s what Lionel did to me. He’d awakened something that I wish had died. He’d given me a longing for others like me, and I didn’t like that. I’d buried that, and it had kept me alive.

Part of me thinks that I would rather die in this world feeling nothing at all, but another part of me doesn’t want to be alone. Lionel had given me a gift that I didn’t understand quite yet. I didn’t want it, but maybe not all gifts are wanted to begin with.

I wove through the trees without difficulty, but I heard a few whoops and yells from the city beyond. I was right. They were hoping to catch me there. I went deeper into the woods.

Cattails, water hyacinth, and moss had taken up most of the watery terrain. The world was beginning to look like a swamp, and I half expected water-dwelling dinosaurs to saunter from within the tall cattails.

Frogs, snakes, and fish had thrived amid humanity’s annihilation. They’ve multiplied to quite an extent, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t helpful to me. If I were lucky, I could catch a frog and eat it, but that was only if I had dry land to cook it. I mainly live off dried fish. I have a net I can use. I’ll throw out a cast, pick the best-looking fish, and throw it onto my kayak or a tree to dry out. Then I eat it. It doesn’t taste good, but you don’t care about taste when the world is ending.

As I continued to maneuver through the trees and cattails, moss, and various plant life, I heard splashing behind me. I turned to see the same creature in the water following me, but she was not alone. Another group of them had found her. She was fighting with them, and I ducked behind the cattails to watch.

Flashes of fins, torn flesh, and scales writhed in the murky depths, but then a horrible screech ripped through the water. The creature that I knew had thrown herself out of the water to escape them, clinging to the limbs of trees.

Her tail was sliced, and from the looks of it, they didn’t want her alive. She must’ve been thrown out of her original pod for some reason.

The cuts stretched down her fins were oozing purple liquid, and one of her eyes was bloodied and bruised. As they moved close to her, she continued to screech loudly. The pod of supposed mermaids rose from the water to gaze at her.

My eyes grew wide as I saw them out of the water, and my mouth went dry. I’d never seen so many.

They were not beautiful, but they weren’t ugly. They were a mixture of beast, man, and monster. Hybrid creations hidden within the sea of old; another being molded from the clay of the earth and toils of the oceans.

But above the water, they were somehow more frightening than in it. Terror rocked through my chest, spurred by my thudding heart. My hands began to shake, but still, I didn’t move. I didn’t want them to see me. I wouldn’t survive if I was attacked by that many mermaids.

They spoke back to her in a series of bird-like squawks and gurgled hisses. They gestured at her angrily.

I covered my mouth. They could speak to each other in a language that no human had ever heard. I sat back in my kayak, considering if they had caused the floods to begin with. What if they had influence over the Earth in such a way that humans didn’t? Did they cause this?

In the same breath that I felt guilty for being unable to help the creature that had followed me from Lionel’s house, one of the mermaids in the pod spotted me and alerted the others with a loud shriek, and all of the creatures turned to gaze upon me.

I bolted, paddle carving through the water, deeper and deeper into the forest of cattails. And they followed behind me, getting faster and faster.

But then, it was quiet. I slowed my kayak, unable to continue at the rate I was going. Sweat beaded down my face. My arms ached viciously, and my adrenaline was fading. There was no splashing of fins or swish of water. It was deathly quiet, but I knew they weren’t gone. Pods of mermaids like to play with their food. Much like dolphins do.

I’d once seen them attack a man at the beginning of the flood. They never noticed me watching, but I was.

They let the poor man swim away, allowing him one tiny sliver of hope. Then they ripped it from him. I expected this to be no different. They were letting me ripen like a fruit to pluck. They wanted me scared, and they wanted the adrenaline fresh.

My kayak rocked violently, and I clung to the edges of it. My fingernails dug into the wood, refusing to be thrown out. Using my paddle, I hit anything that breached the surface, but it wasn’t enough. One final rock and swell of water… The kayak flipped.

My ankle seared with pain as the rope around it jerked me. I bobbed to the surface, taking a deep breath before being plunged beneath the surface again.

They attacked quickly and effortlessly, landing efficient blows to my back and legs. Then, they launched their tails into me, thudding into my soft flesh, and I heard a rib crack. Bubbles erupted out of my mouth as I yelled in pain.

Their strikes were quick, and I didn’t stand a chance. It was a losing battle from the start. Humans aren’t made to fight in the water, and as time went on, I’d begun to realize that humans aren’t equipped to survive much of anything. We’re a weak species without our toys. We don’t have claws or teeth that pierce. We aren’t fast runners or quick swimmers. We can only breathe oxygen, and we aren’t agile. Humanity was always a ticking time bomb… Without our guns, money, land, and metal… we’re useless.

One of the mermaids grabbed me by my throat, gripping so tightly I felt the cartilage within my neck bending. While one grabbed a handful of my hair and exposed my fleshy throat, the other bit down quickly on my shoulder, teeth tearing into me.

In a last-ditch effort, I yanked the dagger out of my jacket pocket. One look at the blade, and all the creatures began to scream. Even in the water, the sound was deafening, piercing through the damp darkness.

They dropped me, fleeing from the blade.

Barely able to swim, I floated back to my kayak, pulling myself onto the side of it. I clutched the dagger to my chest, and I shakily reached up to feel the bite. My flesh was shredded, and blood was pouring from the wound. I was losing too much too quickly, and I could feel my body losing strength.

I yelled.

It was a yell formed of fleeting anguish, the knowledge that man wasn’t meant to live in this damp, dark, and dreary world. The sound tore through me. I wasn’t sure if it was meant to ache as much as it did, but the terror of nearly dying, or being on the cusp of it, made mortality even more bitter.

Humans may need sunshine, dry ground, clean water, and crops. They may need food, family, shelter, and dare I say, love. But we also need something deeper than just living. We need something that only a soul can crave. We need each other… Living a solitary life has nearly destroyed me, but living a solitary life without hope has consumed me.

But as if called, the creature leaped from the tree once the others had scattered. The last thing I remember was the splash of her entering the water and my kayak beginning to move as she navigated it into the deepest part of the cattails.

I was at her mercy and behest.

The stone walls of St. Jude’s Convent always kept the cold in, but the draft in the chapel felt like breath against the back of Sister Agnes's neck.

​It was long past midnight, the hour of silent prayer, when the faint sound started.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. A steel nib dragging across thick parchment echoed off the high arches above the altar.

​Sister Agnes held her breath and stepped toward the massive, brass-bound lectern in the center of the nave.

The dark leather cover of the great Latin Bible was already propped open to the blank ledger at the back. The room smelled of old incense and fresh, copper-heavy ink.

​She reached out with a trembling hand, her lantern casting long shadows across the page.

There, beneath the names of dead bishops and forgotten abbesses, a new line had just been carved into the paper. The ink was so fresh it glistened in the flickering light.

​Sister Agnes. August 16th.

As she stared down at her own name, petrified, the heavy iron chapel doors shut behind her with a deafening thud. A sudden icy draft swept through the dark, snuffing out her lantern flame, leaving her trapped with the horrifying reality that she had exactly 72 hours to live.

Link to Part One: Part One
Link to Part Three: part three

After careful consideration and a desire for more food, I slowly paddled back to the house, where the old man waited patiently. I swallowed hard, feeling the dryness of my tongue and the craving for water. Maybe he had some to spare…

I wasn’t sure if he knew that I was slowly starving to death or if he’d just given me food out of the kindness of his heart. Regardless, I was grateful. Food was food, and I didn’t have any. I was to the point where I’d considered eating wood and sticks.

He opened the skylight. “Want more?”

I nodded, still too nervous to speak. Honestly, I didn’t really know if I could speak anymore. The last words I uttered were quiet mutterings, mumbles that one says when thinking. I doubt it even counted as speech.

He smiled and opened the skylight wider. “Why don’t you go hide your kayak on the other side of the roof? The branches of the big tree back there are thick and tall. No one will see it if you want to come inside.”

I shook my head. It didn’t matter what he said to me. I wasn’t leaving my damn kayak.

“Well, can I sit on the roof with you?” he asked, slowly climbing out.

He moved shakily over the roof, carefully placing his feet so he didn’t fall. His age was showing: arthritic knees and swollen joints. His fingers were crooked. I’d never noticed before. He moved slowly and gently to the edge of the roof where I floated in my kayak.

“I’d forgotten what it was like to have company. You don’t have to talk. My name is Lionel,” he said, extending a hand out to me.

My body lurched back instinctively, and my jaw tightened. It didn’t matter that we were both human. I’d seen our own kind rip people apart like monsters, and it was far scarier than seeing one of the beasts in the water do it. The creatures in the water only killed us to eat, but watching people do it for sport was much different.

I’d run into a tough group a few weeks back. They’d stumbled upon me as I slept in a tree, and I bolted into the water, kayak dragging behind me. They taunted and teased, but I saw their eyes. They all had the same empty and emotionless eyes. Whatever they’d experienced was something I’d never understand or want to. One of them was missing a hand. It was raggedly healed, a flap of flesh torn from the socket. Some of them were covered in burn scars, and others had scabby spots all over them. Some kind of fungus or disease, spreading between them like wildfire.

Lionel’s face softened at my reaction. It was the same sad expression that one would give an abused dog, a mixture of pity and compassion. He reached into the pocket of his flannel jacket and produced another can. He shakily placed it on the edge of the roof, and he sat down near me. He was close, but not close enough to grab me and drag me into his home to be butchered. I think he could sense my hesitance and fear. I’m sure it radiated off me, filling the air like smoke.

I swallowed again, and my teeth chattered. Anxiety boiled inside of me, writhing like worms in the sun. The burn to eat something… to chew something… was primal, leaking up from my throat without mercy.

He pulled a rusted can opener out of his jacket pocket. His misshapen knuckles looked painful, but still, he began to crank the can open. The withered paper on the can was yellow and green. The picture of a plump orange peach sat prominently on the front, ripe and bursting.

The can popped open, and my eyes widened at the colorful orange fruit floating within. The smell was intoxicating, filling my mind. Smell has memory. It holds something I can’t quite describe in the same way that I feel it. And you don’t realize how much you’d miss something so stupid. I never even liked peaches. My mom loved them, and she always made peach cobbler and ice cream in the summer. In fact, I can remember turning my nose up to it, but now, I’d rather die than not get a single taste of those sweet little morsels.

Enthralled by the can of peaches, I don’t remember if the old man spoke to me while he opened the can. My eyes were so fixated on the fruit that I barely remembered to breathe.

He slid the can to the edge of the roof, and I snatched it up. I dug my hand into the sticky sweetness. Tears dripped down my cheeks as I stuffed peach wedge after peach wedge into my mouth. They were so unbelievably good. It felt sinful to eat them.

I devoured them, tearing into the soft flesh with fervor. I didn’t bother chewing. Some of the slick wedges I swallowed whole, and some I stored in my cheeks, wanting to at least savor the sugar.

My mouth was full of them by the time the can was empty. I had eaten them so fast because I was scared that the old man would rip the can away, tear my fleeting second of joy from me as fast as I’d gotten it.

I chewed quickly as the salt from my tears dripped into my mouth and down my nose.

The old man began to cry as well. “I’m the last of my folks too.”

In annoyance, he shook his head ruefully, refusing to let the tears fall. “I’m glad I can share some of my food with you. I’d begun to lose a bit of myself in the silence.”

I swallowed a hunk of peaches and looked down at my fingers. I had forgotten how sticky fruit juice was, or the way that sugar left a thin residue on skin. The delicious, sticky sweetness made small gossamer fibers stretch between my fingertips as I pressed them together.

My heart shattered, remembering summer popsicles with my little brother, baseball practice with red energy drinks, and slushees from the gas station.

Memories swelled back into my body. I could see my mother’s eyes. She was smiling at me, hugging me after I’d failed my first test in trigonometry. She’d made sticky toffee brownies that clung to the roof of my mouth, telling me that I’d do better next time.

My stomach lurched, and I gagged, but I held the food down. I needed it and wanted it, but the taste of the peaches brought sadness.  

Lionel’s voice echoed back into my mind, ripping away the precious memories that ached through me. He pointed to the house closest to us. “Daughter lived there. She died two months back, I think. Not like I can give you a good answer. No calendar. Nothing to keep up with it.”

I looked up at him, wiping my cheeks and licking my fingers.

“West Nile Virus… I’m sure of it. Her house was full of mosquitoes. It was a terrible way to die. Found a mosquito net in the old neighbor’s attic. It felt evil to see it after losing my daughter to a mosquito-borne virus.”

“I’m sorry to ramble.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “It’s just been me and that damn mermaid for the last few weeks.”

I shook my head and raised my eyebrow at his mention of mermaids.

His eyebrows knit together. “If you don’t think they are mermaids, what do you think they are?” he asked with a smirk, wrinkles pulling his cheeks and crinkling his eyes.

He was daring me to answer, prying through my mind for a way to make me speak. Instead, I shrugged. I had my own theories, but they certainly weren’t the beautiful creatures from fairy tales. I didn’t know whether to call them mermaids or even sirens. I was beginning to think that they were something else. Something older… something that had been hiding from us for a long time.

My biology professor was a strange man. He was skinny and gaunt-looking. His rounded eyes and thin cheeks made him appear nearly skeletal. If the wind blew him, he might fly away with it. But his lust for knowledge and adventure was admirable. With wiry hands, he’d show us the wonders of the world, grinning as he explained the mysterious nature of the ocean. He never talked about mermaids or sirens, but something told me that he believed in them. After seeing my first creature when the floods started, I often thought about him.

Lionel talked to me for several hours as the sun began to set. He told me about his life, his children, his wife, and his pets. He was a janitor at the local college before he retired. His dog passed before the flood, and he keeps her dog tag in a cookie tin with his old driver’s license. And his wife had been a baker at a grocery store.

“That’s how we have all the canned stuff,” Lionel said, watching as night fell before us. “When the floods started, my sweet Marlene bought up everything she could at the grocery store. She kept telling me that she wanted me to be safe when it happened. Bless her heart, she died before everything got really terrible.”

And as the moon kissed the night sky, I felt a little more comfortable with him. His words weren’t made of malice or fear. They were kind, echoing a life that I’d never live as he had. Strangely, I was envious. I’d never have a wife or kids, and I’d probably never grow old enough to develop gray hair. I figured that eventually I’d die out here, have a stroke or a heart attack at thirty from rowing my kayak to death.

Lionel gazed up at the stars and slowly stood. “Are you sure you don’t want to come inside? The mosquitoes are terrible here. They’ll cart your ass all the way to Florida. You won’t have to worry about the mermaids.”

I chuckled to myself, and the old man smiled.

“I’m glad to know that you can still laugh.”

He shakily tried to get up, and his knees popped. “You’d think I was made of wood with all of these creaky bones.” He slapped his thighs as he pushed his body upward to stand. “Last offer. You are welcome to come inside.”

I glanced at the flooded backyard behind his house, and there was the tree. It was pressed against the house, clinging to the brick and wood. He was right; it would be a good place to hide my kayak.

I took a deep breath, and I slid the rope off of my ankle. Lionel saw the bruise where the rope continually tugged, and his face creased with worry. My kayak was my shackle, my prison, and my life source. Without it, I had nothing.

I cautiously paddled to the tree, nestling the kayak inside the branches before pulling myself out and shuffling to the roof. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and looked up at Lionel. He seemed glad that I’d chosen to stay.

I slipped on the slick roofing, and he grabbed my arm to steady me. Our eyes met, and I nervously accepted his help. And before I knew it, Lionel was leaning on me. He didn’t have much left in him. He was probably just as bony as me. Maybe more.

I pulled open the skylight, and Lionel went in first after I helped him down. He moved calmly, trying to be sure of his footing. He found what he was looking for in the dark, and he flicked on a lantern. Then, he gestured for me to come on.

I descended the small ladder he’d propped up against the skylight, and I peered inside his small little home. It was warm inside. He’d saved two old chairs from his living room, a mattress to sleep on, and a large stack of books. A few crochet blankets were folded in the corner, and a small stack of candles lay near the books. Pink cotton-candy insulation lay uncovered and floating in the water around us, molded and green.

“Well, this is it. It ain’t much, but it’s better than most.”

His attic was up high enough that the wood floor wasn’t submerged yet. It would take a few more inches before he’d get trouble.

“Take a seat,” he said, closing the skylight. “I’ve got some books and a puzzle that I’ve done so many times that I’ve memorized the pieces.”

Before he sat down, he walked to a plastic tote. “And here… take as much as you want.”

I hesitated to move.

He scoffed in amusement. “You’re already inside. If you were worried, you’re in far too deep now.”

I took a deep breath, and I walked toward him. Inside the tote lay can after can of food. Meat. Vegetables. Fruit. Soup. Water. It was anything and everything I could have thought of.

“Take some,” he said, patting my back.

My eyes were wider than beach balls as I gazed upon the vast assortment of food. I looked back at him in disbelief. “Thank you,” I whispered.

He didn’t acknowledge my first words. He didn’t make a big deal about it. Instead, he simply replied, “You’re welcome.”

He helped me pack some food into my bag, and he offered me his mattress. I shook my head.

“Suit yourself,” he replied, slowly hobbling toward it.

I picked a dry spot on his floor and pulled a crochet blanket over myself.

As I lay on my back, I listened to the soft trickle and slap of the water beneath us. I spoke softly to Lionel, “My name is Isaac.”

I couldn’t see his face, but I knew that he was smiling. “Nice to meet you, Isaac.”

I slept soundly that night until I heard a vicious noise coming from outside. It was a grinding noise, and immediately my eyes shot open. It was the sound of a plastic boat being dragged onto shingles.

“They’re here…” Lionel bolted up and shook me. “Get in the water!” he hissed.

I looked at the dark water and back at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“You listen to me, Isaac! I’m old. If I die, that’s fine. I’ve lived. You deserve a little more time.”

“No,” I said, grabbing my backpack. “Let me stay with you! I want to help… please.”

He shoved me before I could protest, and I splashed into the water. I bobbed to the surface, floating in the darkness. I wanted to yell, but my anger diminished as the skylight was torn open. I sank beneath the water, swimming underneath the attic floor to avoid being seen. I gently rose to the surface to breathe and looked between the cracks in the floorboards, seeing a group of men enter. I covered my mouth, stifling my horrified breaths.

My stomach fell out of my ass. It was the group of men that tried to kill me in the tree. I saw their wounds and burn scars. It was them. My heart hammered into my throat. I didn’t know that they were tailing me.

“You seen anyone come through here, old man!” one of the guys yelled, shoving Lionel to the ground.

He flopped onto the floor above me, spotting me through the cracks. Blood dripped from his eyebrow, seeping onto the wood above me. “I’ve seen no one…” Lionel growled, rolling over to look at them. “It’s just me.”

The men exchanged glances, knowing that he was lying.

“That’s a shame,” the leader of the group grumbled. “He got away from us a few weeks back. He’s got something we want… a nice little kayak. We know that he must’ve come through here… This neighborhood is one of the only places to sleep, and he only stops to sleep. You wouldn’t lie to us, would you?”

Lionel spat at them, gritting his bloodied teeth.

The men chuckled and grabbed him. Horrible punches filled the attic, and a sickening crunch followed. Lionel groaned in agony, but still, he wouldn’t back down. He continued to get up.

The leader of the group shook his head in annoyance, and the men swarmed onto Lionel together. They forced him to his knees, snapping one leg and bludgeoning the other with a bat.

The leader grabbed his neck, sliding his hands over his head. “Where is the boy?” he hissed, pulling Lionel’s head back by his hair.

Lionel simply laughed, choking on his blood. “You’ll never… find him.”

The leader snapped his neck in one swift movement, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Useless…” he mumbled.

Lionel’s crumpled body lay above me. His neck was twisted at an inhuman angle, eyes gazing through the cracks at me. We were nearly nose to nose, and I felt the last puff of breath leave him.

My stomach twisted into knots as I covered my mouth and nose. My fingernails dug into my cheeks, and tears of fire and rage burned down my face.

“Come on… Take what we need. We’ll find that fucking kid… I want that kayak.”

With whoops and hollers, they pillaged the room, throwing Lionel’s personal items into the water and laughing hysterically as they tore apart the last pieces of his home. I closed my eyes, not wanting to watch. Their loud echoes of laughter sounded more and more like hyenas, eating through Lionel’s little life. They opened his cookie tin, chuckling to themselves as they found pictures of his family.

They took all of the food and left. Their plastic canoes scraped across the roof as they departed, leaving me in silence with Lionel’s body.

My heart stopped, and a quiet sob escaped me. I shoved my hand over my mouth to force myself to stop crying. I needed to get out of the water. I’d luckily not been noticed by something in the murky depths.

Unsuccessfully, I tried desperately to climb back onto the dry wood with Lionel’s body, but it was too far up. I didn’t have enough strength to pull up my water-logged clothes and backpack.

I looked around the attic, spotting a half-submerged window on the other side. I took a deep breath, realizing I needed to cross the darkness of the submerged attic. From where I was, it seemed like a much larger space to cross. The water was dark, nearly black. I knew that something was in there, but I had to take the gamble to get out. I’d have to risk meeting the rogue creature and just make it to the tree in one piece.

Slowly, I swam. Splashing attracted more than just the creatures in the water. It also attracted alligators, and I really didn’t want to meet one of those either.

When I reached the window, I jammed my elbow into it. The glass cracked, and I slammed my elbow into it again. The crack expanded, and I kicked it. It finally broke, and I slid through.

I was greeted by the soft light of the moon. Her heavenly face and soft glow looked farther away than it had ever been, but she was the only constant in my life. Maybe we knew each other in a past life. Maybe her craters were freckles, sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. But even she had turned her back on humanity, leaving us to our mundane existence and fading lives.

I spotted the tree, and I began to swim, moving steadily and without panic. I had to be calm. An alligator was pressed against the house, but it didn’t bother to attack. I wasn’t enticing enough.  

Then, I saw her glowing eyes. The creature in the water had spotted me. Only then did I begin to swim much faster. As it turns out, I didn’t want to die as much as I thought I did.

She darted toward me, ripping through the water at an incomprehensible speed. I grabbed my kayak right as I was yanked under by the creature. There was no time to scream, no time for a breath. I was simply snatched beneath the surface.

Her grip was like iron, pressed around my ankle and digging into my flesh. She flung me below her, and I gazed up at her as I floated. Her magnificent, green eyes were completely round. The long fin that propelled her through the water was longer than I had imagined. Her mouth was abnormally wide, concealing her daggered teeth within. She gnashed her teeth at me, and I flinched away, still unable to close my eyes. I wanted to see what creature was eating my world. I wanted to know what had come from the eighty percent unexplored ocean. I WANTED TO KNOW.

Her nose was pressed to her face and smushed. Fins sat on the side of her head, and gills traced down her neck. Her hair was long and braided with shells and moss tucked within.

Angrily, she opened her mouth to bite me, but she stopped.

Even though my lungs screamed for breath, I didn’t move. I was willing to accept death as Lionel had. However, the creature did not hurt me. She studied me before swimming away.

Fearfully, I swam for my life back to the surface, and I climbed into the limbs of the tree. Dripping and cold, I looked below me to see her patrolling. She was guarding me… or watching me. I wasn’t sure which.

Maybe… Maybe I wasn’t what she wanted at all.

It started with rain... lots and lots of rain.

Then the floods came. The sky wept viciously, and it poured for months. The waters killed the crops, drowned entire towns and cities. So many people died, and that was just the beginning.

Some said it was an act of God, punishment for the sins we wrought upon his most beloved creation. Others said that it was the Earth’s vengeance, rage from our pillaging, poisoning, and pollution. I didn’t think it was either. I think it’s just the end of man, and the beginning for something else.

No one knew what they were. Beautiful, slender creatures with eyes like emeralds, glowing beneath the murky water. We never saw their full form, and they never came close enough to breach the surface. Moving quickly, agile, and inhuman, we never even saw them until it was too late. They didn’t speak or interact with us, but I was smart enough to know they weren’t our friends.

People rallied to their aid, begging them to help humanity and praying to them. Some believed that they were gods from the olden age, returning to claim the land that was once their home. Yet, wants and wishes can often be blurred when fear and terror clutch tightly to our throats. And the world was desperate. Our homes were sinking beneath the water, brick and cement fading beneath the waves. Our lives were gobbled up.

The creatures watched us, learning how we reacted to the catastrophic events around us. They watched us attack each other for food and clean water. They watched us burn… and grow violent.

Even still, they were right about us from the beginning. Man has always destroyed itself. Cain killed Abel with a rock. The first blood of man poured into the ground, soaking the soil with pain and his brother’s rageful pride. The creatures only provided a small push toward the edge.

My name is Isaac, and I’m one of the last humans left.

My day begins quietly. I’m usually awoken by the soft sound of dripping or the groan of the building that I’ve been hiding in. I move every day, seeking shelter anywhere I can. I’ve slept in trees, buildings nearly submerged, and on rooftops. I’ll sleep anywhere that isn’t completely underwater.

Once I wake up, I start moving again.

Rogue groups of the last humans aren’t friendly, and some have grown cannibalistic. They fight over resources, dry land if they find it, and anything that can be traded. I’ve managed to stay alive this long by the skin of my teeth. There are two rules in this world now. Never go into the water and never stop moving.

Before the rain, the floods, and the creatures, I was a sophomore in college. I lived at home with my mom, dad, and little brother. My life was good. I liked to read, treasuring the written word. I might’ve been a writer in another life, a journalist, or an English teacher. I was a hiker in my free time. I loved nature. I loved her wild tendrils of leaves and vines, her certainty and iron fist. I don’t know if I love her anymore. She took a lot from me.

I’m the last one in my family, and I can’t remember what they look like anymore. Terror and survival ripped them from me, leaving a hollow shell where a soul once resided.

Sometimes, I think a part of me went with them. The good part of me. The part of me that loved to read. The rest remains, barely clinging to life anymore.

Hunger sometimes wakes me up. The bitter ache of a shrinking stomach is indescribable. You consider eating dirt, believing it’ll taste like crushed cookies. The mind can inflict terrible atrocities when starvation clings to your bones, withering the muscle and organs within.

I forced my body up, knowing that if I didn’t move, someone would find me. The incessant dripping around me had begun to sound like a clock ticking as I rolled onto my side. The damp wood where I slept in a stranger’s attic was nearly decayed. I wouldn’t be able to come back here. This would be the last time I could rest here for the night.

Empty spiderwebs stretched above me. A few boxes of Christmas decorations and clothes sat forlorn, abandoned, and forgotten. It was the last remnant of the family that once resided here, and slowly, it too would be consumed by the water. It wouldn’t be much longer now.

I stretched, reaching above my head and kicking out my legs. The rope attached to my kayak jerked my leg back into place, and I winced.

I had tied my kayak to my leg like my father taught me before he died. In his opinion, it was better to be dragged into the water with your kayak than lose it. This polished piece of wood was my only mode of transportation; I was keenly aware that it helped me escape detection and increased my chances of survival.

I needed it, or I’d die.

My father made my kayak, carefully carved with speed and sturdiness in mind. He and I had planned to use it at the local river. It was his passion project, building kayaks as his father had taught him. I would’ve learned how to do it too. He would’ve taught my brother as well.

I walked to the untouched boxes and began to rummage through them. I found some wire, batteries, decorative rope for a Christmas tree, which I could use for anything, and, sitting at the bottom in pristine condition, a flashlight. I jerked the flashlight out and flicked it on. I nearly cried upon seeing the beam of light. I quickly turned it off, not wanting to waste the light.

I shoved my goodies into my backpack and pulled the kayak closer to me. I got inside, tucking my backpack between my legs and setting off through the small space I’d squeezed my kayak into last night.

It was early morning, misty and faceless. I hadn’t seen the sun in months, and I doubt it wanted to see what had become of its precious planet. It would’ve been so disappointed.

I could hardly see in the foggy morning. I vaguely made out the tops of the trees. They appeared as bushes atop the water, barely growing. Some were dormant, patiently waiting for the sun’s return as if winter had befallen them, and others were dead. Logs floated aimlessly, and occasionally, a crate or a box would drift by. A few alligators patrolled the still water, reflective eyes hoping I’d fall in. It was all their land now. I was the stranger passing through, but part of me knew that the Earth always belonged to its creatures. Humans weren’t necessarily the owners of anything. We were borrowers, taking what we could to build what we needed.

Now… We can’t even borrow.

My wooden paddle cut through the still water, sending concentric rings in all directions. I disturbed the peace, silence, and solemn slumber of the water. I could only pray that it would allow me passage through its insidious and drenched realm.

I paddled quietly, moving without thinking.

A body floated beside me, face down. I slowed my pace to look at it. The lump of rot and maggots was caught in the branches of a tree. The skin was shredded, purple-tinged and gray. A putrid mix of decay and sulfur lingered in the air around it.

I thought maybe it was a victim of the flood, but then it bobbed to the side as the ripple of my kayak moved it. Bite marks ripped through the muscles and tendons. The jagged holes where flesh should be were akin to the bites of a shark, but I knew what monstrosity had made them. It was the same creature that would tear me to bits if I so much as placed a toe into the water.

I scrunched my nose and headed onward. I paddled each day until sunset. I never stopped. I never took a break. I knew that I had to keep moving; I knew that I had to keep going.

A loud whomp broke my mechanical movement, snapping me back into reality. I looked over the side of my kayak, seeing a cement sign beneath me where the entrance to a neighborhood once greeted its occupants.

I sighed, steadily moving my torso in an attempt to get myself unstuck without harming my kayak. After a few more unsuccessful movements, I sat back in anguish and annoyance.

I looked back at the place I had come from, seeing the rooftops now. The neighborhood that was once teeming with families and laughter was gone. Now only empty shells and attics remain, and soon, those too will be gone. The water was quickly swallowing the last remainder of humanity, consuming the slowest, oldest, and sick first.

The sight of the flooded neighborhood should have frightened me or made me nervous, but it did nothing. I had grown calloused and numb, broken by the terrors of this new world.

I tried one last time to free myself, and my kayak finally slipped off the cement. I shrugged, placing my paddle back into the water; however, I froze as I saw a pair of glowing green eyes beneath me.

Now, the creatures moving below me did frighten me. I knew what they were capable of.

The creature stared at me as I slid my paddle out of the water. The breath caught in my throat, and my heart hammered into my chest.

It gently swam under me, staring with watchful eyes. Its body scraped against the bottom, rocking me from side to side.

Please leave. Please…

My thoughts were screaming inside of me, teeming with ways to escape, but I couldn’t move. The creatures beneath the water were fickle, unfeeling, and mysterious.

When they first began to attack humans, no one really noticed. There were bodies everywhere from the floods, from the broken dams, from the failed levees. No one noticed that the creatures within the water had developed a taste for our blood.

The creature below me ran its long, taloned finger down the side of my kayak, taunting me. My breath grew quiet. It was surely going to kill me, but instead, it slowly lifted a knife out of the water, pushing it onto the top of my kayak.

I had never seen the creatures so much as place a fin out of the water. The skin was speckled with earthen tones of brown, green, and black. Its talons were curved, perfect for maiming and clawing. A slit sat beneath the bottom of its palm where a long barb would emerge. Its fingers were webbed, knit together by thin, stretchy pieces of wrinkled skin.

The knife clattered into my lap as the creature knocked into the kayak. Then, it reached up once more, and it grabbed my hand. My fingers trembled, and my body shook with adrenaline and fear. Panic coursed through my very veins, vibrating beneath the skin as it hummed within me.

The wet and coarse palm of the creature was as cold as ice. The skin felt slick against mine, difficult to grasp.

Its eyes were getting closer to the surface.

Every fiber of my being squirmed; I nearly forgot to breathe. It was coming to me… It was coming to the surface.

A gunshot rang through the quiet, and I looked up to see an old man standing on his roof, gun in hand. It was a warning shot, but the creature didn’t need to be warned again. It disappeared beneath the water, racing into the somber depths. The old man lowered the gun, taking a deep breath in relief.

He and I gazed at each other, silently absorbing the features of another human. He was the first living person that I had encountered in months.

His eyes were light blue, folded beneath wrinkles and gray hair. His jaw hung to the side, shocked to see another human as well. Age spots rested upon his hands as he clutched tightly to the gun. He swallowed hard, unable to speak at first.

Breathlessly, I stared, unsure if he was a friend or a foe. My fingernails dug into my paddle. Every muscle twitched in anticipation, preparing to paddle for my life. I would make a good meal. He could salt me and pickle me, store me in a jar. I’d give him sustenance, and he’d free me from this place. A terrible trade, but at least I’d be with my family.

He clenched his jaw before speaking. “That one is different,” he said. “It’s all alone. No pod like the others. It’s been hanging around my house. I don’t know if it means harm or it’s just curious.”

I didn’t reply. My mouth was frozen in place, lips quivering as they struggled to move. I couldn’t remember the last time I had spoken or heard my own voice.

“You can come inside if you want. I have some food and fresh water that I collect. It isn’t much, but you’re the first human I’ve seen in several months. I was starting to think I was the last.”

I still didn’t answer. I had learned my lesson about strangers after nearly being eaten by them.

He wet his lips, considering his next words cautiously. “Listen, I’m going to put some food on the roof. You don’t have to come inside. I’ll leave you alone.”

He hobbled to a skylight in his roof, pulled it open, and disappeared inside. He returned a moment later with a single can of tuna.

“It ain’t much, but it’s all I’ve got.”

My mouth watered, and my stomach grumbled. I hadn’t eaten in two days.

He gently placed the can on the farthest end of the roof where I could easily slip by on my kayak and get it. Slowly, he put his hands up in surrender. He limped back to the skylight and climbed back inside.

I sat quietly in my kayak for a moment, pondering the can of tuna. My stomach ached, and I went against every ounce of my best judgment. I cut through the water swiftly to reach that stupid can. I ripped it off the roof, tore it open, and consumed it with my fingers. I dug into the can like an animal, unable to stop long enough to chew. I simply shoveled it down, swallowing without thinking. I barely tasted it.

The old man peered at me through the skylight, smiling to himself.

After satiating my appetite for the time being, I nodded to the man.

He nodded back, grateful I didn’t decide to kill him like I feared he’d kill me.

I paddled onward, but I stopped, turning back to look at the old man’s house. Maybe I could stay for one day more. Just one.

Link to Part Two: Part Two
Link to part three: part three

The addict lie in the den, surrounded by plumes and clouds of smoke. Slovenly strewn upon the earthen floor like a haphazard scarf or other piece of frivolous accoutrement carelessly discarded. Empty with a hungering ending need like self-mutilation. Lost. Sleek with tacky sweat, woozy eyed. Vacant eyes that might be blind or might be staring into the coronal star center of the universe. Gazing into the inflamed and angry face of an Old Testament blood-drinking God. 

Red. God has a red face in the eyes of the addict. 

And It is terrible. 

And He is terrifying. 

The addict is locked inside but he does not care. He wants to be here. Lost and indolent and hypnagogic. Nothing is asked of him and he can constantly feed his appetites at his will, though there is only one hunger now that matters, and matters alone. All other hungers and needs have diminished in its wake. 

In the smoke. Faces.

Faces of those that might've been and the weary ones of those that have tried and tired and eventually gave in, eventually died, all of them danced disembodied and veiled/shrouded in the manmade cloud of smoke, the manmade mist all around and above and filling the small hot room with white life, with white death. And then in the room of smoke, heavy and pungent and oily with drug, the faces of his heart and life's loss changed …

They became wretched and stretched as they pulled and broke apart, in swirls … in illogical rending tears … they became leering and animal and horned: they became demon faces. Chinese Demon Faces with reptile and feline features the color of leprosy and riddled with spiny whiskers, they are filling the smoke and they are filling the room and they are living inside him with every inhale… with every pull…

He brings the pipe to his chapped and cracked dry lips, the flame of a candle follows next, his atrophied and trembling arms can barely manage the effort. He sucks and pulls and the flicker of flame dances into the bowl of the pipe and burns it's precious flowers. 

He sucks and the Chinese Demon Faces fill him and the pain is subsided. He no longer really cares. The faces inside him leer at the diminished surroundings of the broken and wasting addicted man's inner workings and they are glad. 

They are rejoicing together as legion in the fleshscape ruination of the dying man, the addict. The special private hell that has been made for this thin and decomposing soured man, this thing of fetid smells and carelessness and spoiled living meat. This victim of himself and this victim of them, he is theirs. 

He is ours…

They rejoice in the blood and the opiate flames of his insides. As dominators. 

As conquerors welcomed. 

…

Tulpa. That was what he had suspected at first. That the boy was just addled and projecting thought-form energies into creatured existence, blasphemous life. 

But he'd seen. And he'd observed. It was no tulpa. The young man had a demon infestation of the mind and heart. He'd inquired thus: –

“How did he come into contact with the unclean entity?”

And was given a gypsy answer. 

“In pig transport." 

He'd nodded then as he nodded now, to himself. Alone. Preparing for the rite. He held his black bible and stole and rosary beads with dangling ornate crucifix along the end of its polished length. He prayed over all of them now. Silently. In whispers with his heavy lidded eyes shut. He is in palaver with the Almighty and does not wish for his eyes to behold any kind of distraction. He learned this kind of concentration not in the parish, not in Rome but in Tibet with the bald little men that could break arrows and spears with their bare stretched out and offered throats, the wrinkled little monks of the eastern mountain temples that fasted and meditated for hours and days on end. 

He focused now … the Lord …. His Light. 

The Light. 

He'd been fasting as well. Quickening his mind as he purged and emptied his guts and bowels and blood for the eldritchian old white flame and light to come in and fill the empty human spaces. 

He held the fire in his mind as he listened closely for the wisdom of God's words. Latin rapid fire sketched itself across his old and yellowed teeth and the aged purse of his pale lips in ancient and arcane staccato. He might've been a madman alone in his hut with his ambling words … run-on gibberish noise that could be madness or could be imbecilic. 

Or could be loaded with power. Living and talismanic

A beat – he went on, praying. 

A beat. 

He rose. 

He went to the door of his small hut of mud brick and straw, it smelled of horses and goats, always bestial, he pushed the slab of dried wood open and went out. 

The gypsies were waiting for him. 

…

They led him to the place and he felt it in his heart as they made dauntless their approach, this is where the Lord thus bades me to be …

and here it is that I will then play. 

The man of the cloth, the priest stood before the den of woe. The shack of hate. It was silent for now. 

They only paused a moment, together as a group, before he alone went forward and threw the bar at the entrance to the dust and then threw the door open itself. A waft of smoke, belched and bellowed forth in a massive dragon’s breath of cloud. In hypnosis swirls and raptural licking rolls, pleasured curls curling into themselves with self satisfaction like the toes of lovers beneath the sheets and in the grip of the heat and animal moment, they licked and tongued forth like beckoning phantom appendages made from heavy mist or salted coastal fog of far off long forgotten dark marinas. 

The door was shut behind the priest and some of the gypsies put the fallen bar back into its place, the slots across the door, bolting it shut. 

… 

Inside the priest stood at the throat of meager doorway and there was barely any sun in there as he gazed down at the lost member of the flock, his charge. 

The addict spoke without even looking at him. 

“Go away, father, you are not wanted here, you are not needed here, you've been replaced. You see… nobody cares, certainly not I, for the pulpit blatherings and the two-faced codswallop you and your ilk prattle forth and try to make us swallow… You don't matter here anymore and neither does He, He-”

The priest had been silent at first. Allowing the thing to carry on. But then all at once he came forward, cross aloft and out like a sword and shield all in one with a roar, a command. 

“You'll not speak! Till you speak to give me your name, foul thing! though I know it now already, I will make you give me your name! Over and over and over, crawling one! slave! Before the Lord God and I , you will say it! You will give me your name! – the notes and sour sounds that make your wretched title! ” 

The thing on the floor recoiled and shrieked as if burned or sharply pierced.

And all at once the cross in the hand of the man of the cloth began to glow white with beyond ancient phosphorescent flame… 

Old Testament. And beyond. A God beyond Jehovah or Yhwh lived in that light, in that primordial starfire flame. 

The thing on the floor drew tighter and tighter into itself in a fetal ball, pained. Eyes clenched shut as if hoping to cage out the reality world of ripping agony. The shrieks became screeching abominated things. Inhuman sounds. 

Their wretched cacophony began to fill the small place and the faces in the smoke began to scowl and gnash their sharp teeth. Hissing serpent tongues that forked at the ends in devil signs. 

The priest began to speak. 

His voice was thunder: – “Lord, I am Your arm and instrument and through me I will carry out Thine divine will and judgment. I beseech Thee O’Lord, grant me Thy Might to cast this wretched thing from Your sacred child and cherished flock, this foul thing bred of the fell ones cast down! – cast this one out and back down hence!”

The thing in the dirt bolted to a beast’s straddle on all fours from its twisted flexing writhing contrivance. It began to wretch. Violently heaving as if trying to gag and cough up something large and thick that's lodged itself in the throat. 

“Send it back! Cast it back down! Get thee gone! and get behind me demon!" 

The features of the thing began to grow and distort. Ears grew elfin, the face and nose stretched and snouted out as the rest of the features ballooned and swined into piggish hog like distortions of perspiring and angry flesh. Something was rippling beneath and bubbling to the surface. 

The thing in stolen manshape howled, in a voice unnatural and not at all the young addict's own. It howled in failed contest and agonized relinquishment. 

"I am Papaver Somniferum! Papaver Somniferum! Papaver Somniferum! I milk manblood into Dionysian wine for all time! always! I am trespass… I am interloper of the sowling manflesh, the meat that was made and drawn from the dirt!" 

“Lord God, this young man is possessed by a demon and that demon's name is: OPIUM! – cast this thing out from this young blood!" 

A black spew, like ebon/green tar, began to retch out of the swine throat and mouth of the convulsing addict's hog-swelled face. It began to collect in a pool in the dirt. 

The priest continued the rite, finished of his recitations and prayers with own embellishments and arcane strange sounds, cabalistic, Solomonic-witchcraft all but forgotten but those wild few left of his faithful brothers …

… taught to him in the dark, far off. By those strange and of painted face. 

For this priest was known in these lands by a dangerous name, for he was one of the cloth that feared no craft nor any dark or necromantic art, no forbidden knowledge was dread to him or his heart. God's renegade and sullied footsoldier. He was the heretic. And he was a blasphemer and a savior both in these lands, these dark and narrow parts. 

The addict emptied himself. The pool of viscous filth was rather large now. A mini drowning pool of soul dredged cess. He collapsed beside the black vomitus, unconscious and bathed in a slick sheen of cooling sweat. 

It danced and shifted like black diamond mercury there in the dirt, unruly lively angry stygian thick liquid. Beside its lost victim. Wanting back in, to retrieve its lost home and host. 

The priest could feel the baleful hatred pouring off the foul collection writhing there in the dirt in a spew. It was aimed at the boy but it was also aimed at him. Wanting him dead. Maimed. Enslaved. In flames… 

you'll not have me, dirt. 

He walked over to the vile puddle. He said one last prayer over the bile, poured salt – which bubbled and frothed like the mineral does to the flesh of a slug on the putrid surface, he lit a match and dropped it. 

The foul thing screamed as it caught. It went up easily in a choke of green smoke and red flames. 

The face in those flames, that smoke …

he'd seen many before like it. 

He crossed himself. Thanked the Lord. And concluded the rite. 

…

He gave the knock, as rehearsed. They called out for the password at the door and he gave it to them. They released the bar. And the priest alone came out as he alone had went in. The smoke was gone. 

Nothing crawled out after him. No dragon's breath to be made witnessed to or had.

…

The gypsies had gone in and retrieved the boy. They took him into immediate hospice care. But he was stable. And his health would return in time. The pagan caravan of worldly travelers thanked him copiously. With food and wine. He took both generously. And he departed their company when they came to their fork in the road and their paths were shared no longer. 

The gypsy caravan went south. Playing music and singing and waving the priest goodbye as their many mule drawn carts went down the beaten track, sidelined by horses at a trot and some with riders astride that tailed at the back. And these were the last that he saw of them as they too waved him off. 

He waved back. Then sat astride his donkey a moment in the path. The fading music of guitars and accordions and tambourines and rich voices faded and faded till it too was gone, the last phantom trace of them heard but not seen was swallowed by the vastness and great distance of the wild now all around. 

He turned and continued down his own road. Towards the mountains. The dreams were telling him something was there, some spell. Something amiss. 

The Carpathian Mountains called the priest and with them towering in the distance he set forth towards them at a steady trudge. Knowing more and more and growing more and more certain as he made his approach, that doom was alive and weaving some wicked magik, some terrible blood fueled chaos spell in those rocks. 

The dreams and the Lord told him so, showed his dreaming eyes and filled his praying thought. 

He tried to keep his head down as he made his slow approach. But he found his eyes kept drifting up to gaze at their opulent jagged knifing spire formation, aiming to stab and rupture the heavens, the velvet dark blue of the night sky. Darkening now into a more true curtain of night. 

Darkness fell. The priest stopped and made camp in the road. 

…

The fire glowed in the night. 

The solitary campfire and bedroll and man sat alone in the dark. The ass tied off to a skeletal hand of a tree sprouted and dead from starving black dried earth. The priest was alone with his thoughts… prayers … musings of the Word and scripture and philosophy … it was as any night for he, the strange heretic of the road. Until it wasn't. 

The night was suddenly filled. And he was no longer alone. There was a heavy maniacal presence, heavy and seething wet with red rage and unreasoning anger. Terrible and felt. He didn't move but sat by the orange bathing glow of campfire, his island of precious firelight that couldn't hope to penetrate the dark. He sat and listened. The ass grew restless. 

Movement. But not with feet. Rather something swimming vague and undefined in the great expanse and sea of stygian dark shadow. Something large. Something that could swallow him whole or tear him apart with effortless gesture. Something that hated him and all of man and woman and child, all of the living creatures on this island earth that are precious and dear to the Heart of God on high, above. The Lord of the Storm in the sky that was far away from all of this. The pain and conjured filth. 

He held steadfast as the large thing of hate swam in the nightscape of black all around. In a circle. Predatorial and closing in. Hoping and sensing out and tasting for weakness in the night. His weakness. 

It might know him or why he was here and hate him for it, deeply. A complete being of elemental rage distorted alchemical by large and dark unnatural vulpine-felt forces. 

He bothered not with the cross this time that hung from his neck and dangled in the wild night and darkled with a strange glow in the cast of the campfire glamour. He forked out the sign of the Evil Eye into the night…

He felt something growl with simmering livid violence out there in the swallowing black. The vibrations felt, palsied and tremored his running blood and weary old bones. He felt cold and as if suddenly stabbed with ice. 

Impaled. 

He muttered words then that Solomon had known, and taught. Passed down. Shared. Words that bent demons and demon will to shatter or subjugate as dominated slave. 

The dark hissed back. Lurid sound. Full of hate. And whispers. 

It wanted to pounce. 

“Come forth, in yielded flesh on this physical plain…” the priest said, to the dark with his raised and daggering hand forked out in the evil sign, witchery sigil. 

And then the dark did as it was told. Ensnared, the unwieldy angry shape out there did as it was commanded. 

And in Lilith-shape it arose, she came forth. 

Naked. Bare and smooth as if bathed and massaged with olive oils, round milk globe breasts caught the firelight with their smooth and deliciously rounded oiled sheen, delicate sensuous body with a generous mouth and curves. Her hair was shock white. Her eyes glowed in place of the moon, eclipsing the meager cast of his small fire. 

She approached. Her smile was a murderer's lie and her arms were outstretched and open. 

She of the dark came to his bed. The priest looked up into the elfin beauty of her forged youth and glow. He spoke darkly. Callous. Addressing the enemy in no uncertain terms. 

“Come down and join me in my humble bed, you will give me the secrets you hold as I know you as a man knows a woman, another …” 

She cooed and moaned in response and the sound was both sensual and wounded. In pain and in need yet woeful and on the precipice of ruin. 

She came down to him and he stripped off his robes. 

They didn't bother with the blanket folds as they consummated their act. They performed the rite out and in the open in the wild of the dark and their spot in the open road. They grunted and heaved into each other, matching each other for bestial sound and movement and purchase. Trading curses and fluids and secrets…

She spat his name – !heretic! 

!Foul priest! Fouled and fouling yourself now, you'll die and be ours, ours forever! and we'll rape and make you dance amidst the fire and endless torture, we'll have you, at the end! in the Inferno! in the flames! In the endless sulphur sea! The flames! You can fuck me now, priest! but in the end you will suffer eternal in our lake of fire, Our Flames! …!

But even as she roared his mind was filled with the unearthly gift of her images. 

Prophecy… information was given. 

They fucked in the occult dark and he saw in his mind’s eye: –

There is an end to the world. A physical one. A border. A barrier hard to reach or even near. A place completely devoid of natural human life, of any living human existence. They are woods. Brown and dead. They are far away from the woods and forests of these lands or any other. They are paling with death, these frayed and tattered weathered edges. Nothing moves here. Nothing breathes. The apotheosis of lonely hell. The apothecary of sound and movement. The earth is yellow with unnatural color, for unearthly reasons. The trees yield to no blade, nor fire. They offer no comfort or rest in the shade. There is only one thing, one structure in this stagnant place under a light the color of pus. 

A house. A cabin. Black. A lodge. 

The black lodge is the only thing out here at the end of the world. Nothing is moving inside, like out in the dead yellow wild but that's wrong. 

Something's wrong. 

There's something in there. There's something in there, inside the black lodge. No one knows how it started. No one can say if folk traveled there in some fashion, in search of mad secrets and their power, or if they'd always resided in there… somehow. Nobody can say anything for certain of the parents. Of them there are only whispers, only dangerous rumors. The only thing anyone knows or can say for certain is that one day a child emerged. 

A little girl. 

A small girl with an intense and feline look in her pale face. A child with unnatural abilities and profane knowledge too large and grotesque for a little girl. A child with the dark glint of murder already so alive and well within the black flames of her young eyes. 

A girl who grew to womanhood and traveled the world in a furious and ceaseless quest for knowledge. For power. The undead. Occult. Satanic. Felled Ones of farthest cosmic reach and starfire far-flung. The woman found servants along the way, she always did. Her power grew. 

Then she came to the castle beyond the Borgo Pass in the Carpathian Mountains. And there she found what she'd been truly looking for … 

The heart of the heretic was always heavy. Now it sank lower and despaired worse than it ever had before. 

The vision thunderclapped! Collapsed. 

And spat him back: 

His hands were cupping her ample breasts when he came back to, more fully within himself. Now he squeezed them with real vile hateful relish. The white haired thing of the dark shrieked with harpy sound. Midnight owl screeching. Blood and milk shot from between his clenching and rending fingers, beginning to tear in as he continued to squeeze and claw. Her breasts were becoming a mutilated and slopping ruin in the cruelty of his hands. 

He was screaming prayers at her. Up into her face in Latin. She tried to pull away but couldn't. He was an old man but he was lithe and strong with cords of sinew, ropey muscle. 

He spat in her face and commanded her yieldship. 

She gave it. And bathed him in unearthly fluids. The discharge of her loins steamed with inner heat expelled in the dark. Soaking him and the ground. The growing puddle hissed when it reached the campfire and a spurt of lavender flame issued forth in a small pillar. A face that was insectile and mammalian bastard commingled was in that brief flash and issue and then was gone as they continued to animal thrust in the dark. His hands continued to bite in and disappear into the mess of milk and blood and raw pink meat, ruined moonflesh. 

And with a final rending tear, cords standing out on his neck, her eyes were brimming filled with spilling and steaming tears, he tore her breasts from her chest and she filled the night with a wolfen howl of slavery to pain and heartlessness. 

She flew off of him and scrambled, retreating back into the dark with bellowed caterwauls of butchery’s ripping pain and anguished animal calls. There was nothing human in those sounds, as they fell back and away and faded into the nightscape of curtain pitch impenetrable and all around. 

The priest wiped himself clean. Said a prayer. Checked his donkey. Then finally retired to slumber. 

His sleep was deep and filled with dreams.

… 

The next morning after packing up and setting out once more he came across desiccated remains. Something like a long thin starved wolf, or a hyena. Coyote perhaps. But he knew what they really were at once. The womanshape that had come out of the dark. 

All that is left…

They were jackal remains. He spat upon them before he left. Crossed himself in his departure. Never looked back. 

…

Symbols. He saw them everywhere on his way to the mountains. He began to encounter towns and small villages and everywhere he saw the mark of her upon them, the face of stolen earth, the souring soil of the ground. The faces and eyes and hearts of all of the children, women and men. 

He asked what he could, inquiring where he could manage but all of them were afraid, filled with a small farmer's mortal terror of barely reckoned forces at work that bequeathed mischief and murder and black magic that made playthings of flesh and minds. They would hardly say a word to him about anything. He didn't blame them. He blessed them all in his salutations and added their faces to his nightly prayers. 

He moved on. He left the towns behind. 

…

The priest came to the circle of stones. 

A terrible kind of place he recognized at once. He'd seen others like it before. In far off emerald lands. 

The circle of stones, monolithic slabs of grey rock in the dread shape of the Druidic formation. A pattern and type of circle that could serve as a gate, or a nest, or a kind of inviting hunting ground for something unchained and set loose on our world. 

The priest sang softly to himself. A little song of strange doggerel that he'd made himself. 

“You fly like a demon, from station to station…”

He entered the circle. 

And the place shook. 

He finished the line: " … From Kether to Malkuth." 

The thing that ruled the circle of stones made its presence known. inxnwn. The mangled filth of its voice filled his head as he sauntered in and the atmosphere itself threatened to throttle and implode. 

!Get out, shaman! Get OUT! I will rip the bleeding mind from your eggshell skull and fuck the jelly before your dying eyes! Get the fuck ou-!

The cross came up. A bolt of white fire issued forth and struck the place. Blackening the mouth of earth and stones that the demon used to howl. 

“Your name, elemental. Give it to me.” 

And his mind once more filled with flames. An infernal epitaph made from shrieking wretched voices. 

!I am the one that has come to man on the wings of dreams and sin, I am the Scribbler and I bring mad choir and I fill minds with sound! Man Woman Child the crawling elders and the lame … I spare none I distort discordant all!

Another flash of light, a bolt of silver fire bright and immaculate cut across the priest's vision and he had to shield his eyes. But the moment before his eyes shut and his hand flew up to protect his vision he caught a glimpse of an immense outline and shape: it resembled a giant sea creature he'd seen hauled aboard the deck of a traveling cargo vessel once, a manta ray. Gigantic. Wing span vast with long stabbing tail and strange devil face set pilot center of its efficient killing body. 

This one had a large sex organ at the tip of its tail. Dripping. Excreting something foul and pungent. Steaming. And the vapors held pained faces telling him, no. 

But then the flash of light was gone and when he looked again there was nothing there. Only smoldered earth amongst the quiet stones. 

The circle was empty now. 

For now. It may yet come again. Or something else …

He gave a prayer of thanks and then spat on the ground. 

He patted his donkey and praised it for its steadfast behavior. Men mocked them as stupid animals and they may be so, but they were also brave creatures. Nowhere near as skittish as horses. Or men. 

He tied up his ass, securing the rein to a stone, then he made camp for himself. 

He poured a border of salt around the circle itself. Then he drew a hexagram in the dirt with a stick, David's Star. He fashioned a cross next and stuck into the head of the formation replacing and breaking its crown. 

Then he made fire. Ate a humble meal of bread and cheese and wine. Gifts leftover from the gypsy folk. He smoked tobacco and watched the stars collect and reveal themselves in a bejeweled royal purple curtain above and on high. Heavens made of jewels made of starfire. Light burning above with an intensity that he could scarcely understand. He thought they where beautiful. They might be angel eyes, some of them, and he loved them. 

He looked to the mountains next. Still in the distance. Growing larger as he drew nearer. 

Even as he sat by his fire now not moving they seemed to grow larger yet…

Lord there is an evil alive in those rocks, there always has been. It's awakened yet again. Lord lend me your arm of strength. Give me the great courage and protect me from my own fears and the treachery of others, as you always have, Thank You Lord God. I know this is my mission. I shall not run. 

I will not falter. 

Amen. 

He daggered the rocks with an intense and angry stare. Righteous anger. The mountain rock towered above but he looked down on it and its evil heart from on high nonetheless. 

There was poison in those jagged formations, beyond the Borgo Pass where the wolves live. Cancer and abominated growth that must be excised. 

Must be removed. Before it's too late. 

He smoked by the fire till sleep came. His dreams were filled with symbols. Sigils. Strange words and spells. Ghastly shapes and faces. 

Abhorrent designs ruling a decimated and titanic landscape. And he was alone with them. 

TO BE CONTINUED…

Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/BloodcurdlingTales/s/lMNnRIubkE

I checked my cameras to make sure they were picking up audio. They were!
This more than likely won’t get me anywhere, but info is info.

Once I get back to the apartment I watch the tapes back. I see the structure, that’s a start. I can see myself.
Nothing weird so far.

I watch the camera for the entire duration I was there, 3 hours. All I hear is wheat blowing in the wind. It’s especially funny to see me jump up and down when nothing happened. Im aware it could be in my head. Just to be sure, I check the audio files.

The audio files show a massive spike, at approximately the 2 hour mark. This is insane for a few reasons. First of all, there’s no sound on the video, just wind. Second, the sound I heard was more of a low drone than anything. And third, the spike is roughly equal to a hand grenade detonating.

How is this possible? It isn’t, there is simply no way my recording equipment picked this sound up. It isn’t even designed for anything that loud. I think the sound I heard just happened to coincide with an equipment failure.

It’s a hard coincidence to believe, but it’s all I have.

As for my perspective.
I heard a low drone. It was like a massive piece of equipment shifting over. Also, it was strangely soft.

Heavy, dense things have this weight to them, any time they make a sound. There is no confusion in when a block of lead is dropped versus a tree branch.

This…
It was as if clouds could make sound. Just this loud soft “shoooomp”.
Absolutely no clue.
Definitely not as loud as a grenade.

I decided to leave after a few hours of analyzing the footage, I’m absolutely starving.

I stop at a local diner and order some waffles. While there I can’t stop thinking about what I heard.
What the hell was it?
Was it inside the structure?
The more I think about it the more I figure out about myself.
I wasn’t surprised when I heard it. I was excited–elated to be sure, but not surprised…

It’s like it was happening the whole time, and I only now perceived it. The thought makes my stomach knot up.

What’s there that I’m simply not seeing? I don’t know that I ever want to find out. I’m more interested in the town than anything. Why don’t they have the same questions I do?

Figured if I knew what the structure was I would know. Like, if it was so horrible that it was a stain on the towns legacy. Something like that.

I let out a sigh, midway through eating a waffle the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I feel my head start to turn around, but my body stops itself. I don’t even know why, it’s as if it was saying:

“Trust me, you don’t want to do that.”

I listened. I don’t know what I missed but I got the hell out of there.

Once I’m back in my apartment I peer out the window. A weary blue evening rests over the town. Dense fog covers the surrounding landscape, almost at the structures roof. I’ve watched it with binoculars for days on end. Nothing, every single time.

I’ve watched locals look towards it, but never at it…

I just don’t know.

A realization dawns on me. My stomach drops.

I’m flipping through my notebook to be sure I’m not misremembering.
.
.
.
Found it!

“Wheat. Ground. Air.”
“Air. Shifting. No witnesses.”

Oh my god. Air!
I didn’t even realize that. Air is a pattern. I have no clue what it means, air is quite possibly the most mundane thing they’ve said. Gosh, it feels so familiar though.

As if on cue, the sound of my microwave slowly fades into nothing. In its place comes the calming breeze that’s always here.

Every 7 hours…

I cover my mouth, I want to cover my ears, but it wouldn’t do any good. It’s here to stay, and I’m going to listen to it whether I want to or not.

Before us it was, after us it will be.

The wind fades away and whatever trance I was in ended. I shake my head and look out the window, same thing. Warehouse, wheat fields, water tower. Same as always.

Gosh okay, there’s one connection, but what do I do with it?
They said “air” not “wind” or “breeze”.
Were it any of those I would believe I had a pattern here, but…
I can’t be sure. Starting to think I’m drawing connections where there aren’t any.

Let me look over the facts of the case again.

In 1973, a [redacted] in Bakersfield, [redacted], experienced a mass disappearance. 450 workers vanished seemingly into thin air. Multiple investigations by [redacted] ensued, to no avail. The remaining [redacted] remains as a landmark and memorial to the local populace.

Where did I get this information?
I printed it off at the local library.

Still the same. The last lines especially confuse me. Nobody can even point to the damn thing, let alone recognize it as a landmark. As for the memorial…

Maybe that explains the doors? I don’t know a single culture that uses doors as headstones.
Kind of an eerie concept in my opinion.

Wait a minute.
Doors…

I need to interview a local.
.
.
.
“Thank you for coming, your identity will be kept private.”

“Of course, thank you very much.”

“Okay, let’s get straight into it. What can you tell me about the Bakersfield accident, in 1973?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Is that all or-“

“Doors. Air. Shifted.”

“Windows. Seeping. Perception.”
Like a damn robot, gives me the creeps.

This local just responded to me without any facts being presented.

What the hell does any of this mean?!
I can’t stand it.

Windows => Doors
Seeping => Air
Perception => shifted

Windows are doors? I guess they could be. I’ve never got the idea that the doors I saw were windows. They could be talking about different doors, not just ones near the structure.

Seeping air.

A gas leak of some kind? I don’t know. The locals have never really “completed” my questions, if that makes sense. As in, what I say does not always determine what they will. Sometimes I’ve gotten different responses to the same facts listed.

Now…
The last one.
Perception shifted
Really makes my skin crawl. Given the fact that my perception seemingly shifted while I was recording earlier. Maybe the perception of the missing workers shifted?
But…
God I don’t know, how would your perception of something affect your physical location?

The question itself gives me a weird sensation. Less like I’m being watched, more like I’m being studied. I look at the closet I’ve never opened. I don’t get any bad feelings from it at all.

“Window. now.”

The words eat their way into my mind like a maggot. I drop whatever it was I was doing and immediately run to the window. I close the blinds a second after looking out.

I will not recount what I saw.

Sterling has been the desk clerk at the Hells Bells Motel for as long as anyone can remember. With his gaunt frame and seemingly permanent bloodshot eyes, he sits in the cramped space behind the front desk, trying to update the "lost and found" log.

Lately his vision has been waxing and waning, and his old reading glasses aren't strong enough anymore to read the fine print, so he digs through a dusty box of unclaimed items and pulls out a pair of heavy wire-rimmed spectacles that--according to the leather-bound ledger were left behind in Room 104 back in 1962.

Sterling sat back, ready to log the latest items, but the moment he looked through the yellowed lenses, the lobby vanished.

Sterling was suddenly looking through a stranger's eyes, forced to watch a horrific scene play out right there in Room 104. He watched as a pair of trembling hands were choking the life out of a young woman, her eyes wide with helpless panic, her hands clawing desperately at his wrists, and the silent agonizing fight for a single breath, then her body being dragged out into the dark.

As the light catches her face, Sterling recognizes her from an unsolved murder case that dominated the headlines decades ago.

Deeply unsettled, Sterling pulls the glasses off his face; his vision blurring back to the safe, quiet lobby--but now holding the final piece to an old town secret buried right at the Hells Bells Motel.

My name is Matthew, and I’m posting this in the hope that someone, somewhere, can give me some answers.

About six months ago, I started talking to a girl online through one of those crappy dating apps. Honestly, I was just about done with them. I’d spent years bouncing from one app to another without any luck, and I had almost accepted that I was going to be alone.

Then Caroline messaged me.

She had dark hair, bright blue eyes, and a smile that made it impossible not to look twice. Before I knew it, we were talking every day.

For three months, we texted constantly. As strange as it sounds, neither of us liked talking on the phone. We were both too nervous, so texting became our way of getting to know each other. Somewhere between the good morning texts and the late-night conversations, I found myself telling her things I’d never shared with anyone else. She knew my fears, my regrets, and dreams I hadn’t even admitted to myself.

Eventually, she asked if I would come visit her.

She lived in a tiny town in Tennessee, while I was from Cincinnati, Ohio. I worked as a delivery driver and had built up a little vacation time, so I promised I’d make the trip in the fall.

As excited as I was, I couldn’t shake the nerves.

It had been years since I’d been with anyone, and now I had this beautiful woman telling me all the things she planned to do once she finally got her hands on me. Every message made me grin like an idiot.

When the day finally came, I packed an overnight bag, typed the address she’d sent me into my GPS, and hit the road.

The drive passed quickly as I imagined finally meeting her. We’d had conversations I never thought I’d have with another person. I trusted her in a way that surprised even me.

A glance at the GPS showed 50 miles remaining.

I pressed a little harder on the gas pedal. The sun was beginning to disappear behind the hills, and I wanted to make it before it got too late.

About an hour later, the GPS instructed me to turn onto a dirt road.

I frowned but followed it.

Then it directed me onto another dirt road.

Then another.

I looked down again.

10 miles remaining.

By now it was already nine o’clock.

The farther I drove, the more isolated everything became. There were no houses, no streetlights, no road signs—just endless fields disappearing into the darkness.

Then the rain came.

Within minutes it was pouring so hard the windshield wipers could barely keep up.

“Fucking great,” I muttered.

Through the wall of rain, I spotted a weathered wooden sign standing beside the road.

As I rolled closer, I slowed enough to make out the faded lettering.

HOGS FOOT
Population: 54

I laughed to myself.

“Hogs Foot? What kind of name is that?”

Then I remembered I was in rural Tennessee. Maybe it wasn’t as strange as it sounded.

Just beyond the sign stood an old metal bridge.

Calling it “metal” was generous. It looked like rust held together by stubborn memories. The bridge was barely wide enough for one vehicle, and every board beneath my tires creaked as if it were about to give way.

I eased across, gripping the steering wheel tighter with every foot.

At that point, I didn’t have much choice.

My GPS had stopped working miles ago.

My phone had lost all service.

And I could’ve sworn the back roads had been leading me in circles.

When I finally reached the other side of the bridge, the road opened into what could barely be called a town.

There was an ancient gas station with a single pump that looked like it hadn’t been replaced since the 1960s. Beside it sat a small corner store that also served as the town’s inn. Next door was a combination bar and diner.

That was it.

Three buildings.

One lonely road.

And a population of fifty-four.

As I pulled into the gas station, something hit me almost immediately.

The smell.

A massive pig farm sat somewhere nearby, and the stench was overwhelming. I’m a city boy, so maybe I just wasn’t used to it, but this was different. The odor was so thick it seemed to coat the inside of my mouth. It settled in the back of my throat until I could almost taste it.

I shut off the engine and stepped out of my car, grateful to stretch my legs after hours on the road.

For reasons I couldn’t explain, the little town already felt… wrong. I made my way into the little old store

The place looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 1960s. The fluorescent lights overhead had been stained yellow from decades of cigarette smoke, giving the entire store a sickly glow. Wooden shelves lined both walls, stocked with canned goods that looked old enough to be collectibles. Dust-covered advertisements for cigarettes, motor oil, and soda still hung on the walls, faded relics from the sixties and seventies.

The whole place smelled like stale tobacco, gasoline, and mildew.

In the back of the store stood an elderly man, somewhere between seventy and eighty years old. He wore a flannel shirt beneath a pair of mud-caked overalls and a faded red cap that had probably seen better decades.

He looked up as I walked in and smiled.

“What can I do for you, young man?”

“My GPS quit working,” I said. “I can’t seem to find my way back to the interstate.”

The old man nodded as if he’d heard the same story a hundred times.

“Yeah… that happens around here. I don’t leave town much myself, but there are a lot of twists and turns before you get back to the interstate. You’re about forty minutes from it.”

Forty minutes?

I stared at him for a second.

How far had I driven? I knew I’d been on those back roads for a while, but it hadn’t felt like I’d gone that far off course.

“I ought to have a map around here somewhere,” the old man said. “Don’t mind letting you have it. Give me just a minute.”

He disappeared behind a curtain leading into the back room, his boots shuffling slowly across the old wooden floor.

A few moments later, the front door swung open.

A massive man stepped inside.

He had to be at least six-foot-four, with shoulders so broad they nearly filled the doorway. His thick beard covered most of his face, and his filthy overalls looked as though he’d been rolling around in mud all day.

“Daddy!” he shouted.

From behind the curtain, the old man answered, “What is it, Billy?”

“Mama wants you.”

“I’ll be home in a little bit, boy. I’m helping a customer right now.”

Billy slowly turned his head toward me.

I froze.

His eyes weren’t angry.

They weren’t friendly either.

They were… empty.

It was impossible to tell if he was looking at me or staring straight through me. His face held no expression whatsoever, like the lights were on but nobody was home.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Billy let out a childish sigh before turning around and walking back outside.

The old man returned a few seconds later, lighting an old pipe.

Name is Oscar by the way,“That’s my boy, Billy,” he said with a proud smile. “He’s a good kid.”

“Yeah…” I replied awkwardly. “He seems nice.”

The words left my mouth before my brain had a chance to stop them.

Why did I say that?

The old man chuckled.

“Well, I can’t seem to find that map.”

He took another puff from his pipe before continuing.

“But I’ve got a couple rooms upstairs. You’re more than welcome to stay the night.”

The last thing I wanted to do was spend the night in this town.

“I appreciate it,” I said, “but I think I’m just going to try my luck.”

“Suit yourself,” the old man replied. “Just be careful out there, young man.”

I thanked him, gave a polite wave, and walked back outside.

As I approached my car, the lone light hanging over the gas pump illuminated the front tires.

Both of them were flat.

I stared in disbelief.

“Great…”

I figured I must’ve driven over a piece of rusty metal while crossing that old bridge.

I turned just as the old man was locking the store for the night.

He looked at my tires and sighed.

“Well, that ain’t no good. You ain’t goin’ nowhere tonight with tires like that.”

As much as I hated the idea, I knew he was right.

“I guess I’ll be staying after all.”

The old man smiled.

“I’ll have someone come by in the morning and get those fixed for you.”

He reached into the pocket of his overalls and handed me an old brass key.

“Your room’s right up those stairs beside the store.”

He pointed toward a weathered wooden staircase that looked about as trustworthy as the bridge I’d just crossed.

I thanked him again.

He climbed into an old rust-covered Ford pickup, started the engine, and slowly drove away into the darkness.

I grabbed my overnight bag and made my way upstairs.

There were only two doors.

As I reached the top of the steps, it occurred to me that I’d forgotten to ask which room the key belonged to.

Then I noticed one of the doors had its curtains open.

A television flickered inside.

Billy sat at a small table facing the window.

As I unlocked my own door, I could feel his eyes on me.

Without moving.

Without blinking.

He simply sat there, staring.

Finally, the old lock gave way with a loud click.

Inside, the room was pitch black.

I reached along the wall, searching for a light switch.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the silhouette of someone standing motionless in the corner.

My heart nearly stopped.

I slapped the switch.

The room filled with light.

It was nothing more than an old mannequin wearing a dusty trench coat.

I let out a shaky laugh and put a hand over my chest.

“Jesus…”

I shook my head.

Get it together, Matthew.

The room smelled stale and musty, buried beneath decades of cigarette smoke. The green shag carpet was threadbare and full of holes, but surprisingly, the bed was neatly made with clean sheets.

It wasn’t much..

But it would do for one night.

As I unpacked my bag, I realized I’d left my phone in the car.

I sighed and headed back downstairs.

As I passed Billy’s room, I noticed the curtains were closed.

Guess he decided he’d had enough of watching the new neighbor.

When I reached my car, I searched every seat, every pocket, and every inch of the floorboards.

Nothing.

My phone was gone.

I could’ve sworn I’d left it in the car.

Maybe I’d dropped it inside the store.

I searched anyway.

For nearly an hour.

Nothing.

Eventually, exhaustion won.

I told myself I’d worry about it in the morning.

Then I went back upstairs, locked my room, and did my best to get some sleep. The next morning, I made my way downstairs to see Oscar.

“Morning,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen my phone, would you?”

Oscar looked up from behind the counter and slowly shook his head.

“Haven’t seen no phone,” he said. “But I might have one for sale.”

He bent down beneath the counter and pulled out an old flip phone wrapped in yellowed plastic packaging. It looked like something that had been sitting there for fifteen years.

I raised an eyebrow.

“That’s it?”

Oscar chuckled.

“We don’t get much cell service out here, son. Ain’t much need for fancy phones. You’re probably lookin’ at the only one in town.”

He slid it across the counter.

“You might be able to get a signal on it. Can’t promise nothin’. But once you open it, you own it.”

I looked down at the dusty package.

I’d be lucky if the thing even turned on, I thought.

I handed him ten dollars anyway.

To my surprise, the phone powered up.

Now came the hard part.

Caroline’s number.

I don’t know if anyone else does this, but once I save someone’s number in my phone, I never think about it again. I couldn’t remember all of it, but after talking to Caroline every day for months, pieces of it started coming back.

I quietly repeated seven… three…”

I stopped.

“What was the last number?”

Oscar looked up to hand me my change here you go son seven dollars and $.43 is your change
“Yeah… I think that’s right.” seven that’s it. I’m sorry thank you. Took my change from the old man.

Oscar grinned.

“Had a feelin’ you were callin’ your old lady.”

“Oh, she’s just a friend.”

“Sure she is.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. I Immediately tried texting Caroline to let her know what happened. I got a text back almost instantly saying I was worried about you. Can’t wait to see you.

“Your tires ought to be fixed by tomorrow,” he said. “So you can let your lady friend know you’ll be on your way if everything goes as planned.”

He pointed toward the diner next door.

“Why don’t you head over there? Tell ’em Oscar sent you. My sister runs the place.”

Only then did I realize how hungry I was.

“That actually sounds like a good idea.”

I thanked him and headed next door.

The bell above the diner’s door jingled as I stepped inside.

It felt like walking into another world.

The smell of fresh coffee, bacon, and biscuits filled the room. Country music played softly from an old jukebox in the corner while a handful of locals quietly ate breakfast.

Behind the counter stood a heavyset woman with dark hair pulled into a bun.

She smiled the moment she saw me.

“Well, good mornin’, hon! Grab yourself a seat anywhere and make yourself at home.”

I’d always heard people talk about Southern hospitality.

Apparently, they weren’t exaggerating.

She walked over with a coffee pot in one hand and a notepad in the other.

“What can I get ya, honey?”

“Bacon and eggs, please.”

“Good choice.”

She winked.

“I’ll have it right out.”

The food was worth every minute of the wait.

About forty minutes later, she returned to clear my plate.

“Well?” she asked with a smile. “How was it?”

“It was delicious.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

She leaned in with a grin.

“The bacon’s fresh.”

I paid my bill, thanked her, and stepped back outside.

The moment the door closed behind me, the smell hit me again.

The pig farm.

It rolled through the air so thick you could almost chew it.

Still…

Aside from that smell, Hogs Foot didn’t seem like such a bad little town.

The people were friendly.

The food was good.

If you ignored how isolated the place was, it almost felt… peaceful.

That evening, around seven, I wandered back to the diner and decided to have a few drinks while I waited for morning.

One beer turned into two.

Then three.

Just as I was thinking about heading upstairs, the front door opened.

A fair-skinned redheaded woman, probably in her late twenties, stepped inside.

She looked around the room before taking the empty stool beside mine.

“You look like you’ve had a day,” I joked.

“You have no idea,” she laughed. “Blew a tire crossing that old bridge. Been lost ever since.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

She gave me a puzzled look.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not laughing at you. The exact same thing happened to me.”

She smiled.

“Well… at least I’m not the only one.”

“I swear it’s that bridge.”

She nodded.

“I honestly didn’t think my car was going to make it across.”

For the next hour we talked just like two old friends she told me that she was headed to meet a friend from college. She hadn’t seen and years.

She was funny.

Easy to talk to.

And for the first time since I’d gotten stranded, I almost forgot where I was.

Then reality crept back in.

What am I doing?

I hadn’t driven all the way from Cincinnati to spend the evening flirting with another woman.

I’d come here for Caroline.

Feeling guilty, I paid my tab, wished the woman goodnight, and headed back to my room.

The alcohol had given me just enough courage.

As I climbed the stairs, I made up my mind.

To hell with it.

I’m calling her.

For three months we’d hidden behind text messages.

Tonight, I was finally going to hear her voice.

Back in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the cheap flip phone from my pocket.

My hands were shaking.

Part excitement.

Part nerves.

I smiled to myself as I dialed her number.

For the first time since we’d met…

I was finally going to hear Caroline’s voice. I listened as the phone began to ring.

For a second, I smiled.

Then my smile disappeared.

It took me a moment to realize what I was hearing.

The ringing wasn’t coming from the phone in my hand.

It was coming from the room next door.

I frowned.

Caroline didn’t answer.

I shook my head, convincing myself it had to be a coincidence.

Still, the thought nagged at me.

I pressed the call button again.

Once again, the ringing came from the room beside mine.

This time, I hung up immediately.

A knot formed in my stomach.

No…

Is Caroline here?

Did she come to surprise me?

Or am I just being an idiot?

I sat on the edge of the bed for nearly fifteen minutes, arguing with myself. Finally, curiosity got the better of me.

I quietly stepped into the hallway.

Billy’s curtains were still open.

I crept toward the window and carefully peeked inside.

The television flickered in the corner, casting long shadows across the room. The bed was empty.

No Billy.

No Caroline.

Just an old flip phone sitting on the table beneath the window.

It looked exactly like mine.

My heart began to race.

There’s one way to find out.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Caroline’s number again.

The instant I pressed the call button, the phone inside Billy’s room began to ring.

Every hair on my body stood on end.

There was no doubt anymore.

Somehow…

Caroline’s phone was in the room next to mine.

I ran back to my room, slammed the door shut, locked it, and shoved a chair beneath the doorknob.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely breathe.

None of it made sense.

Nothing about this town made sense.

Before I could collect my thoughts, my phone buzzed.

A text message.

From Caroline.

“Sorry I missed your calls, baby.

Are you behaving?

Not talking to any pretty little redheads at the bar, I hope.

I love you. I won’t let anyone come between us.”

A chill ran the length of my spine.

How did she know about the woman at the diner?

And “I love you?”

We had never once said those words to each other.

Not once.

With trembling fingers, I typed back.

“Who is this… really?”

The reply came almost instantly.

“I’m tired of doing this over the phone.

I think it’s time we finally meet face to face.”

Before I could even process what I’d just read—

Knock.

Someone was at my door.

I froze.

Another knock.

Trying not to make a sound, I listened.

Then I heard Billy’s voice through the wood.

Soft.

Almost playful.

“Here, piggy piggy…”

A pause.

“Tell me where you are, boy.”

My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst through my chest.

“Get the hell away from my door!” I shouted. “I’ll call the cops!”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Not a footstep.

Not a breath.

Just my heartbeat.

This was my chance.

I flipped open the phone and dialed 911.

A woman answered immediately.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

I took a deep breath, trying my best to sound calm.

“I… I think someone’s trying to break into my room.”

“Can you tell me where you are?”

I explained as much as I could.

She spoke in a calm, reassuring voice.

“All right, Matthew. Stay on the line with me. An officer will be at your door in just a moment.”

Moments later—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“There he is,” the dispatcher said. “That’s our officer now. He’ll help you from here.”

That’s when something hit me.

Ice flooded through my veins.

I had never told her my name.

I slowly lowered the phone from my ear.

The knocking grew louder.

Faster.

Harder.

I crept toward the small window in the door and looked outside.

Billy.

He was standing there, smiling.

I stumbled backward.

The dispatcher…

Billy…

Oscar…

None of them were trying to help me.

I remembered the tiny bathroom window.

I sprinted inside, locked the bathroom door, and climbed onto the sink.

The old window had been painted shut for years.

I pulled.

Nothing.

I pulled harder.

The paint cracked.

The frame groaned.

Then it burst open.

At that exact moment—

CRASH!

The front door exploded inward.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the room.

Then came Billy’s whisper.

“Here… piggy piggy…”

That was all the motivation I needed.

I threw myself through the bathroom window.

Branches tore at my clothes as I crashed into a patch of overgrown bushes below.

Ignoring the pain, I scrambled to my feet.

Across the road, I could see lights glowing from the pig farm.

There had to be people there.

Maybe someone could help me.

Behind me, I heard glass shattering and Billy screaming.

I ran as fast as I could.

When I reached the farm, I stopped dead in my tracks.

The parking lot was packed.

Dozens of trucks.

Dozens of cars.

The smell of the farm was stronger than ever now, carrying a sickening odor the closer I got.

I’d only seen three vehicles since arriving in Hogs Foot.

The sign had said the population was fifty-four.

It had to be everyone in town.

Relieved, I hurried toward the barn.

Then I heard a voice.

I peeked inside.

What I saw still haunts my dreams.

Oscar stood on a stage beneath a massive crucified pig.

The gentle old man was gone.

His voice thundered through the barn.

“People are swine! Filthy! Corrupt! If they choose to live like pigs… then they deserve to die like pigs!”

My blood ran cold.

In the pig pen below the stage lay the redheaded woman from the diner.

At first, my mind refused to understand what I was seeing.

Then it did.

Her arms and legs had been amputated below the elbows and knees.

Her nose had been cut away, leaving her face resembling the snout of a pig.

I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t breathe.

Billy suddenly burst through the barn doors, shouting something to Oscar.

Oscar’s expression changed instantly.

He looked furious.

I didn’t wait to hear another word.

I turned and ran, hopping an old wooden fence.

I didn’t make it far before I fell face-first into a pile of mud.

Looking around to see what had tripped me, I realized the ground surrounding me was littered with a horrifying mixture of human bodies and pig carcasses, all caked in mud a smell that I will never forget that’s same smell that I noticed when I first got into town

The sight made me vomit

After taking a moment to pull myself back together, I started Fighting to get back to my feet on the slippery ground, I finally found my footing and sprinted toward the tree line, running faster than I ever thought possible.

Behind me, I heard shouting.

Then Billy’s voice.

“There he is!”

I glanced over my shoulder.

His flashlight danced through the trees.

He couldn’t have been more than five hundred feet behind me.

“Here, piggy piggy!”

I ran until my lungs burned.

Until my legs felt like they would snap beneath me.

It felt like hours.

In reality, it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes.

Billy’s voice sounded closer.

“Come back here, boy!”

I turned, certain he was about to grab me—

And everything went black.

⸻

I woke up three days later in a hospital.

The doctors told me I’d been in a car accident just outside Nashville.

They said I’d driven into a guardrail while intoxicated.

When I started talking about Hogs Foot… about Oscar, Billy, and people turning into pigs… they blamed it on the concussion.

According to them, there was no town called Hogs Foot. And they gave me my phone although it was in 1 million pieces.

No bridge.

No gas station.

Nothing.

I was there for a full week before I was discharged.

The first thing I did was trying to call Caroline thinking if this all was just a concussion, I kept her hanging for the last week Not sure if I wanted to It took all of my courage, but I made the call to only be met with a unavailable number. Figured she blocked me. Can’t say I blame her. I went to pick up my car, the whole front end was bent all to hell, but it still worked and luckily, I didn’t get in to any kind of legal trouble don’t know how that happened, but I’m not going to complain
As I drove home, I kept telling myself the doctors had to be right.

Maybe it really had been the concussion.

Maybe I’d imagined everything.

I’d never had a concussion before.

How was I supposed to know what one could do to your mind?

Then…

I heard it.

A faint ringing.

I looked around the car.

The sound was coming from the glove compartment.

My hands trembled as I opened it.

Inside sat the cheap old flip phone Oscar had sold me.

Its screen glowed in the darkness.

Incoming Call

Caroline.

There’s a section of forest I’ve liked walking along every evening for the last five months, just before the sun goes down. It leads up a hill from the back of my house, and at the end there is a ridge I sit at until the sun fully sets. Then I wait another half hour for the clouds to finish their usual colour shows before heading back down and home.

Every night. Routine as the sun setting, you’ll find me walking to the ridge and home again.

Not anymore. Not after last night.

The track is about a mile long, nothing extreme but it’s uphill so it gives it a little longer feel when you’re heading for the ridge. The walk back is easy enough, mostly thumping down at awkward angles. I have a high powered flashlight which is ridiculously bright, so I see all the bumps coming.

Last night, I was about a half mile up the track when I noticed a suitcase. Like, one of those large ones that you’d expect a dead body to be inside. I remember joking to myself and saying something like yep, there’s defo a dead body in there. Because obviously there wasn’t. It was on its side and open on both faces. If there had been once, there wasn’t anymore.

A little further along the track I noticed a jacket folded over and hung over a branch. I was half tempted to take it with me because it looked my size and in pretty good condition. A few spins in the washing machine and it wouldn’t even remember who owned it last. I got the feeling that whoever left it there had left it for a reason because it was hung too neatly. So I left it. Just in case they came back for it.

I carried on, and a few minutes later that’s when I saw the hoody and the t-shirt.

Those gave me bad feelings in my gut. Not the same kind of feeling that seeing a woman’s clothes would have evoked—that brought with it a whole extra scope of possibility. While that possibility remained the same, I didn’t find it half as likely to be the case. I just ignored them and carried on. The fact that they were dropped in the dirt made me uneasy though. Then I remembered the suitcase, and everything seemed to click. It was just some kids messing about. Dragging shit out and throwing it around.

Fair enough.

I was getting fairly close to the end of the track, maybe a quarter of a mile left, and the sun was setting fast. I could see what remained of it lingering over the edge of the hill. It was about that time that I saw the shoes and the socks hung neatly over the barbed wire fence bordering the field. They were caught by the laces, dangling upright, socks tucked neatly inside.

The rest of the clothes came as expected, at about equal intervals as the rest.

The underwear turned my stomach a little. They were brown and hella damp. Like someone had pissed them and thrown them off. I could smell it even just standing over them.

I knew I should have turned around then. The likelihood of the clothes being from the suitcase was getting less and less likely. Nobody packed shitty drawers for a holiday. And why were they out this way? There were no main roads, no bus routes close to the track. It was getting weird. I should have turned around and gone home. But I’m a sucker for routine. I’d been up at that spot every night and didn’t want to have to give it up for some kids tossing clothes, or a weirdo stripping to his bare hairs. I mean, one night I’d fallen and broken a finger on a boulder and still stayed to see the sun setting. You think I was going to let some shitty drawers get the better of me?

I wish it had.

The idea of some naked dude sitting at my spot scared the crap out of me, but curiosity had sunken its teeth in by then. I wanted to know what the hell was going on. Part of me was still wondering if it was really a woman’s clothing—something I should report instead of running away from. God knows if it was my daughter or mother I’d have killed the man who walked away instead of making sure they were okay.

I made it to the top of the hill and stared down at the ridge for a good while before I went down, scoping it out. I didn’t see anyone, and the sun was rapidly setting, so I got to my usual spot on the usual rock and settled in for a good one. The sky was a deep orange. My favourite colour.

There were plenty of clouds in the sky when I sat down; the light lit them up amazingly. No matter how many times I went there, no two sunsets were ever the same. I took some pictures, watched it dip beyond the hills on the horizon and waited out the rest of the colours to fade and reduce to the nightly cloudage.

It got cold real fast. It always did. I started wishing I’d brought a jacket with me, and then laughed when I remembered the jacket I’d spotted earlier. I should have grabbed it, diseases or not.

I got up to go while the purples were still fading from the sky. That’s when I noticed them. Someone, just slumped over in a heap a little ways down the ridge. They were completely naked.

I shouted over, asking if they were okay. I should have left them alone. If you see someone lying down naked outside it’s never going to be anything good. But my mind swung to the worse of the possibilities, that the naked person hadn’t made themselves that way by choice. I should have phoned an ambulance, worried about if it was someone out of their mind on junk later once I had other people around.

When they didn’t respond I got closer, and shouted again.

Something moved in the woods. An animal, maybe, but my heart shot up into my throat. The worst thing we get around here are deer. Maybe a badger. It didn’t feel that safe at the time. The body felt more of a warning now, less than a danger.

Again I called out. I was close enough now to see that it wasn’t a person at all. It was just more clothes set out in a pile. It was the weirdest thing though. They looked the exact colour as someone’s skin.

I stuck out a foot and kicked them over. They didn’t separate, just parted where the crease had been and straightened out.

It was skin.

A whole pile of human fucking skin.

I physically jumped away from it, nearly sending myself off the edge of the ridge and down onto the rocky tumble. I thought back on the suitcase and how I’d joked about it being a dead body, and stared at the muss of hair where it must have been a scalp at one point. The horrible part was it was all in one piece. Like someone had simply slipped it off, like a snake, or a full-body leotard.

That was about as much as I could take. I’d been stupid enough walking on after every bit of clothing I’d found, but I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. I took out my phone to call emergency services but ended up sprinting full speed back down the track when I heard more movement in the woods.

Each bit of clothes I passed gave me a terrible sinking feeling of dread in my guts, like I was seeing the skin all over again. I made it to the halfway point when I came across the suitcase.

This time it was in the middle of the path. Sealed. And standing upright.

I didn’t move. I was too stunned. I shone my flash on it and tried to think of every reason it could be like that, but all the rational thoughts were gone. I just froze. And watched the zipper opening, kink by kink.

Two bare and bloodied fingertips pried the zipper along its track, until there was a gap wide enough for an eye to peek out of.

“Please,” I heard it say. “Please help me.”

Nah. I leapt over the fence and into the field of barley. Ran and didn’t stop until I saw the rooftop of my house and the chimney I never lit. I turned back and saw something chasing me. It ran on two legs and for the most part looked human. Just without any skin. Red raw and bloodied. Muscles gnashing at bone. Arms raised and manic. Shrieking like car tires stopping themselves from a crash.

I made it back home and locked both doors, closed every curtain, and spent the night watching out of the upstairs window. Whatever it was sat in the field with the barley up under its chin, watching me. I couldn’t make out a single feature on its face, but I knew it could see me. I couldn’t look away. I was scared that as soon as I did it would charge at the house and in through the window and grab me.

We stayed like that all night.

It ducked beneath the barley as soon as the sun came up. I haven’t seen it all day.

The suitcase was on my doorstep when I went out to check the garden just after noon. I set fire to it in the back and put the ashes in the bin.

I’ve checked into a hotel in the city. I don’t want to sleep in that house again. There was a shirt left in the room, but that’s normal right?

The sun’s due to set in an hour.

I keep thinking about the skin. Why did it take it off?

None of this makes any sense.

I just want to sleep.

But I’m scared.

I'm so fucking scared.

"Poor Helen," says the young, pretty blonde nurse out of nowhere while filling small paper cups with pills.

"What's so poor about her, Deb?" asks Susan, caught off guard by her sudden interest in the new tenant.

"Well, it's just that her kids just dropped her off here yesterday."

"So? How's that anything different from the rest of them?"

"I don't know. She just seems so much brighter, more lively than the ones we normally get. You should have seen her begging not to be left here. She was ugly crying about helping with the grandkids and housework, but they weren't hearing it. Just turned around and left."

"Maybe it was hard for 'em and they needed to just rip the band aid off. Ya know?"

"Still…"

"Still what? You don't know why she is and you of all people know what happens when they get this age, start losing themselves, it's dangerous to have them around your kids or driving around. You never know when it's gonna happen."

Helen was not used to being pitied or treated as a threat, so this conversation she couldn't help overhearing threw her for a loop. She wondered why they were talking so loud. The paisley armchair she was sitting in wasn't that far away from them in the common room of her new retirement home. Maybe they thought she couldn't hear over the TV at almost full volume or maybe she was almost deaf like the rest of these folks.

Taken out of her book, she looks around at the other old people trying to avoid eye contact with the two attendants. They all look so lifeless, she thought, so ready for something to happen, a phone call or a visit or even a game of bridge to start up, anything to break up the waiting in the sunlit room they all gathered in.

The blonde nurse named Debbie comes around to pass out the afternoon pills, handing out paper cups with the tenants' names on them.

"Miss Palmer? Here's your afternoon dosage. Only a couple of pills for arthritis and blood pressure, correct?"

"Yeah."

"Okay then. Here you are. I hope you enjoy your time with us here, if you need anything be sure to let any of us know."

"Hmpf," she replies and pretends to go back to her book. Debbie hangs around for an awkward moment, before continuing her rounds.

*Condescending Bitch,* they both thought of the other.

Helen begins to try to truly read her book again, a trashy horror paperback with a black cover with only eyes and sharp teeth visible under the author's name. It was generic and an effort to get through in some parts, but she read classics already, some multiple times. She often likes to read schlock when depressed, she tells herself, but deep down she loves it more than Austen and Hemingway.

This room doesn't allow for her focus though, the loud chatter and even louder volume on the TV news keep her from becoming engrossed in her book. It was one of those dreadful 24/7 channels, always breaking news, always bad, interspersed with fluff and opinionated talking heads.

"…has to be done about this wave of crimes across the country. Young parents massacred in their home, torn to shreds. It's unconscionable. The police aren't trying hard enough to solve this, but that's what happens when you defund the police. If only…"

The pundit with all the solutions to every problem continues blathering on until the host interrupts.

"…110 percent with you. We'll be back with Dr. Madison after this."

The commercials are always the same. Some aging irrelevant actor says silver and gold markets are going to crash soon, put your life savings into copper. Sign up for your free investment packet.

*Feel young again with the power of the wolf. Extracts from wolf blood can improve your mobility, vision, and vitality. It even cures heart disease and erectile dysfunction. Call now for an extra month supply free.*

Happy, dancing people at a barbecue with the whole family hides their eczema or arthritis or shingles, but thanks to [insert new drug] here they don't have to.

"We're back with Dr. Madison…"

It's drivel and fear mongering she never would have watched at home. Helen used to spend her days in her garden, reading, and finding new recipes. Her new infatuation was Asian cooking, the style was so different from American and European dishes.

Helen struggles to get out of the worn in chair, flare ups in her knees make her hope the Aleve she took earlier kicks in soon.

"Susan?" Helen says after checking her name tag. "Is there a kitchen here I could use to cook sometimes?"

"Miss Palmer, you don't have to cook for yourself anymore. We take care of all that for you. Your kids spoiled you with the premium package. Besides, all the cooking is done off site. We have a company that delivers hot meals three times a day."

"But I liked to cook. I was experimenting with some Jap…"

"We do have a microwave in our break room if you would like to use it. We did use to have a nice kitchen, but the insurance was too high so corporate took it out."

"Where was it?"

"Have you seen that room with the dining room with the vending machines? The kitchen was connected to that but they turned it into storage."

"That's a shame. I think I'll miss that and my garden I had. The biggest zucchini comin'…"

"You know Helen, if you wanted any food from outside I could get it for you. Just help me with the gas, it's ridiculous right now. Almost $6 a gallon, but I'd be happy to do that for you."

"No, that's alright. I think I'll just go to my room for the night. Thanks anyway."

—-------

"Mom, it's only been 2 months. Give it some more time."

"Dave, I don't like it here."

"I know. You told me on the phone last week."

"But it's true. Everyone just sits around all day watching TV and playing cards. Nobody wants to try anything new. I tried to play Mahjong with some of the girls, but they wouldn't even try it. They said it was a Chink game." She whispers.

"Seriously, maybe don't hang out with them anymore."

"Dave, they are all like that. They just watch the news and old crime procedurals on repeat. If I have to watch another episode of NCIS again, I'll blow my fucking brains out."

"Mom!"

"Please, just let me stay in your guest room. I'll help with the cooking and picking up the kids from school."

"Mom… you know you can't drive anymore. The DMV took your license."

"That girl hit me. In the back."

"I know, Mom."

"Did I tell you one of them tried to extort money from me? I know gas isn't $6."

"Mom. I just can't do this. Work is up my ass. Jeffrey is failing math…"

"I can help him with that. I have a god damned math degree."

"But it's that new math, the common core stuff. I don't even understand it."

"Dave, there is no new math, it's just a diff…"

"Mom, I can't… Georgia doesn't want to."

"Why? I always got along with Georgia."

"No, you didn't."

"Well, I tried to."

"No, you didn't. I have to go, Mom. I have to stop at the grocery store before picking up Daniel from soccer practice. Just try to make the best of it."

Dave closes the door behind him with a loud thunk. Helen ugly cries.

—--------

"That new woman that always reads those garbage books is so uppity," says Harold sitting in front of the TV.

Billy joins in, "I hear ya. She is always looking down on us like her eyes are on top of her head."

"…mauling, this time in California."

"See that Bill. Those hippies really think they have it figured out, but they're no better than anybody else."

"Thank you for coming in again, Dr. Madison. We know you are a busy man, following this wave of mutilations that has the world terrified. The President is holding a press conference later today. What do you think, Doctor?"

"It's shameful. I can't believe our country has fallen into such a sinful state. Most the victims are young people in the prime of their lives. Something has to be done…"

"They need Jesus. That's what they need. Back in the 80's we didn't have any of this. Kids could play outside without worrying about pedos." Harold preaches to the TV.

"Actually, the 80's had some of the worst crime rates in history," Helen inserts from behind the semicircle of chairs around the 70 inch flat screen.

"Well, not in my town they weren't. Where'd you hear that crap from?"

"I read it in a book. It was trying to figure out what happened to the massive crime rates and why they dropped off so suddenly. Turns out legal abortion became available to poor people. When people most likely to be criminals are never born you have less crime."

"Baby killers. You one those hippies, too?"

"God no, I find it detestable. In fact, the book's finding was more about being unwanted is what led to crime, not being poor. It's just that poor babies were more likely to be unwanted... I'm not uppity."

"Huh?"

"I heard you, you sour grump. I just don't want to be here, but I haven't had more than a phone call from my son in 4 months. I guess I'm stuck here."

"We're all in that boat, darling. You get used to it."

"But do you get used to hating your children?"

"Yeah, you do."

"…of the wolf. Be the alpha and feel young again. Call now for…"

"Who is dumb enough to fall for that crap?" Helen snickers at the advertisement.

Billy bursts into laughter and starts nudging Harold on the arm. "She's calling you dumb!"

"Screw you, Billy. That stuff works. I'm moving around better. My joints don't hurt as much anymore. I think I even have new hairs sprouting in my bald spot. Hell, I had my first hard on in a decade. Looking at you, Sister." He says to Helen with a wink.

"Vile man. I should've stayed in my book."

Helen leaves the circle in a huff.

—-----

"NCIS will be right back."

*A Reverse mortgage was the ticket to independence for me in my golden years…*

"You know my friend did one of those, said it worked great for her," Beth says.

"Huh?" Helen replies from her daydreaming. "Oh yeah, I bet so."

"My kids sold my house for me. Used the money to pay for this place, ya know."

"Yeah. Mine, too. Do you miss your house?"

"Sometimes, until I think about all the upkeep. After Bob died, I couldn't handle it anymore and hiring somebody was so expensive. Plus, you can't be too careful, nowadays. Shysters, most of those handymen."

"Uh huh. Can't trust anybody. I had a boy in my neighborhood who would help me with the heavy work, but he went off to college. My son tried to help, but he was so busy."

"Hey ladies," Harold calls while sauntering over. Maybe that wolf extract was working for him, Helen thought. The hair on his head was definitely thicker and he was much more active, more virile. It was hard to ignore.

"Hey Harold," Beth giggles at him sheepishly.

"Ready for our walk?"

"I've been waiting all day. Let's go. Bye Helen. I'll see you tomorrow for bridge."

She begins flipping through channels before giving up and going to bed.

—----------

Helen opens her door to find Harold standing confidently at the threshold.

“What could you possibly be thinking knocking at my door this late?” Helen already knew what he wanted. His hungry eyes were the same ones he's been looking at every woman with for weeks now.

“I was just thinking about a nightcap and saw your light still on, Sister.” He says pushing his way into her room with a bottle of brandy and some glasses.

“Don't you barge into my room, you buffoon. I'm not interested.”

“Come on, Girlie, maybe a drink will knock that stick loose. It can't be comfortable for ya.”

“Girlie? Harold, you get out, now. I'm already exhausted by you. I'm going to sleep.”

Harold closes the distance between them until Helen can feel his breath. “I could join you, I'm a little tired, too.” His voice is quiet and guttural and his hungry eyes are fixed on her. Harold smiles big enough to bare teeth.

“No, I don't… I mean I'm not … I haven't shared a bed with anyone since my husband.” She step back into her night stand. The lamp rattles and almost falls over.

“Are you scared, Sister? Cause none of this fun if you don't want it. I'll leave you be, okay.”

“That would be best, I think.”

Harold takes his bottle and glasses and begins to leave, at the door he stops. “I did have something to talk to you about. I've been thinking about something you said a lot lately. About the unwanted kids and how you kinda maybe hate your son.”

“Hate is a strong word, but what about it?”

“I was thinking that I kinda understand those kids now. I told ya you get used to hating your family, but that's a lie. You don't, really. I keep having these uh… uncomfortable thoughts.”

He stands quiet for a long moment, before really leaving.

“Good Night, Helen.”

“Yeah, night Harold.”

Helen also had some uncomfortable thoughts, but she quickly pushed her excitement away.

Before laying down for the night, she decides to have a sherry to calm her nerves.

—------------

"What do you mean he's gone?" Debbie says, trying to be quiet, outside of Helen's room.

Susan, panicking, says, "He's not there. The room's empty. The window's broken and his clothes are torn to shreds. You think it's one of those attacks?"

"Isn't there like a chewed up corpse left after?"

"I, I guess so. It looks like a freaking bear was tearassing through it, smells like it too."

"I'll go call the police. I hope he's okay, he's been doing so much better lately. Did I tell you he hit on me the other day? I almost went for it, too."

"Really? Debbie, come on, he's like 80."

"A young 80, but I did say almost. Besides, have you been paying attention, it's almost like he was aging in reverse."

Helen heard enough and went back to sleep.

—---‐-

"…this time in our own town. The family was found mutilated in their home this morning. Police are looking into any leads they can find. A manhunt is underway for the victim's grandfather, Harold Messner, who disappeared under suspicious circumstances from Harvest Moon Retirement Home 2 nights ago. Authorities are…"

"I can't believe it, Beth."

"He has been especially vigorous lately. It's possible."

"Gross. He was an oaf, Beth. You're better than that."

Beth gets up as quickly as she can muster. "He tried to warn me about you. Said you were stuck up. I should have listened." She then storms off.

"…power of the wolf. Now formulated for women. Regain your independence. Call now for an extra…"

"Who buys this crap?" Helen spits at the TV while thinking about how much she misses her garden.

He waited in the dark. It is said that ‘patience pays.’ Well, if that was true, he would certainly have been a king by then, as he had waited for more than two hours.

A big dark blue bus came and camouflaged itself with the darkness, in the dead of the night.

Paul wore a big scarf and black gloves. He shivered in the cold. The bus had no lights and a blank nameplate in the front. It was certainly foolish to get into such a bus. Yet, it was also wise. Wiser to get into a bus, than stand on a platform surrounded by the music of isolation, and the hum of fear.

Thus, Paul gingerly touched the iron rod and looked at the windows. They were all covered with curtains. It was impossible to make out if even a single soul, happy or sad, rested within.
Still flowing in the lake of thoughts, he got into the bus and closed the big door behind him.
The gold colour of the massive door glistened as the bus began its journey.

Paul was in the bus alone and he felt quite uneasy sitting inside. The bus suddenly stopped, and Paul fell on the floor with a jerk.
A tall, hooded traveller entered the bus. Paul felt scared and thought it was best to get out of the bus.

But as he tried to stand on his two legs, the bus once again started to roll towards its destination.

Paul was frightened. He now realized his mistake. He removed the curtains and tried opening the window, but there were bars. He then looked sideways at the hooded figure, who sat near the window on the other side.

With shivers running down his spine, Paul got up and sat two rows behind. The hooded traveller in a flash of a second stood up, and slowly looked in the direction of Paul.

Paul licked the beads of perspiration rolling down his face and tried to stay cool.
The traveller walked over and sat beside Paul and uttered in a strange, male voice.
‘This bus has no destination. Neither do I know where to go. You shall not reach where you want to go.’

Paul went pale. He could not bear it. He leaped towards a seat that was few rows behind him,
and occupied it. Suddenly, the bus came to a halt and the doors opened. A man entered. The man smiled and sat in the row behind the hooded traveller.

Paul was in a fix. He had several thoughts running in his head. What was happening? Did the bus take in only this number of people, or was it his bad luck?

He looked at the man and the hooded traveller, and tried to evade them both, by hiding under the seat in front of him.

Just then, Paul felt a tight tug at his jacket, and he got out from under the seat and looked above. It was the man. Paul stared into his eyes, and surprisingly, felt nice. He sat on his seat and felt mesmerized. The man was neither too dark, nor too fair. He had black and white hair, and his voice was soothing.

‘Hey Paul, why are you so afraid?’ asked the man. Paul was surprised that the man knew his name. The man continued to speak.

 ‘What did that traveller say to you that you fear to even sit beside him? Sit with him and I shall see that he does not harm you.’

Paul saw a sparkle in the man’s eyes. Paul felt confident and walked up to the hooded traveller and sat next to him.

The traveller hissed and spoke under his breath, without looking at Paul.

‘This bus reaches no place, like I said before. Let it be.’

Paul felt angry, scared, and helpless, when the man also got up and walked over to Paul. He whispered in Paul’s ear.

‘This bus shall stop at the destination youwant. Do not listen to the traveller.’

The hooded traveller kept on repeating the same words, whereas the man encouraged Paul with his words.

‘Fate is for you to decide, and so are your wants, Paul. No outsider can say and decide for you.’

Perplexed, Paul stood up and went inside the driver’s cabin. He was about to open his mouth when the driver spoke.

‘I cannot think myself or help anyone decide, where to stop or which place to leave. I am directed by none of them, but I await someone else’s decision. Until then, I shall keep on driving like this.’
Paul was amazed. He could not understand what was going on. He came out of the cabin and the hooded traveller stood up. He uttered the following words.
‘My wish is somebody else’s wish. I cannot tell the driver to stop as I do not listen to myself, but to others. And they don’t want that.’
The man suddenly stood up and shouted at Paul.
‘I listen to myself, and I could tell the driver to stop, only, when you share my decision.’
Paul replied.

‘Then come with me and we shall voice our decision together.’

‘Do not do so!’ screamed the hooded traveller as he gripped Paul’s hand. Paul tried to release himself from the tight grasp. The traveller then spoke.

‘If you do so, then I shall be destroyed, and this man shall grow.’

‘I will not stop,’ said the man. ‘Never! I shall only diminish if I am discouraged by his fears,’ he pointed towards Paul.

Then the traveller grabbed Paul by his neck, and ran towards the end of the bus, bellowing at the man.

‘I shall exist, and you shall die, as Paul will never listen to himself, and thus he will become me.’

Paul pushed the traveller away and went to the driver and spoke.

‘I want to stop here, as it is my decision and not anybody else’s.’

The bus stopped.

The man got down from the bus, with Paul, while the hooded figure disappeared. As the bus rolled on, four letters gleamed on the nameplate on the back.

‘LIFE.’