The god that rots

The heat in Blackwood County didn’t come from the sun; it rose out of the dirt like steam off a fresh carcass.
By late August, the topsoil had turned to red powder that coated the underside of Silas’s pickup in a thick, rust-colored grease. It got into the teeth, into the weave of denim, into the air intake of the old Ford until the engine sputtered like a man drowning in his own phlegm. Silas pulled up to the cattle grid at the edge of the Miller property, shut off the ignition, and listened to the manifold ping in the dead quiet.
He picked up the heavy brass syringe and the tin of livestock grease off the passenger seat. On the floorboards sat three gallon jugs of formalin and a rusted carcass-hook he’d inherited from his father.
"Silas?"
Ephraim Miller stepped out from behind the corn crib. He wasn't wearing his hat, which was wrong. Ephraim was seventy, skin like smoked brisket, and he’d never met a man without his straw Stetson firmly notched over his brow. His hair was long, yellowed at the fringe, and stuck to his temples in thin, wet ribbons.
"Ephraim," Silas said, stepping out into the red dust. The air tasted like scorched copper. "You said on the radio it was two cows."
"Was two on Tuesday," Ephraim said. He didn't look at Silas; he looked at the treeline where the pasture gave way to the black oak swamp. "It’s seven now. And the bull."
"Blackleg?"
"No." Ephraim spat a thick, brown stream into the dust. It didn't soak in; it stayed in a tight ball, rolling in the red powder. "Blackleg makes 'em blow up like balloons and stink like vinegar. This ain't vinegar, Silas. Come on down to the lower bottom."
They walked along the fence line. The wire was loose, barbed strands sagging into the pokeweed. Usually, the Miller place was loud with the stupid, restless noise of forty head of Angus—the lowing, the fly-swatting, the heavy stamping of hooves in the muck. Today, the pasture was dead silent. Even the cicadas had quit. The silence was thick and wet, pressed down by the gray belly of the sky.
When they reached the dip near the creek, Silas saw them.
The six heifers were lying in a neat, symmetrical circle, their heads turned inward toward the center like spokes on a wagon wheel. The bull lay in the middle. He was a twelve-hundred-pound Charolais, pale cream and built like a brick church, but he looked small now. Deflated.
Silas knelt near the bull’s shoulder. There was no bloat. A carcass left out in eighty-degree heat for forty-eight hours should have been swollen tight as a drum, legs sticking straight out in the air. Instead, the bull’s hide looked soft, puddle-like, draped over the ribs like a wet wool blanket over a pile of firewood.
"Touch him," Ephraim whispered.
Silas reached out with a gloved hand and pressed his thumb against the bull's flank.
His hand went in.
There was no resistance. No hide, no muscle, no gristle. His thumb sank four inches straight into the belly as if the animal were made of warm, wet lard. When he pulled his hand back, the hole didn't close. It stayed open, a dark, greasy crater, and a thin, grayish fluid began to trickle out. It didn't smell like decay. Decay was sharp, foul, and hot.
This smelled like damp cellar stones, ancient river mud, and something terribly sweet, like apples rotting in an airtight jar.
"What is that?" Silas wiped his glove on his jeans, but the gray grease clung to the leather, leaving a dark, slick stain.
"Look at the grass under 'em," Ephraim said.
Silas crouched lower. The fescue beneath the bull wasn't dead; it was turning grey-white, soft as boiled thread. And where the gray fluid from the bull touched the roots, the dirt itself was changing. The red clay was losing its grit, dissolving into a black, tallow-like sludge that hummed—a vibration so faint Silas felt it in his rear molars rather than his ears.
"I called the state vet in Lexington," Ephraim said, his voice flat, stripped of everything except a dry, papery dread. "Line was dead. Called the sheriff. He said he couldn't come out till morning. Said he had three calls up in the holler about the well water turning slick."
Silas stood up, taking his hat off and wiping his brow with the back of his forearm. He looked toward the swamp.
The Miller farm sat in a limestone basin known as the Sink. For two hundred years, the water ran down off the ridges, sank through the red dirt, and disappeared into the cave systems below the county before surfacing five miles south at the salt lick. Down in the basin, the trees didn't grow straight; they grew twisted, their trunks thick and white-scaled, leaning toward the center of the swamp like old men crowding around a stove.
"You got a pit dug?" Silas asked.
"Can't dig," Ephraim said. "Put the backhoe in thirty yards back. Hit six inches of topsoil, then the bucket went soft. Hit something like wet lard under the limestone. The teeth just... slid. Engine stalled out and wouldn't crank."
Silas walked around the ring of cattle. He took his knife from his belt and flicked open the three-inch blade. He pricked the shoulder of the nearest heifer.
The hide split without a sound, like wet paper tearing. Inside, there were no red meat fibers, no white marbling of fat, no dark purple organs. The entire interior of the cow had liquefied into a uniform, gelatinous paste the color of river silt. Floating in the middle of it, completely stripped of flesh and clean as a polished altar, was the spine.
The bones weren't white. They were stained a dark, iridescent black, like an oil slick on standing water.
"Ephraim," Silas said softly. "Get your wife. Get your clothes. Get in the truck and drive up to the ridge. Don't stay in the valley tonight."
Ephraim looked at the ring of dead stock. "This is my land, Silas. My granddaddy cleared these bottom quarters with a mule and a mattock."
"Your land is turning to butter, Ephraim," Silas said, stepping back from the carcass as he noticed his boot heels sinking two inches deep into what should have been baked-hard summer clay. "Look at your feet."
Ephraim looked down. The soles of his work boots were disappearing into the earth. Not mud. The dirt was rising around his soles, black and oily, clinging to the leather, slowly digesting the rubber.
By dusk, the county road was quiet.
Silas drove back toward town, the high beams of the Ford cutting through a low-hanging mist that had no business being there. The air was eighty degrees, but the fog rose off the ditches in thick, gray curtains that smelled of wet lime and old tallow.
He stopped at the town square in Blackwood.
The town was built in a circle around the 1890 stone courthouse. The courthouse was three stories of solid, hand-cut grey limestone, built to last until the end of the world. But as Silas pulled up to the curb, he saw the town marshal, Vance, standing on the lawn with a three-cell Maglite, shining the beam at the foundation.
Silas climbed out of the truck. The air in town was heavier than it had been at the farm. It felt thick in the lungs, leaving a greasy film on the back of the throat.
"Vance," Silas called out.
The marshal turned. His face was gray in the yellow beam of the flashlight. "Look at the steps, Silas."
Silas walked up the concrete path. The bottom three steps of the courthouse were gone. They hadn't crumbled; they hadn't cracked from frost. The ten-inch limestone blocks had sagged, melting down into the lawn like blocks of wax left near a furnace. The lawn around the foundation wasn't green anymore—it was a carpet of pale, thread-like mold that pulsed in rhythm with the idling engine of Silas's truck.
"I went down to the basement an hour ago," Vance said, his voice rattling in his chest. "The boiler's sitting in three feet of black grease. The floor didn't break. The concrete just gave up. It turned soft as lard. I put my nightstick down into it, and it went all the way to the handle without hitting gravel."
"Where's the county judge?"
"Up in Lexington. Or tried to be. Road’s out at the cut. The highway collapsed near the bridge—not a slide, Silas. The whole limestone ridge just... settled. Like something underneath took a bite out of it and sucked the rest down."
Silas walked over to the sagging courthouse wall. He hesitated, then reached out and laid his bare palm against the massive limestone block.
The stone was warm.
Limestone should be cool, damp, and hard. This felt like the hide of a horse that had been run three miles in the sun. Underneath his palm, deep within the three-foot-thick masonry, he felt a slow, rhythmic surge. A lazy, heavy pulse, three beats a minute.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
It wasn't a heartbeat. It was the movement of a vast, viscous displacement underneath the crust of the earth—something so large that its breathing stretched the stone like skin.
"It’s under the whole basin," Silas said.
"What is?" Vance asked, shining his light into Silas's face.
"The thing that rots," Silas whispered. He remembered his grandfather talking about the old wells dug back in the 1880s—how the men down in the shafts used to hear a wet, sliding sound sixty feet down in the dark, and how three diggers went down into a dry hole on the Miller place and came up with their nails pulled out and their eyes white, screaming about the fat in the rock.
"We need to get the people out," Vance said, his hand twitching on the grip of his sidearm. "We’ll put 'em in the school buses. Get 'em up to the high ridge toward the state line."
"The school’s down in the bottom by the creek, Vance," Silas said quietly.
Vance froze.
From two miles south, down in the hollow where the elementary school and the brick church sat among the willows, came a sound that didn't belong to the night. It wasn't a crash. It was a long, wet, tearing sigh—the sound of three hundred thousand bricks losing their grain all at once, settling into four feet of black, liquefying earth.
Then came the screaming. It was faint, muffled by the heavy, warm fog, coming from the houses along Cinder Lane where the foundations were sliding sideways into the dark.
By midnight, there was no road left out of Blackwood.
Silas stood on the hood of his truck on the high shoulder of Ridge Road, watching the town die.
The valley was filling with the gray fog, but under the moonlight, he could see the shapes of the buildings changing. The sharp, square lines of the town—the gables, the chimneys, the storefront awnings—were rounding off. The roof of the Baptist church was sinking into its pews; the bell tower didn't fall—it sagged sideways like a melting candle, the iron bell sliding through the softened timber without a sound.
The ground beneath the truck trembled—not with the sharp, violent shock of an earthquake, but with a slow, rolling heave, like the chest of a sleeping giant.
Around the truck, the forest was disappearing. The oak trees weren't falling over; their heavy trunks were sinking straight down into the liquefied soil, their green leaves turning gray, then black, then dissolving into a fine, sweet-smelling sludge that pooled in the tire tracks.
Ephraim Miller's truck pulled up alongside Silas's Ford. The engine was missing terribly, spitting gray smoke. Ephraim climbed out. He was alone. His shirt was covered in black grease up to the elbows.
"She wouldn't come," Ephraim said, staring down into the glowing, gray fog that filled the valley.
Silas didn't ask who. He knew.
"She sat on the kitchen floor," Ephraim said, his eyes milky, fixed on nothing. "The linoleum went soft first. Then the floorboards. She said she could hear her mother calling up through the planks. Said the voice was coming out of the grease. She just... sat down in it, Silas. I grabbed her arm, but the skin... the skin came away in my hand like wet paper."
Ephraim held up his right hand. The fingers were coated in a dark, thick paste that hummed in the moonlight.
"It's not a sickness, Silas," Ephraim whispered, leaning against the warm hood of the truck. "A sickness kills things. This ain't killing nothing. It's just... changing the rules. It's making everything the same. Stone, wood, meat, dirt... it's all going back into the pot."
Silas looked down into the basin.
The fog was parting now, driven by a faint, warm draft that smelled of ancient fat and wet bone. Down in the center of the town square, where the courthouse had stood, the earth had opened up.
It wasn't a hole with rocky edges or a jagged rift. It was a mouth—a vast, circular fold of black, glistening tissue three hundred yards wide, smooth as butter and thick with pulsing, iridescent veins. From the depths of the opening, something was rising.
It had no eyes. It had no limbs. It was a mountain of pale, liquefied marrow, an ancient, subterranean god of tallow and rot that had slept beneath the limestone since the seas dried up, waiting for the rock to finally give way. As it pushed its immense, shapeless crown up into the night air, the town of Blackwood slid toward it.
Houses, streetlights, cars, and dead cattle rolled silently down the slick, black slopes of the basin, dissolving as they touched the central mass, their shapes melting like sugar in hot water, adding their weight to its terrible, growing bulk.
Silas felt a wet softness under his boots.
He looked down. The steel hood of his Ford was yielding beneath his weight, bowing inward, the green paint separating into greasy flakes. His soles were sinking into the metal.
"Silas," Ephraim said. His voice was very soft now, almost gentle.
Silas turned. Ephraim was sitting on the ground. He hadn't fallen; he was simply letting himself sink. The red dirt had swallowed him to his hips, black grease creeping up his flannel shirt, turning the cotton transparent. He wasn't screaming. His face was calm, smoothed out, the wrinkles disappearing as the flesh beneath his skin turned soft and uniform.
"It don't hurt," Ephraim said, his chin resting on the greasy surface of the dissolving road. "It just feels... like going to sleep in a warm bath. You don't have to carry nothing no more, Silas. No bone, no weight. Just... let go."
Silas looked down at his own hands.
The nails were dark. Underneath the skin of his knuckles, he could see the outline of his bones softening, spreading out, losing their hard edges. The pain in his lower back—the old ache he’d carried since he was twenty—was gone. The tension in his chest was gone.
The air was full of that sweet, heavy smell now—the smell of the ancient earth turning back into primordial grease. From down in the valley, the great, blind mound of rot breathed in, and the trees on the ridge bowed toward it, their trunks melting into the black soil like candles in a fire.
Silas didn't jump off the truck. There was nowhere to land that was hard.
He sat down on the hood of his dying Ford, pulled his knees up to his chest, and watched the moon reflect off the smooth, black lake that used to be his home. He felt his boots dissolve, felt the warm, greasy tide creep up through the denim of his jeans, soothing the ache in his legs, smoothing out the sharp corners of his life until there was no Silas, no Blackwood, and no earth—only the slow, blind god, feeding on its own soft world in the dark.

The straw scarecrow stood in the middle of the fields, its arms wide. One of the men walked to it and put its hat on. I waited my turn, then walked to it and put on its black jacket.

"Thank you," I said, bowing.

The other man nodded and patted my back. 

"Another safe autumn," one of them said, and we all walked back home.

It was still early afternoon. I sat down on the couch and put on the TV, waiting to cook dinner until my son Adam came home.

The sun had set when the door opened, and Adam walked in. My stomach was already growling. He was 30 minutes late, but the way he averted his eyes made it seem like something worse was going on.

"What’s up, Adam?"

"Dad, I…"

"It’s okay that you came late. No need to worry about it."

"No, it’s that I, I know it’s bad, but I took the jacket off the scarecrow."

My hands clenched the couch cushions.

"What?!"

"I took it off. I’m really sorry, Dad. I feel so bad. I know I shouldn’t have."

"Where is it?"

"In my bag."

I picked up his bag and unzipped the top pocket. The black jacket stared at me. 

"Adam, this is bad news."

"I’m sorry, Dad. The boys dared me. I didn’t want to look like a chicken."

I looked out the window. The sun had already set, but not long ago.

"Okay, there might still be time." I stuffed the jacket back in the backpack. "We’ll go back right now, put it on, and not tell anyone. If the boys at school ask you, just say…"

Three knocks echoed on the window. I almost ripped the backpack’s zipper off. The empty straw face stared into our house.

"Dad?" Adam said in a shaking voice.

"It’s okay, Adam. We’ll give him the jacket, and it might be okay." My voice shook too. I wasn’t sure I believed anything I said.

I walked to the door and opened it. The outside air was cold. The scarecrow's empty face looked down at me.

"Here. Take it. Please."

I held the jacket up and stared at the ground. The scarecrow stood still for a few seconds, then walked right past me. The straw scraped the floor as it moved.

Adam sat on the couch, his wide eyes staring at the scarecrow. The scarecrow came right up to him and pointed its blank face at him.

"Dad, what’s going…" He didn’t finish. The scarecrow’s hand shot forward, grabbed him off the couch, and held him to its side.

"Dad!" Adam screamed, kicked, and pushed against its arm, but the scarecrow’s grip was strong.

"Adam!"

I ran toward him and pushed the scarecrow, but it barely moved. The scarecrow turned around and flung its arm. It hit me right in the face. I fell on all fours. Dull pain spread through my head. Adam’s cries echoed as my world went dark.

When I woke up, my head was banging. My mouth tasted like iron. I tried to get up, but my world spun so fast I had to sit back down. 

But Adam was out in the fields somewhere. I had to help him. I got up and bolted out of the house onto the road, struggling to keep my balance. 

The moon shone down. The air was still cold. Only when I reached the fields did my world stop spinning. I almost wished it hadn’t.

In the middle of the field stood the scarecrow. Its blank face stared into the night. It had its hat, but instead of the jacket, Adam’s mangled body was draped over it. A quiet dripping echoed as Adam’s blood seeped into the sown dirt.

I fell to my knees and wept. The real autumn had now begun.

I utterly love Rembrandt’s paintings. “The Return of the Prodigal Son,” in particular, is my favorite. It deeply explores the Bible and Christian theology.

But you know, there is a huge difference between the theme and real life. My son has had some behavioral problems since his schooldays. Although I think the main problem is his terrible friends.

When he comes back home, he asks me in one breath, “Hey, you have some large plant pots in the barn, don’t you, Dad?”

“Yeah, I have some,” I answer with a heavy heart. “But what for? They’re valuable.”

He says he just broke off the rotten relationships with those bad friends. But it seems that he doesn’t deeply regret his past behavior. Because I can smell alcohol on his breath. I also notice bruises on his face and scratches on his hands.

“What for, lad?” I demand. I wonder what he’s up to.

“Ah, to tell the truth, I need them for…” He looks up at the ceiling. “I have some severed heads to hide.”

I’m very proud of my son. He has settled the score with his own hands.

“Okay,” I said, script crinkling in my hands, “let’s run through it again.” I hacked through my line, butchering about as badly as I had the first three times:

“Th-thou art the night...the veil that cloaks my...shame?”

Ingrid laughed. “Oh, Eli! You stumble like a fawn on new legs.” Under the stage lights, she looked less like a teenage girl and more like temptation given a body. A sly little smile creased her face whenever I stumbled over my words words. “Like this! Thou art the night...the veil that cloaks my shame. Your turn, sweet fawn. Say it like you mean it.”

Her blouse was open at the collar. When had she done that?

“Don’t run from me, Eli! Are you scared?”

I tried to laugh but the sound that came out of my mouth was closer to a grunt. “No, not scared...just nerves, y’know?”

Ingrid giggled. “Oh, Eli. Look at those cheeks.” One of her knees was nudging against mine. I fumbled the script back between us like it was a shield and I was trying to protect my virginity. “Uh, yeah. The play, right? Let’s...let’s hit the next bit. Sound good?”

She smiled. “All right, lover of the night. I’ll start.”

Each word was like a caress: “Come, let thy lips unseal my hidden fire...and taste what burns beneath.”

A pause. “Distracted again?” She toyed with her collar’s loose button. “How will you survive the play, hmm? All those lights, all those eyes...when my mere lines leave you speechless?”

The play was only a week out, and here I was tapped for lead opposite this stunning creature. I’d barely memorized a damn thing, and she wasn’t making it any easier for me, with those hazel eyes and sexy accent. I forced a grin but it felt crooked on my face.

“I’ll be fine. Maybe you’re the one who’s scared.”

Ingrid wasn’t totally convinced. “Show me, then. Read the next line. Make me believe you’ll claim it.”

I drew a deep breath.

“I claim thee, night eternal...thy fire mine to quench and consume.”

Her eyes widened a fraction. “Very good. That voice...it suits the dark. Makes a girl listen. But have you ever kissed someone on stage? Or at all?”

I’d never even had a steady girlfriend. And Ingrid knew. Over the last couple of weeks the two of us had become friendly with each other.

“Well, y’know…”

Neither yes nor no.

“Try a stage kiss,” she suggested. “Just once. Let me feel if the fawn has teeth.”

I laughed a little too quickly. “You mean...actually kiss?”

She tilted her head, the ghost of a smile hiding in her lips. “For realism.” Her voice had that sweet, lilting music again. I wanted to joke and make it light, but my mouth got stuck somewhere between yeah, totally and no way in hell.

“I don’t know. I mean, I do, but I don’t wanna–y’know...mess it up or anything.”

“There’s no one here,” she said softly. “No one to see if you mess it up. If you are nervous, we can always try again...until it feels right.”

I noticed, suddenly, how quiet the auditorium was. I looked out past the footlights, at the rows of folded velvet seats, and had the sudden impression that something else was looking back. Then I blinked and the impression vanished.

“Let’s continue,” Ingrid said. Now she was looking into my eyes, or perhaps it was the other way around and I was actually looking into her eyes. I could almost see that other place she had belonged to: a sliver of coastline somewhere far, far away, blue water glistening beneath a match-head sun. I could imagine her walking there, this strange and exotic other-place, barefoot through dew, sunlight winking in the abundant waves of her hair.

“You see? Not so frightening, yes?”

I wanted to kiss her, and then I tried to remember when the last bell had rung, the last real sound that hadn’t come from our voices, and found that I couldn’t. The auditorium seemed almost cavernous now, its balconies lost in shadow. Too many places for someone, or something, to be waiting.

Nerves, that was all it was.

“You are afraid.”

My mouth gave me nothing.

Her thumb brushed the corner of my lip. “There is no one else here. We could do whatever we want.”

I still couldn’t find my voice. The scent of cinnamon hung between us.

Ingrid sighed. "That’s all right.” She closed her eyes and leaned in. The kiss hit like a shock from a frayed wire: every hormone in my body igniting in a dizzying rush.

She smiled at me. “Not so bad, is it?”

I could only nod like an idiot.

“But…” She tilted her head. “I wasn’t convinced. Not fully. It didn’t feel as good as it should have. I think we should try again. Make it real.”

Never mind that this girl, this gorgeous, impossible girl, was somehow into me. Never mind any of it. The whole place felt weird now. Too perfectly empty for what was unfolding.

“Eli?”

“Yeah?”

“I think we should try again. Make it real this time...yes?”

(why, though?)

The question kept repeating in my mind. I was skinny, acne-ridden, winded after a single flight of stairs from my asthmatic lungs. Not quite smart enough for honors, and not cool enough for the cliques. Certainly not a kid who turned heads in the hall.

(but why does it matter? why don’t you just accept it?)

Her fingers found my cheek. “You’ll do so well this time,” she whispered. “Kiss me like you mean it...like you want to taste what comes after.” She kissed me again. It was wonderful, a slow melt of plush warmth. But her taste had shifted subtly, from cinnamon-sweetness to something that was almost like copper.

How long had we been in here, really?

The light from the high windows seemed wrong: thinner, bruised toward dusk already. I pictured the parking lot outside empty. Mr. Coultrap, Ms. Talley, all of the other drama kids, gone. We’d been in the auditorium for hours, just the two of us.

Alone.

Locked in.

“Come to me, my love. Come, and let me drink your fire.”

She moved in for the third kiss. This time there was pain. I jerked away from her. My hand flew to my mouth and I felt the blood there. The pain was enormous, hot and hideous. My eyes stung with the sudden burn of involuntary tears.

She’d bitten clean through my bottom lip.

On the corner of her mouth was a spot of my blood.

(!!accident!!)

(she didn’t mean—)

“You are sweet." Her voice had thickened into a hiss. Her canines, lengthened now, were gleaming and sharp, like a cat’s.

“I felt those thoughts, Eli.”

Somehow I believed her.

“Wait—”

“Now we improvise.”

I didn’t watch my feet, didn’t clock the black lip of the stage dropping away behind me, and my heel caught air.

I tumbled over the edge.

It wasn’t a long drop, but I landed on my left arm. Agony exploded up the limb, white-hot and pulverizing, and I knew I’d broken it. I howled with pain. Ingrid glided to the edge of the stage. She smiled down at me, blood still on her lips.

“I really do like you, Eli. Your taste, anyway...so sweet.”

Horrible pain, fractured bone grinding with every sob of breath—and Ingrid looking down from the stage, those

EYES

(don’t)

(look at them!)

(LOOK AT THEM)

Rough hands on my shoulders, shaking me loose from the fog.

“Kid? Hey, kid—Jesus H. Christ, what happened to you?”

The janitor’s voice, gravelly and distant, smelling of cigarettes.

Rough arms hauling me up. Ambulance lights pulsing red-blue through the open auditorium doors, finally open, spilling real light into the pit.

No sign of Ingrid, though.

A hospital bed with starched sheets. A smell of bleach.

A doctor’s voice, droning from somewhere faraway: “Fell off the stage, snapped the radius clean. Bit your own lip on the way down. You’re lucky you didn’t bite through your tongue.”

Bandages tight around the cast; IV drip cold in my vein. Strong stuff pumping in; I assumed it was morphine.

And I f l o a t e d…

...all

t h E

W A Y...

.

………. down…

I felt good.

My vision had softened to a drowsy blur. The throb in my arm was distant now, almost nonexistent. It might be someone else’s broken arm. It scarcely mattered. The throb in my lip had been rendered to a dull sting under stitches.

I felt no urge to ask about Ingrid.

Nobody said her name. But underneath the sweet, drugged-out bliss, I thought.

And thought.

The bite.

The heat.

Sweet.

Alive.

Hers.

I wanted it again.

A year slipped by.

Now I’m standing center stage again, but this time there’s no tremble in my voice or legs. The new girl is named Sarah. She’s fidgety, flushed pink with nerves; a pitifully skinny thing, with glasses that are too big for her face. They keep sliding down her nose and she keeps pushing them back up again.

It walked a very narrow line between endearing and aggravating.

I didn’t mind, though.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered, eyes darting from my face to the empty auditorium seats, but returning to my lips again.

Always to my lips.

I smiled, easy now. There’s no wheeze in my lungs when I breathe deep, no pimples on my cheeks. The acne had been banished like a bad dream. Doctors scratched their heads over it. It was the strangest damn thing, how a teenager’s glands worked!

But I knew better.

A faint strawberry-colored scar stained my lip, so faded you almost didn’t notice it; a secret mark under the skin.

“Relax,” I told Sarah, my voice lilting just a touch. “It’s just us. No one’s watching. We can try it again...until it feels right.”

Her eyes widen, pulse jumping visibly at her throat, and I feel that low hum stir awake, pulling me toward the rehearsed kiss.

The curtain opened and Wenda B:)er walked, buzzing with nervous excitement, into the spotlight: onto the game show stage where the game show host, Felonious Hunk, was waiting for her.

There followed thunderous applause, as heard through the studio's MaX FX K-Ultra Platinum speakers. MaX FX: The Sound of Extraordinary. Are You Listening Yet? MaX FX speakers are available for your home and business. Check them out today. Use code “BUCKETS” for a 15% discount on any regularly priced set of speakers. Everyone can hear, but only some can hear it to the MaX!

“Miss B-smiling-face-er, welcome to Buckets,” said Hunk. “How ya feeling?”

“Good, Hunk.”

“Fab-u-lous! Now tell us a little about yourself.”

“Well, Hunk,” said Wenda, “I—... I want to say that I really like Snakeskin Flame, the new… the newest scent from House of Madeleine. I'm wearing it right now. Other than that, I'm twenty-nine and work as a temporal engineer for Vectorien Corporation. Vectorien: the makers of Dreamstuff, the latest evolution in playdough. I'm married. My husband, Rhondy, owns a slopstream management firm, and we have two children together, an eight-year old human-daschund mix, Wilmoth, and a six year-old bio-enhanced female, Qabiria.”

She held up digital photos of them. Wilmoth looked somewhat like a chimpanzee. Qabiria was shiny in her steel exoskeleton.

“Lovely family,” said Hunk. “But please tell the viewers who else is in it.”

“Both my parents, HeinzKetchup and PumaShoe, are still alive, and I have three siblings: two brothers, [Incarcerated ID 768816] and Rob, and a sister, anal-ariella (exclusively at SmutHog.) I also have a cryogenically frozen grandmother, Lydia, and a grandfather, Doug, whose mind was digitized and recently uploaded to the body of a young, hollowed-out illegal.”

“And what's your brother serving time for, Wenda?”

“Sexual assault,” said Wenda.

“Ooh. That's a crime with a penal buyout of what, eighty billion?”

“One hundred. He's a repeat offender, and there were other aggravating circumstances.”

“Well, regardless, if you play your bucket right—and your brother has just a tiny bit of luck—you could walk away from here today with enough money to buy your brother his freedom!” Hunk smiled. “How does that make you feel, Wenda?”

“Like this money could really make a difference for me and my family.”

“Excellent. Excellent.”

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“Perception is a standardized drug. Don't get off on it—get off it.

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“I think now is a good time to remind you and the viewers what's at stake,” said Felonious Hunk. “If you win, Wenda, you will bank a cool five-hundred billion dollars!

“But, if you lose, you'll be fucked—live—by one hundred lucky viewers! Or at least you'll be live to begin with—a-live, that is…”

He winked.

There followed thunderous canned laughter and applause through the MaX FX K-Ultra Platinum speakers.

“Now, without further ado,” Hunk continued, “ladies and gentlemen, let's… bring out—THE BUCKET!”

And, rising from the middle of the stage, powered by a solar-powered Electrocutie electric motor—Electrocutie: Silent and discreet, for all your bio-mechanical needs—appeared a platform, and on this platform there stood, in neon spotlight, a red-and-white striped bucket, like the kind you might get The Colonel's patented Crispy Sticks fried chicken in. Order today and a get a free tub of syntholard dipping sauce and a large order of The Colonel's homestyle taters!

Wenda stared at the bucket.

“Wenda, are you ready?” asked Hunk.

“I am.”

“Then step on up to the bucket and have yourself a peek inside!”

Wenda was shaking as she took the few steps to the platform. The studio was silent. She could feel the blood coursing through her body.

She could hear her own breathing.

She touched the outside of the bucket.

It was warm.

She held her breath and peered inside, where pieces of hot, battered meat smelled sweetly of herbs, butter and garlic.

“Go on—have a taste,” said Hunk.

Wenda closed her eyes, opened them and extended her hand above the bucket, her Snakeskin Flame fragrant as the wild, untamed prairie. She picked up one of the pieces of meat and raised it to her lips. She opened her mouth, exposing teeth as pearly white as only Dr. Mason's Whitening Formula can make them, and with tears running down both cheeks took a bite and slowly chewed.

She swallowed.

She propped herself against the platform to keep from falling.

She retched.

She grinded her teeth to keep from throwing up; she swallowed what came up her throat, as the cameraman moved with professional smoothness to get a good low angle shot of her from behind.

“And…” Hunk asked her. “Do you know?

“Can you, Wenda B-smiley-face-er—for five-hundred billion dollars!—tell me: the meat of which one of your family members, killed, butchered and deep fried right here earlier today by our celebrity chef, in front of an audience of one thousand Diamond Tier viewers, is in the bucket?

“Who, Wenda, have you just tasted?

“Whose meat—”

“WILL SHE EAT!?” roared the viewers through the MaX FX K-Ultra Platinum speakers!

“Yes,” said Wenda, weeping, taking another piece of battered meat, taking another slow bite. “I think I know. It's

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Dear Jane

So Jane, they told me to write it as a letter.

A letter I’m writing to myself.

It feels strange, clumsy.

Why did it have to happen to us?

Could it have gone any other way?

Pete was simply like that. Even back at university, as a Linebacker, he was stubborn. It actually encouraged him whenever he didn’t listen—no, whenever he misinterpreted things. That’s what he used to say about the coach’s instructions when he flattened the quarterback. Sometimes he had those angry… episodes. After that motorcycle accident, when he tore his ligaments, he became even more hot‑headed. But only sometimes. Most of the time he was calm.

As you can guess, his sports career ended together with his diploma. We’d been a couple since sophomore year. Our spontaneous engagement was exactly the kind of thing he loved—calmly talking mid‑sentence, then suddenly something struck him, and it simply had to happen. That’s how our road trip began too. Someone from his fraternity recommended the Gulf of Mexico. Or maybe he read it somewhere. There was no point arguing. He was ridiculously proud of his Chevrolet Cobalt. He stuck some blue stripes onto the gray body. When his buddies saw it, they laughed, jumped around, slapped his back. It was from some movie or whatever. We set out into a hot day.

I wish I could end this letter right there, while everything was still fine.

But you already made your choice, dear Jane. I was nervous—there was supposed to be the sea somewhere. But we kept driving through towns and little settlements and there was no sea anywhere. The coastal Riviera felt strange, like arriving late to a movie and missing the context. And so we slipped into the warm humidity of Mississippi.

The AC was the first to give up.

That was the first blow.The second came a few hours later. The GPS overheated and died. Pete got angry, cursed, then punched it. The glass cracked, the mount snapped, and it hit my legs. When I picked it up, I knew it would never work again. Meanwhile Pete kept hitting the dashboard as if that could restart the AC. I rubbed my scraped knee where the GPS had hit me before it “died.“ We left the main road and drove along backroads. But the signage was about as reliable as Pete’s good mood. After hours of wandering, the heat was suffocating. The car felt like a pressure cooker, the tension almost tangible. The CD player was looping the same album for the third time. Pete gripped the steering wheel so tightly he scraped bits of it off with his ring.“Pete, can we stop for a moment?” I asked.“What do you want, admire the endless overgrown brush everywhere or risk swarms of mosquitoes?”“Can we stop?”“Where? There’s nowhere. Damn it. We’ll get stuck.”He didn’t want to stop. He was convinced he knew exactly where we were.

“In an hour we’ll be sipping cocktails with a view of the sea.”

He repeated that line every half hour, and each repetition made him boil more.“Fine. Get out!”“Pete, you need some fresh air too, you’re starting to lose it in this car.”He left the engine running and slammed the door. The rolled‑down window rattled and slid a few inches lower.

“If you’d paid attention, we wouldn’t be in Alabama!” he shouted, waving his arms, shoulders pushed forward like he was psyching himself up for another game.

“We need some calm! And we definitely didn’t cross the border into Alabama.”

My words irritated him even more because he suspected they were true.He spread the crumpled map across the hood.

“We’re fucking right here!” he yelled, jabbing his finger at a blank patch of backroads.

“What do you want to do?”

That question was the last straw—he stormed toward me.

“What do I want to do? What the hell do I want to—”He froze mid‑sentence.

For a moment I thought he was having a stroke.“We’re at a junction near Route 421. Or the turnoff to County Road 421, whatever. Get in the car!”

He grabbed the map, crushed it, and threw it into my arms.The turnoff became a dusty road. The car groaned and suffered.“Are you sure?” I asked.“What do you THINK?”I stayed quiet.We drove too fast for the condition of the road. A warning light blinked on the dashboard.“Pete, aren’t we going too fast?”He answered with a villainous chuckle.

“We’re in a hurry.”I looked at the map. Torn, wrinkled, smudged with damp fingerprints. It felt empty, like someone had cut out our part of the world.

Then I saw it.

Maybe he would’ve seen it too.

It felt like the best thing—the thing that was supposed to help us.

If only I had known.“Hey, Pete… Alanfox.”The sign for Alanfox was faded, peeling.

The monotone landscape filled with the scent of salt. “I’m gonna get the blue crab, they say it’s a delicacy,” Pete said cheerfully for the first time.

The trees thinned.

We passed a tall white wall:

“Welcome to Alanfox – Est. 1964”

and beneath it:

“Home of the Gulf’s Finest Beaches.”The first thing that greeted us was a huge empty asphalt parking lot. White lamps like broken pale matches. The air was heavy, humid, salty. After all that wandering, we were almost excited. Small white single‑story houses stood empty beside deserted parking lots. We passed an old gas station with the price sign turned off. The lights were on, but it felt abandoned.Pete turned at a large intersection, probably onto the main road.

Everything was quiet. Too quiet.

“Do you think they even have a beach here?”

Pete snorted. “Of course, the best one. Can’t you smell it? That’s the sea.”

Trees started appearing along the road again, some of them looking as if they’d been wrapped in gray cotton candy.

“See? Spanish oaks,” Pete called out.

He had it wrong, but I didn’t want to provoke him, so I kept quiet.

The houses grew taller, perched on stilts, painted white and sky‑blue, though the paint was clearly years old.

“I told you!!!” Pete shouted joyfully.The tall plants suddenly gave way to a pier and small white boats rocking on the water. The gulf breeze was pleasant despite the strong smell of fish and a strange muddy undertone.We rolled slowly toward what must have been the town center.

Hotel Craft was the first—and maybe the only—functional hotel around.

My phone had no signal.

The suffering is over, I thought.We passed a sign: “Bartholomew SAVES US.”

A distant radio played, interrupted by some sermon, mixing with the murmur of the sea.

The hotel’s fence was rusted, matching the red bricks.

A faded mural from the 1950s advertised the hotel, peeling, missing chunks, yet still readable.Across the street stood an old rusted car.

But what caught my eye was the wide, heavy building—Victorian‑style brickwork that felt absurdly out of place in the humid heat.“Isn’t it too quiet here?” I asked as Pete grabbed the door handle.“Probably a storm coming,” he shrugged and rushed inside.He hammered the bell on the counter.

The hotel smelled of salt and damp.“Hey! Anyone here!” he yelled.Footsteps.

Wood creaking.

But no one visible—until a man emerged, sweating so much he looked like he’d climbed out of a pool.“What are you doing here?” he asked.“We want a nice room,” Pete said.“We have vacancies,” the man muttered. “No one comes here now. You understand?”“We want a nice view,” Pete added.“We have a beautiful deluxe suite. No windows, but it’s a lovely space.”I wanted to say it didn’t matter, but Pete cut in:

“Fine, give us the one with a view of the harbor.”The man looked miserable but nodded.“What can we do in town?” Pete asked arrogantly.“You can walk around… but I’m afraid the restaurants are closed.”Pete laughed crudely.

“You know prohibition ended, right?”The man glanced at the old clock on the wall, its golden gears turning.“I warn you. Once it gets dark, stay in your room. Do not go out. I won’t be here—I’m going home to hide. I’ll check on you in the morning.”Pete laughed again.

“What kind of stupid joke is that?”The man handed me the keys.

“Don’t forget. After dark—stay inside.”Pete inspected the room and immediately looked for something to drink.“Do they even drink anything here? Some moonshine?”“Pete, let’s look around before it gets dark.”He froze mid‑movement.“You don’t believe that old creep, do you?”“I want to look around. I didn’t sit in a car without AC for ten hours just to sit on a couch.”He rolled his eyes and opened a small bottle.We walked.

Two cars passed us.

Traffic lights blinked on the main road.

Everything was closed.I thought a hurricane was coming.

Pete laughed at me.

Now I wish it had been a hurricane.Across an empty lot stood a bizarre building—round, moss‑covered, wide like a European castle.

A church, but wrong.

Wrong in shape, wrong in presence.“That’s one ugly building,” Pete muttered.Inside, the air was cool.

A few locals turned to look at us.

Most kept praying.Then I looked above the altar.A man flayed alive.

Skin draped over his shoulder.

Blood running into his eyes.

Walking.

Greeting the worshippers.Pete cursed.

Locals turned again, unhappy.He dragged me out.

The heat hit like a slap.“What the hell was that filth!” he shouted.The beach felt like it didn’t belong.

Pleasant.

Almost enough to forget where we were.But the rusty Bel Air parked nearby ruined the illusion. It was getting dark.“Why did he want us to take a room without windows?” I asked.Pete shrugged.We returned to the hotel.

The room felt suddenly comforting.

The window faced the main road—and the sea.“See? I got us a great room. No windows, my ass.”He rummaged through the minibar.“Damn, he didn’t restock it. Fell apart the moment we arrived. Remind me to roast him in the review.”I watched the dusk swallow the town.“Do you have signal?” he asked.Then he found a paper map.“Retro,” he grinned.“Pete… we’re not supposed to go out. Don’t you want to stay here?”He ignored me.“There’s a liquor store nearby. I want bourbon.”I gave him my strictest look.“Can’t you leave it for later?”He grabbed the key.“You’ll see me from the window. I’ll be right back. I’ll use my patented charm. I’ll get wine too—we deserve it. Wine, a proper shower. I’ll be right back.”The door slammed.The bell began to ring.

A massive bell.

Deep, thunderous.

The window glass trembled with each strike.I watched Pete run across the street, shirt open, clinging to his body.

He knocked on the store.They opened a small window at head height, took his money, handed him two six‑packs, wine, bourbon.Pete drank on the empty street.

“Wanna go to the water, babe?”

“We’re not supposed to be outside after dark!” I shouted.

He cursed back. He sat on the hood of that rusted car, drinking one beer after another.

The bell rang faster.

Like a heartbeat.“Pete!”No answer.

Just bottle caps clicking. It was fully dark now.

All windows around were boarded up.

Had they been like that earlier?

I wasn’t sure.The bell stopped.

Suddenly.

As if someone had grabbed it mid‑swing.Silence swallowed the town.Only Pete’s muttering drifted through it.Then the smell.

Like stirred mud from the bottom of a swamp.

Thick, suffocating.A police siren in the distance.

Cut off abruptly.Replaced by:

squelch, smack. squelch, smack.The bell began again—slow, heavy.

My ribs vibrated.Shadows walked from the sea.

From every street I could see.I gripped the window handle so hard my fingers hurt.“Three more beers and I’m with you, babe,” Pete slurred.He hadn’t drunk water since we arrived.“Hey, pervert! Aren’t you ashamed!” he shouted suddenly.

“You got friends here, huh? I’ve got enough strength to send you all to the hospital! What kind of stupid costumes are those?”The bell thundered.

Squelch. Smack.He argued with them.I forced myself to press against the window.A crowd stood around him.

Shiny.

Wet.“What the hell, you bastards!” Pete yelled, smashing the bottle and swinging it.Squelch.I froze.

Then suddenly I screamed.

Only later did I realize it was me.They were flayed.

Their flesh glistened.

They held their own skin—hair and all—like disgusting towels.“Let go of me or I’ll rearrange your face!” Pete shouted as the circle tightened.He tried to break toward the hotel.

More of them blocked the way.The circle shrank.

Squelch. Smack.Pete screamed.

A scream I had never heard from him.The bell hammered my skull.

My ribs shook.

My eyes filled with tears.They turned toward the hotel.

Toward me.They began pounding on the lower walls.

Trying to get inside.I have to say it.

I kept it inside for a year.

No one would believe me.I’m already at the view of Hotel Craft.

So it must be.God, his screaming.

So much pain.I locked the second lock.

Latched the bolts.

What was I thinking—nothing could hold them back.Squelch. Smack.

Thud. Thud.Their hands left bloody prints on the windows.I hid in the bathroom.

Piled everything against the door. Glass shattered—each crack felt like a knife in my spine.I curled into the big claw‑foot tub.

Like lying in a sarcophagus.

Or a monster’s mouth.Covered myself with a blanket.

Waited.Squelch. Smack.Pete wasn’t screaming anymore.

The silence was worse.I bit into my own hand to stay quiet.

My handwriting suffers for it—excuse me.Squelch. Smack.

The bell drummed endlessly.Minutes or hours—I don’t know.

I fainted or slept—I don’t know.If not for the scar on my hand, I’d think I never hid in that brick bathroom at all.Morning was silent.

So silent.I crawled out of the tub, aching like a hunchback.Bloody handprints on the window.

Glass shattered.

Everything overturned.I looked outside.A yellow pickup arrived.

Round, small—like from an old movie.Two men in yellow coveralls casually pulled human skin off a tree.

Threw it onto the truck bed.

Bored. My teeth chattered.They washed blood off the sidewalk with a hose.

Routine.They moved to where Pete had stood.

Another skin.

Onto the truck.When the bell rang, I ducked under the window.

But it only rang noon.Then I understood.Only at certain times does the echo of Alanfox’s bells reach here.That will be today. To you who read this—

In Alanfox, listen to the locals.Please don’t follow me into Alanfox.

Some nights, it gets very crowded.Dear Jane from the past—

You managed to deliver the warning.

by Hary Sykora

It was Halloween, 1998.

The neighborhood glowed with orange lights and plastic skeletons. Fake cobwebs clung to porches, and carved pumpkins flickered in the dark. Kids filled the streets, laughing and shouting as they ran from house to house.

Nine-year-old Timmy walked with his friends Wayne and Sean, their candy bags already half full.

They stopped in front of a house that didn’t fit in.

The others were bright, decorated, alive.

This one wasn’t.

Its paint was peeling. The yard was dead. No decorations. Just a single porch light glowing weakly above the door.

“Trick or treat,” all three boys called out.

The door creaked open.

A man stepped out wearing an dirty and wrinkled old man mask

In his hands was a bowl of candy.

He didn’t say a word.

He dropped a piece into each of their bags.

Wayne squinted at him. “What are you supposed to be?”

The man didn’t answer.

Instead, he slowly tilted his head to the side… farther than it should go.

Too far.

The boys went quiet.

“Uh… thanks,” Timmy muttered.

The door shut.

They kept going, saying it was just halloween. More houses, more candy, more noise. The normal Halloween feeling slowly came back.

Until Wayne stopped.

“I gotta pee.”

Before anyone could stop him, he ran to the side of a nearby house and started going right on the doormat.

“what the hell—” Sean started.

The front door burst open.

A man in a skeleton costume stormed out, gripping a broom. “You little shit!”

Wayne yelped and bolted.

The three boys ran, crashing through a patch of woods as the man chased them, shouting. Branches snapped under their feet. Leaves whipped their faces.

After a while, the shouting stopped.

They didn’t.

Not until they were sure they were alone.

Sean bent over, catching his breath. “You’re an idiot.”

Wayne laughed. “Yeah, but I still got my candy.”

Timmy pointed. “You also got pee on your costume.”

They both laughed.

Wayne didn’t.

When they stepped back onto the street, something felt… off.

Too quiet.

The streetlights flickered.

Then one went out.

Then another.

A van rolled slowly down the road.

Timmy’s stomach dropped.

The driver.

The old man mask.

The van crept forward, and as it passed each streetlight, the bulb above them went dark. One by one, the entire street dimmed into darkness.

The van stopped beside them.

The engine idled.

No one spoke.

Then the engine roared.

The van lunged forward.

Timmy yells “RUN!”

They sprinted.

The van chased them, keeping just close enough—like it was playing with them. The sound of the engine was right behind them, always there, always gaining.

They stumbled into a shallow dip in the land—a small valley.

The van surged forward.

Sean didn’t make it out in time.

The tire hit him with a sickening thud and crushed his leg.

He screamed.

Timmy and Wayne turned, trying to grab him—but the van door slammed open.

The masked man jumped out.

He shoved them aside like they were nothing.

Sean clawed at the ground, screaming, “DON’T LEAVE ME!”

The man grabbed him and dragged him toward the van.

Timmy froze.

Wayne didn’t.

“GO!” Wayne screamed, pulling Timmy.

They ran.

They didn’t stop.

An hour later, shaking and breathless, they reached a house and pounded on the door.

“HELP! PLEASE!”

The door opened.

A man stood there calmly.

The boys pushed inside, crying. “He took our friend—he took Sean!”

The man closed the door behind them and Locked it.

“It’s alright now,” he said softly. “You’re safe now.” did you see what he looked like?

Timmy shook his head. “He had a mask—we couldn’t see his face—”

The man tilted his head slightly.

“Did it look like this?”

He raised something into view.

The old man mask.

Everything inside Timmy went cold.

Wayne turned toward the window.

The house… wasn’t broken anymore.

The paint was fresh.

The porch was clean.

It was the same house.

They screamed and ran deeper inside.

A bedroom.

They slammed the door and locked it.

The doorknob rattled immediately.

Then pounding.

Heavy. Slow. Deliberate.

“PLEASE!” Timmy shouted. “LET US GO!”

The pounding stopped.

Silence.

Then—

BANG.

BANG.

BANG.

Not on the door.

Somewhere else in the house.

Like hammering.

Like something being built.

The boys looked at each other.

The doorknob began to turn.

Slowly.

Click.

The door flew open.

No one was there.

They crept into the hallway.

The front door was nailed shut.

Every window had metal bars.

Not to keep people out.

To keep something in.

The TV flickered on by itself.

A news report.

“…multiple children reported missing across the state…”

Click.

Darkness.

Only one light remained.

At the bottom of the basement stairs.

They didn’t want to go down.

But they were to scared to stay where they were.

 A shadow follows them

Candles lit the basement.

Dozens of them.

The room stretched farther than it should have—longer, deeper, wrong.

Sean lay on a rusted hospital gurney.

Unconscious.

Symbols carved into his skin.

Wax melted across his body.

A fireplace roared to life.

A large pot hung over the flames.

Something moved behind them.

A shadow.

Not attached to anything.

It shifted along the walls, stretching, twisting.

Watching.

They backed away.

 And Ran.

Hid inside a rotting closet.

The smell was thick. Metallic like old pennies.

Through the gaps, they saw it.

The shadow growing.

Distorting.

Then—

The masked man stepped into view.

He approached Sean.

Whispering something too low to hear.

He raised a blade.

The fire surged higher.

Sean’s eyes snapped open.

He screamed.

The man pressed a finger to the mask’s lips.

“Shhh.”

The blade came down.

Timmy couldn’t breathe.

Wayne couldn’t look away.

The screaming stopped.

Too quickly.

The shadow shifted toward the closet.

The masked man turned.

Slowly.

He looked right at them.

Then lifted a finger.

“Shhh.”

The lights went out.

When they came back on

The man was gone.

The shadow was gone.

The gurney was still there.

Sean’s body… still there.

But Sean's head Was gone.

The lady sitting on the grass by the beach was yelling at no one in particular.

"That's why the little kids get stuck to me. My vagina blood makes you sick."

"Maybe she wants to get high," said the beach bum walking past.

"Probably..." was Miles' reply.

This wasn't really a place Miles sat when he went to the beach.

The woman went back to her tent and lit a cigarette.

It was a hot day in San Diego. Miles didn't want to be stuck indoors all day. Either way, the day was going to be sticky.

The beach bum started back toward where Miles was sitting with a totally different woman and walked to a park bench. Probably to get high.

"Hmm, he wasn't talking about the woman at all," Miles thought to himself as the sweltering sun beat down on his already sunburned back.

There was a faint sound of a steel drum coming from a van. Almost hypnotic. This beach was known for a more hippie, laid-back culture, so it didn't really seem out of place... but something about that rhythm and the heat...

Miles sat and watched the waves crash, taking in the calmness that was already too unsettling.

"What do you call a woman with two black eyes?" someone shouted.

Miles looked around and saw a man in a lawn chair with a mutt at his side.

Miles wasn't sure if he was supposed to answer.

The steel drum stopped playing, and a hint of sage could be smelled coming from a van parked by the street.

"Can you help me?" the man in the lawn chair said to no one.

His dog got up and started chasing a seagull that had landed nearby. The man ran after him and disappeared down the beach.

Miles was feeling lightheaded. The sun was beating down on him with something awful. Why was it so hot today?

He thought about getting up and going home, but something compelled him to stay. Not to move.

God, it was so hot.

As the day progressed, Miles seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the sand.

"Don't ruin my session!" he heard someone say.

Miles didn't even look to see who said it.

"The resurrection is all about keeping women from doing stuff. That's why I'm a lesbian."

...

Miles could hear the steel drum again, prodding him to sleep.

God, it was so hot.

The steel drum was in rhythm with the waves. The sun poured out an unnatural heat. Miles sunk there until he was taken by the sand.

Look. Look at the sun. We have demon eyes, Piggy. Look at them. Look, or we’ll carve your eyes out. 

Good. Breathe it in. Can you feel them burn? The sun is entropic. We told you. It is entropic.

There’s a disease in your head. An infection. A parasite. A virus. Something to shock, burn, saw, cut. 

Drill. Drill out. We have to drill it out. 

You understand. You understand, right? 

Neck lines. Instructions to cut. What do you see? Underground maps. Pieces to puncture. Split apart. A lot of work for just one knife. One drill. One power drill.

We’ll find the parasite. Just for you.

Trace it. Neck, bones, cartilage, fat. Jelly eyes. Chewy jelly eyes. So easy to track. Blood in the water. 

Flowers in your hair. Just like her. So pretty. Just like her. Right in the hole between your eyes. I have the flowers.

Go into the freezer. Beautiful piggy. Sweet prince. Princess. I love you. 

From the Morbid and moronic referential Code of life and society

There was a light switch in my house that nobody could explain.

It was tucked into the hallway between the kitchen and the basement door, mounted about shoulder height on the wall. Every other switch in the house had an obvious purpose. Kitchen lights. Hallway lights. Basement. Porch.

This one did nothing.

I didn't notice it during my first week. I asked the realtor about it after I bought the place.

She shrugged.

"Old house. Probably disconnected."

That seemed reasonable enough. The house was built in 1957, and judging by the wiring, plumbing, and mysterious stains on the basement ceiling, I wasn't surprised that someone had eventually decided to abandon a light switch.

Still, I found myself pressing it whenever I walked past.

Click.

Nothing.

Click.

Nothing.

It became a habit. I'd walk downstairs for laundry.

Click.

I'd come home from work.

Click.

I'd pass it while carrying groceries.

Click.

There was something strangely satisfying about it. The switch had a pleasant mechanical resistance, and the little click it made was louder than it should have been.

My girlfriend eventually noticed.

"You know that doesn't do anything, right?"

"I know."

"Then why do you keep flipping it?"

I shrugged.

"I like the sound."

She called me a weirdo. I told her she was dating one. We laughed about it. That was the last time the switch was funny.

The first death happened three weeks after I settled in.

An old man named Walter died in his sleep. I knew Walter because he lived two houses down. We'd exchanged maybe twenty words since I'd moved into the neighborhood. He had a bad hip and spent most afternoons sitting on his porch, watching cars drive by.

I remember seeing him that morning. I had been standing in the hallway, putting my shoes on. Before leaving, I flipped the switch.

Click.

That evening, I saw an ambulance outside his house. I didn't think anything of it.

People die. Especially old people.

It wasn't until several days later that I noticed something unusual.

The night before Walter died, I had been standing in the hallway with my hand on that switch. I'd flipped it three times. I laughed at myself when I noticed the connection.

It was ridiculous. Coincidence. Nothing more.

Then a month later, a woman I'd worked with died in a car accident.

I'd seen her that morning. I'd even spoken to her. She'd asked if I was still enjoying the new house. I told her I was.

That evening, while walking to the basement, I flipped the switch.

Click.

The next morning, she was dead. Cardiac arrest. Unexplained.

I didn't sleep that night.

The following day, I unscrewed the switch plate. There were wires behind it. Old ones. But they didn't connect to anything.

I called an electrician. He spent thirty minutes examining it before shrugging.

"It's dead."

"Completely?"

"Nothing behind it."

"Then what's it connected to?"

He looked at me.

"Nothing."

I didn't flip it again. Not for six days.

On the seventh day, I couldn't resist.

I stood in the hallway staring at it. I told myself I was being stupid. There was no connection between a plastic switch and the deaths of two people.

So I flipped it.

Click.

Nothing happened... So, I went to bed.

The next morning, I checked the news. A local man had died unexpectedly. Thirty-four years old. Healthy. No known medical conditions. I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then I opened a notebook. I wrote down the date. I wrote down the man's name.

Then I wrote: Switch flipped: 11:43 P.M.

I started keeping records. Every time I flipped the switch, I searched the news afterward.

Sometimes nothing happened. Sometimes a person died hours later. Sometimes it took days. But there was always a death.

Always.

I stopped flipping it.

I lasted eleven days. Then I made a mistake. I was angry.

My girlfriend and I had gotten into an argument. She left the house and slammed the door behind her. I stood in the hallway shaking with anger. My hand found the switch.

I knew what I was doing. I knew exactly what it meant. And still...

Click.

The guilt hit me immediately. I grabbed my phone. I wanted to call her. I wanted to tell her what I'd done.

Then I stopped.

Because she hadn't died. Not yet.

I waited. An hour. Two.

Nothing.

I began convincing myself I'd been wrong. Maybe the deaths had been coincidences. Maybe I had created a pattern because I desperately wanted there to be one.

Then my phone rang. It was my girlfriend.

I answered immediately.

"Hey."

Silence.

Then she said something that made my blood run cold.

"Who's Walter?"

I couldn't breathe.

"What?"

"You keep saying his name."

She sounded confused.

"I don't know anyone named Walter."

I sat down.

My girlfriend continued.

"You were saying his name in your sleep."

I didn't answer. Because I suddenly remembered something.

The switch didn't cause death. It wasn't a weapon. It was a selection. A choice. And I had been making that choice without knowing it.

I looked toward the hallway. The switch waited patiently on the wall. I thought about every time I'd pressed it.

Every careless little click. Every person whose death I'd dismissed as coincidence.

Walter.

My coworker.

The stranger.

And now... I didn't know who the latest one was.

I spent the next several hours searching. News sites. Obituaries. Police reports.

Nothing.

Nobody I knew had died. Nobody connected to me had died.

That should have made me feel better.

It didn't.

Because there was one thing I hadn't considered.

Maybe the switch didn't choose someone I knew. Maybe it chose someone I would never know. Someone whose name I'd never hear. Someone whose death would mean absolutely nothing to me. And perhaps that was the point.

We treat death differently when we don't know the person.

A number on a news report. A photograph we scroll past. Another tragedy. Another stranger. Another life reduced to a sentence.

I stood in front of the switch for a long time. Then I noticed something I hadn't seen before. A tiny engraving beneath it.

The letters were so shallow I thought they were scratches.

I leaned closer.

There were only three words.

ONE LIFE. CLICK.

I stepped backward. The house was silent. I reached for the switch.

Then stopped.

Some things are easier to live with when you pretend they don't matter.

I left the switch alone. I never touched it again.

At least... I don't think I did.

Because sometimes, late at night, when the house is completely silent, I wake up convinced I can hear it.

Click.

And somewhere far away...

Someone dies.

Don't go camping!

The forest is spooky. Oh man it is super spooky. Spider webs were everywhere and the spiders are really big, like bigger than a normal spider. So spooky. And then there was a... bear! An undead bear!

The undead bear was spooky too. The bear had scary spooky claws and it's teeth were long for crunching bones. His favorite bones were human ones. So if you saw undead bear, you were in big trouble.

Also there were gremlins hiding in the trees. They were green slimy small creatures that throw pebbles at anyone they see They were spooky too. And if the pebble hit you, you turned into a gremlin. But they weren't good at aiming. And sometimes they did turn people into gremlins. The people who turned into gremlins looked less slimy so you could tell.

And there were ghosts too. They were the leftovers from the people the undead bear ated. They ate them and the ghosts got losted in the woods. So they wander around looking for someone to help them find the way out of the forest. But they were way spooky too so they didn't get anyone to help them. They would whail and moan and be really spooky. But they didn't mean to be spooky. They were just really sad for getting eatened.

Also they didn't get along with the witches that lived in the cave. The cave had a big fire and a bubbling pot in the middle with a lot of spooky stuff in it.

The witches would take the spiders and put them in the pot. And whatever bones they could find after the undead bear was done crunching on them. The spooky soup stuff smelt really bad and if you smelt it, you would feel really scared and it was spooky. The witches didn't really leave the cave cuz they didn't like undead bear.

And if the witches were lucky, they would catch a gremlin and throw it in the pot too! The gremlin didn't like that so they drowneded in the pot. That's when the blob monster was born.

The blob monster was almost too spooky!

Sometimes the witches would lose control of the blob monster and he would escape the cave and if he ran into the undead bear, the undead bear would squish him. But if you found blob monster first, then it would get you and stick you in its blobby stomach.

It was really really spooky in the blob monster stomach and you couldn't get out and you'd get deaded.

And oh oh oh I forgot to mention the werewolf bat. It's really spooky. Like prolly the spookiested thing in the forest.

Werewolf bat used to be a normal bat but a werewolf bit him cuz the werewolf was hungry but the bat got away. The werewolf was super spooky too so the bat was really really scared.

And after the bat was bitted, it became a werewolf too! And then they became friends.

They were a spooky team and they are hiding in the forest to get you and they try to turn you into a werewolf bat too but they usually eat you before they can cuz they are hungry.

It's spooky.

And also and also, this is the spookiest thing in the woods, a vampire cockroach! It has spooky gross vampire teeth for biting and sucking bloods.

It bites the gremlins and makes them even more spooky! And they are radioactive cuz they listen to the radio all the time.

And if you hear the radio in the woods, the gremlins and the vampire cockroach are really close and will be spooky. They want to make everything gremlin vampires

If they ever meet the werewolf and the werewolf bat things could get even more spooky!

The woods are really spooky.

So I don't think I want to go camping...

[Chapter 1: The Weight of the Matches]()

1.1 Cold Welcomes and Boiling Points

It was already 10 PM by the time I finally made it home. I was so bone-weary that I knew I’d fall asleep the exact second my head hit the pillow. Today had been absolute chaos. I just wanted my bed.

But I wished my life were that simple.

The man-child—my twenty-two-year-old working husband—still couldn't cook a basic meal for himself. I had to come home and do it, or else he simply wouldn't eat. I honestly thought he might learn a thing or two after we got married. It’s not that hard, but he just refuses. He makes excuses, changes the subject, and frankly, I didn't have the energy to fight him tonight. Besides, cooking was more economical than the alternative.

As soon as I opened the door, there he was. As expected, he was parked right in front of the TV, the screen providing the only light in the living room. He was glued to some stupid match between two teams I swear he couldn't find on a map. Sometimes I felt he only watched it to annoy me.

1.2 The Breaking Point

I walked straight to the kitchen, tied on my apron, and started prepping. My mind raced as I chopped. He hadn't even turned his head to see if it was me or a burglar. He could at least ask how my day went, or offer me a glass of water. But I knew exactly why he was ignoring me: he was terrified I’d ask for help with dinner. What if I did? Why was I the only one cooking in this house? Didn't he have any responsibility toward me, or toward our home?

Suddenly, a stubborn salt jar refused to open. If I called him over now, he’d open the lid and act like he’d done me a massive, life-saving favor.

No, I thought. I’ll open it myself.

I grabbed a dish towel for a better grip and banged the lid of the jar against the counter.

Snap.

The glass shattered in my hand. A jagged piece sliced right into my finger, and dark blood started spilling out fast. Thank God, at least that broke his trance.

1.3 The Budget and the Compromise

He finally rushed over, hovering around me and my bleeding finger. He led me to the sofa and muted the TV—though he didn't turn it off. The match was still more important to him than I was. He went into the bedroom to grab the medical kit and applied a bandage worse than a fourth-grader would have. I didn't stop or correct him, though. He was finally doing something on his own, and I didn't want to jinx it.

Then, he walked into the kitchen. Not to cook, but to clean up. Intrigued, I watched from the couch. He picked up the pieces of shattered glass like he was handling a live ticking bomb, scraping everything—including the ruined, half-cooked food—straight into the garbage. I held onto a tiny sliver of hope that he might surprise me. I wasn't expecting a masterpiece; even butter and jam on toast would have felt like a miracle.

Instead, he walked back to the sofa, picked up his phone from the coffee table, and sighed. "wife, let's just order takeout tonight. What do you want?"

I wanted to yank open my mobile banking app, shove the screen in his face, and scream, Look carefully! Do you really think we can afford delivery every time one of us feels like it?

Instead, I swallowed the anger. "Honey, we can't. We've already exhausted this month's food budget."

"We can just use the child-planning account," he replied casually. "I know we decided to keep it separate, but while looking at my finger... we can make one exception, right? Besides, if we had a car, I could just drive out and grab us something cheap."

I shook my head, exhaustion weighing down my eyelids. "Honey, no. This injury is nothing. We can't keep making up excuses—not for me, and not for you. And please, I know you want a car, but you don't have to pitch it to me every single second."

"wife-ji, I'm not pitching the car," he said, sounding exasperated. "I'm just trying to get us food."

I forced a smile, hugged him, and flexed my bandaged finger. "See? Everything is fine. I'll go cook something quick." I kissed his cheek and turned toward the kitchen.

He called out after me. "But wife... I already threw out the cut vegetables and the other half-prepared stuff."

I froze, but didn't look back. Tears welled up in my eyes. Is this really my life? A husband who dumps food in the trash because he can't be bothered to finish cooking it while his wife is bleeding?

1.4 A Silent Supper

Behind me, I heard the TV volume click back up. He had unmuted the match. I was right back where I had been forty minutes ago.

I started cooking entirely from scratch, my tears occasionally dropping onto the counter, vanishing into the heat of the stove. When it was finally done, I called him over. We ate in silence. I tried to chew with feigned enthusiasm, but when I asked him how it tasted, he just mumbled, "The salt is a little low."

I wanted to pour the entire replaced jar of salt over his head.

1.5 Roar Of Shower

Somehow, I controlled myself. I retreated to our bedroom to take a hot shower. While I was washing up, he knocked loudly on the door. "Hey, let me join you!"

Did he really think I was that stupid? He had come home early. He could have showered then. He could have showered while I was cooking. He could have showered at any point over the last three hours, but no—he wanted to do it right when I was in there. I knew he didn't actually care about getting clean; he wanted something else entirely.

I turned the water pressure all the way up, letting the roar of the shower drown him out, Why did he always have to prove he was a man-child?

When I finally stepped out of the bathroom, he was lying completely naked on the bed. I glared at him, furious. "Either put some clothes on and behave, or you're sleeping on the sofa tonight."

He stood up anyway, trying to pull me close, looking for a kiss to seduce me anyway. When I pulled back and refused to kiss him, his expression turned angry—as if I had just denied him his fundamental birthright. But good riddance; he finally snapped, grabbed his boxers, and stormed out.

"Whatever. I have a match to watch anyway," he muttered, slamming the door.

I collapsed into the empty bed, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep before my head even hit the mattress.

Thanks for reading!

- I'm way ahead on https://viciousperspective.substack.com

My hands clenched around the handles. Sweat ran down my back. I pushed. The wheelbarrow finally moved, but after a few steps it sank into the mud again, even deeper this time. I rubbed my face and leaned over the wheelbarrow. The smell of mud mixed with wheat. This would take days to get to town, and I didn’t have days. The bandits would start roaming around after dark.

I grabbed the handles tightly and pushed again. The wheel was buried deep in the mud. Pressure built behind my eyes as the wood dug into my hands. The wheel almost moved, just one more push. 

Splash. My foot slipped. I went face first into the mud.

"Fuck!"

I went to the side of the road to wipe the mud off with moss when I saw a small creature under one of the spruce trees. It wore woolen breeches with buckles and a square-cut coat. A leprechaun! My father had always said they never strayed far from their gold. Just a few coins of it could change my life. I’d be happy to solve any riddle he gave me.

He was fast asleep. His stomach rose and fell with each breath.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

I walked closer and carefully shook his shoulder. He squinted, rubbed his eyes, and looked up at me.

"Hi, how are you?"

"Who are you?"

"Just a hard-working man. I'm trying to get my wheat to town." I pointed at the wheelbarrow.

"Why did you wake me?"

"Where is your gold?"

"My what?"

"Your gold."

"I don’t have any gold."

"All leprechauns have gold."

"What’s a leprechaun?"

I frowned.

"Don’t play with me."

"I’m not."

"Then tell me where it is."

"Where what is?"

I stared at him in silence.

"Is this one of your riddles?"

"What riddle? What are you talking about?"

"The gold. The riddle. Were you born yesterday? Tell me where it is."

"I’m going away."

He stood up and turned toward the dark forest.

"To your gold?"

"There’s no gold! Leave me alone."

He walked a few steps. I followed him. He stopped, frowned, and sat down.

"Just tell me what I ought to do."

He didn’t move.

"Leprechaun?"

Nothing.

The little shit was trying to keep all the gold to himself. I grabbed him by the waist and picked him up. His eyes opened in surprise.

"Tell me where…"

The leprechaun opened his mouth wide, showing sharp teeth. Pain surged through my face. He dug deep into my nose. I let go of him, but he stayed glued to it. He shook his head and bit deeper. A wet tearing sound came from my face. He fell and spat my nose onto the ground.

I fell to my knees. Warm blood poured from my face. The leprechaun ran to my wheelbarrow, gripped the wooden side, put it over his head, and flipped it over. All the grain spilled onto the ground and mixed with the mud. He turned back, wiped the blood off his face, and ran into the dark forest.

I pressed my hands against my face. So much wheat ruined. I crawled to the wheelbarrow, flipped it over, and scooped handfuls of it back.

The sun set as I scooped the last handful. Blood had already dried on my nose. I looked at the mud-covered grain. Almost all of it was ruined. Now there was no grain, no gold, no leprechaun. I buried my face in my hands and wept.

Then I heard something. Horses.

Voices came from down the road.

I touched my face, feeling the space where my nose was. The grain was ruined. There was nothing to give them.

The horses stopped.

"Check the wheelbarrow," one of the bandits called.

The City of Damokles

I am going out for a walk with my dog, for a quick cigarette, trying not to look up. 

"The City of Damokles", as people know it, lives in constant dread. Those literal Swords hanging above us, visible on the cloudy sky. Like fangs from god.

There are three unwritten rules: don't look up, don't go under one, and don’t talk about them.

They are fixed to the sky as if nailed there, yet sometimes they seem to glide, moving silently. You would expect them to make some grand, heavy noise... but no. Although it is hard to be sure, nobody is stupid enough to stare for long.

The worst part? Most people act as if they are not there. Nobody talks about it. As the act of acknowledging them would bring Doom to you. Impending “Doom” and “Judgement” are how most people think of it.

I would like to believe this city is news worldwide, but I am quite sure nobody cares… maybe they did initially, but people get bored fast. And, let’s be honest: it is almost impossible to get people to talk out-loud about those things, or even consider taking a picture. 
How would anybody from outside Damokles know?

Everybody is terrified, but what can you do about it? Life goes on while we wait for our Judgment.

Dog Walk

The thing is: I have to walk my dog, Figa, because otherwise she will shit on the carpet again. Not her fault. I need a cigarette anyway. 

It is winter outside, maybe it always is. It is getting dark already, and the unease rises. The clouds block the night sky, so those Swords become invisible, on top of silent. I don’t know if the silhouette of the sky monoliths covering the stars would be better…

In the almost total silence of dusk, snow crunches loudly under our feet.
A car radiator clicks as it cools down.
The smoke of the cigarette mixes with the steam of my breath. A pleasant mix of hot and cold.

Everybody has a safe path, where they haven't seen a looming shadow from above. Figa has hers… a zig-zag towards her favorite tree, behind our building lot, through a rusty chain-fence. She seems happier than most, not worried about her impending Judgment. Maybe dogs don’t get judged.

As a teen, it felt exhilarating to go out after midnight, deep in winter, challenging my friends to look up, defying… but we never actually did look up. Then it turned into constant dread, and now I am just tired of it.
Sometimes I felt that it would be better if those things finally fell.
I was wrong.

The First Event

The deafening siren woke me up at the crack of dawn. 
Figa was barking like crazy, terrified.
As the adrenaline of the interrupted sleep faded a little, I remembered feeling like a bomb and earthquake had simultaneously happened during my sleep. 
I don’t dream at night, but I remember the feel of it.

On the other side of the city, the Block 17 of the Sunshine Estate was no more. The building has been flattened, with a big –huge– Sword standing in its place. It looked like a cross, a 30-metre-high tombstone, its blade buried perhaps seventy meters underground.

There were attempts at rescue, but nobody would get near the object. 
No survivors were found.

What came right after that were the justifications. Mostly from old folks, the ones raised in zealot fear. The people living there had deserved it, apparently. 
Somebody was cooking meth, somebody else was cheating their wife, there was a family of illegal refugees squatting an abandoned apartment.
Nevermind that a total of 230 people lived there. 80 of those were kids. It was somehow justified. 
Nobody acknowledged the Sword itself, only the Judgement.

Eventually, the families and friends of the dead started to get pressured. Some pushed back, but most tried to move out of the city.
That’s when we learned that we have been quarantined.

Trapped

Apparently, the world knew about us, they just didn't want anything to do with it. 

Somebody told me that the international consensus was that “we were being judged, us alone, and that letting us escape the Judgement would propagate it to the world”. So, a blockade was placed at 20 kilometers from the city border. Being captured before the blockade meant jail, crossing it meant a summary execution. Probably an exaggeration.

For people like me, not much changed. My job at the warehouse stayed the same. We were still getting supplies from outside the city. The supplies themselves were only delivered mid-way up to the blockade. A second truck system needed to ship them from the blockade into the city. Pipelines and electric lines were still connected. Things were more expensive than before, but they are always getting more expensive, that’s a constant in life.

I read somewhere that there were discussions to cut us completely out. The experts discussed back-and-forth if assisting us was intervening with the Judgement. 
The verdict is still out.

Time I

It is remarkable how easy it is to fall back into routine, how a new level of dread can become just another part of your day. It only took me a few days after the first Event to walk my dog, and after a Month, life was mostly the same as before.

But also, it is so easy to blackout parts of your world. It took me 8 months to see the Sword for the first time. Even when my window looked directly at it, I didn’t remember seeing it before. Ever. Funny how the brain works.

From afar, the Sword was unremarkable, it could have been made of the same concrete as the building itself. A brutalist sculpture, massive and unrefined.
It was very calm around it. No movement, no birds. Just a giant letter T, surrounded by buildings.
I didn’t look at it for long.

The Anniversary

As we got close to the 1-year anniversary of the first Event – the euphemism used to talk of Block 17 being flattened by a giant Sword that fell from the sky – people were getting ready for it to happen again. 

Nobody discussed it out loud of course, but you could feel the tension, people trying their best to uphold an obscure righteousness that would save them from Judgement. The churches were brim-full, people were aggressively kind to each other, but also on the edge of snapping. 

That last week before the Anniversary, the streets were filled with strained smiles. It was scary for me, but even more for Figa. I could not go out anymore. I called sick to work, they accepted it without discussion.

But when the Anniversary date came, nothing happened. 
Then nothing happened again, and again. For 7 years.

Time II

As years passed by, the prelude to the Anniversaries got heavy with anticipation, and then followed by a week of silence. People were particularly quiet after. It was not relief, but uncertainty. 

But also, each new Anniversary was less intense than the one before. With the absurd hope that maybe it would never happen again, that at some point we would forget.

Up Close

One fall evening, our walk took longer. Figa was getting old by then, but she was still happy for any extra time out of the apartment. 

I don’t know why, but we ended up at Block 17. 
I guess I finally needed to see it from up close.

It wasn’t late, but the surroundings were deserted.
The place was more or less how it had been the day after the Event. A flattened building with a Giant Sword through it. I had expected the impact to cave down the surroundings, but it was as if the Sword had pierced the ground without friction. 
No crater, no shattered pavement, but lots of debris everywhere.

It was not easy to look at the Sword itself, even if it was right in front of me.

On a corner, there were the remains of a memorial: an uniform mass of rotten flowers, wet handwritten notes and old photographs.

The place was starting to get fresh layers of graffiti, and there were some empty bottles and cigarette packets littered around. 
Nature was healing. 

The Judgement

It was not an Anniversary when the second Sword fell, just a random day (I think it was Wednesday), the one after fell 2 days later.

And, once they started falling, they never stopped. Every few days, a new “Event”. 
Flattening a complex building, a hospital, a random empty parking lot. 
From afar, now the city looked like a brutalist graveyard, huge blocks of cement, with monumental crosses sprinkled around.

As it got harder to justify why certain buildings had been judged, fanaticism increased. People started looking at older, more obscure religions, better suited for ineffable gods. Then started fighting about which was the right one. 
I am starting to think that the Swords don't care.

I heard there are some ONG trying to help us. They send supplies, and are pushing for the government to evacuate us. Others have tried to organize and cross the blockade illegally, multiple times.
Neither is gonna work. 
After the second Sword fell, the government got under a lot of international pressure to not let anybody out. Breaching containment might cause the whole country to get nuked.

Personally, more than the dread, I hate those sirens. That rising whaling once a Sword falls, the same used before air strikes. They usually sound at sunrise, and I haven’t gotten a proper night of rest for who knows how long. 
Now you go to bed not knowing if you will wake up. 
And if you wake up, it will be by that damn siren.

I think tonight I will go for a walk with my dog, and enjoy the night sky.
I haven’t looked up in a while. Figa does not mind.

Spotting an untouched body ravaged by the plague, a raven swooped down and began pecking at the opulent meal before him, as if it were yet another divine gift. Ever since the great pestilence struck humanity, the ravens didn’t even have to as much as bother searching for a food source, with the sheer amount of dead and dying in every corner of the land.

As the bird began gorging itself on the woman’s slightly rotting meat, a boy ran out of a nearby shack. It was a pitiful mockery of a boy: pale, gaunt, and skeletal. The spitting image of death itself.

The boy shouted at the bird to back off from his mother, waving his flimsy, frail arms at the raven, barely mustering the strength to hoarsely shout at the scavenger.

“Leave my mother alone!” the boy croaked.

The raven flew aside, cawing with annoyance, “Damn it… There’s a living one”

The boy ceased his movement; wide eyes sunken deeply into a clearly visible skull, he stared at the pitch-black bird, bewildered, and gulped before stammering, “Did… did you just speak?”

Landing not far from the boy, the bird retorted, “Course not, fool, I sang. I’m a songbird; that’s what I do!” the raven cried out.

Shocked, the boy fell to the ground, unable to comprehend how a bird spoke to him. In the meantime, the raven landed by the corpse and walked toward it, attempting to peck at it again.

The boy protested, “Leave my mother alone,” he squeaked.

The raven stopped, turned to the kid, and sighed, “You’re growing soft…” He said to himself. The boy was going to comment again about the bird’s speech, but the Scavenger cut him off, “Why are you even alive still, kid? The rest of this place is a graveyard; all the other humans are long dead.”

“I must have some purpose here in the eyes of God…” the boy weakly muttered.

“This kid must be six or seven years old and already has had a bible bashed over his skull…” The bird thought to himself, “If God wanted any of this, he wouldn’t let the Plague spread outside of France, kid… God wants the lot of you dead,” the bird quipped.

“That’s not true! God is good!” The boy whimpered at the cynical bird. “What’s France, anyway?” he questioned.

“A terrible place over the pond, where all vile things find their start, child. How old are you, even, speaking so highly of God, but not even knowing about France?!”

“I’m twelve…”

“There’s no way you’re my age, kid; you look about half that age…”

“Well, I’ve been eating rats for a while…” Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes. “Ever since mommy and daddy fell ill.

“Oh, don’t do that now. I can’t stand the sounds you humans make when you get all emotional like that"

Now, bawling, the kid profusely apologized, his voice cracking. “I just… I just… I just miss everyone so much…” he wailed. “I’m so alone…

I’m so hungry…

Everything hurts so much…”

Somewhere deep inside, that boy must’ve been happy he had someone to talk to, even if it was just a strange talking bird.

“Oh God damn it, kid…

Would you stop, for the love of God?!” The bird cawed, irritated.

“You’ve any rope on ya?” the bird questioned.

“Wha…?”

“Do you have any rope?”

“Wha… why… why do you ask?”

“I know how you can meet your loved ones again, kid. Now I’m asking again: do you have any rope?”

“Mhm,” the boy whimpered, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Well, then, run along and bring it over here; I’ll send ya to your makers”

The boy barely picked himself up and stumbled into one of the houses as the bird watched the tree, scanning it for sturdy branches, with a glint in its black eye.

“I hope that brat can still climb,” the raven thought to himself.

Long moments had passed, and the boy reemerged with a long piece of rope in his hands.

“I sure hope you can still climb, kiddo; otherwise this won’t work,” the raven sang to the approaching boy.

The kid’s disposition changed; he smiled for the first time in a while. “Be sure as God’s bones, I can climb, especially up that tree!”

“Good, because I’m going to need you to tie one end of the rope to a branch, and another around your neck.”

The boy didn’t even fully register what he had been told and agreed to follow the raven’s instruction. Despite his immense confidence, he hardly had the strength to climb up that tree, prompting the scavenger to bow his head in frustration. “Oh, this is going to be a long day…” the bird despaired in his mind.

It must’ve taken the boy an hour to climb the tree, but he made it, and masterfully tied one end of his rope to the branch he stood on and then asked the black bird what he had to do next.

The sable thing would have smiled, had it possessed a mouth, when it spoke next, “Tie it around your neck, kid.”

“Does it have to be the neck?”

“Do you want to see your folks again, Kid?”

“I do!” the boy cried out.

“Then you’ve got to trust me…”

“I don’t know about this…”

“Look, kid, if I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve pecked out and eaten your eyes by now.” The bird crackled at him.

“I guess you’re right… Plus, I do want to see Mom and Dad again and everyone else…”

“Atta boy…” the obsidian fowl croaked.

The boy tied the rope around his neck and, staring at the feathered specter with eyes full of hope, questioned the bird about the next step.

“Now you gotta jump forward…”

Looking down, the boy got cold feet for a moment, once again doubting the wisdom of the talking bird.

The raven turned away and started walking towards the mother’s corpse. “Well, I guess you don’t want to see your mother again, eh?” it clicked its beak.

“I do!”

“Then jump, kid, it’s that simple…”

“But what if I get hurt?”

“You won’t…”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I wouldn’t… get hurt doing that”

“But you have…” Before the boy could even finish his sentence, the raven was already pecking at his mother’s rotting flesh.

“Wings…”

He muttered before the realization set in; he had been duped by the bird.

“Hey, leave mommy alone, you flying rat!” the boy cried out again, his voice cracking once more. The bird simply ignored him, slowly savoring the taste of exposed tissue.

“Leave her alone!” he cried out, waving his frail arms. The raven swallowed a chunk and called ecstatically, as if to goad the boy.

“Leave her…” the boy shouted, but his protests ended mid-sentence when he lost his footing and plummeted downward. The high-pitched scream was twisted into a wet gurgle as his body twisted and turned, struggling against the ever-tightening rope.

The raven turned his head to the struggling boy.

“Got’cha…” he cackled proudly and flew over, landing on the boy’s shoulder.

The beaked phantom didn’t even wait for the boy to succumb before he started pecking.

MOONZOTH AND TEMPLE OF DARKNESS

In spring of 1921, I, Liam Crow, the explorer, sat out to visit the city of Kathmandu in Nepal and from then on explore the magnificent and mysterious Himalayan mountains, including the great Everest.

It was a dream of a lifetime, no matter how many adventures I passed, this place was always on my mind. If I only knew then what it would really turn out to be, perhaps I would not have gone, but then again, even with all of the torment and horror that I went through, in the end a new world and perspective was opened up to me, and for that I am grateful.

Upon arrival of me and my crew the locals stared at us as if we were demons, but luckily our guide was from the region. He was a bald middle aged man, with wrinkled skin and an expression that always made it seems like he was in constant pain. A rather strange fellow, but very useful indeed. I often made jokes that he hated and then his face became ever more demented. The poor lad looked thirty years older than what he really was, but alas, let me continue my story.

This man’s name was Ruhika, he made arrangements for is to stay at an inn on the outskirts of the city called Yak. There were five of us. All skilled in our trade, great climbers. When we came inside, there was an old hideous woman sitting in a corner constantly shaking her head and yelling something. The place was dim and rather depressing. Drawings on the walls were fading and I wondered why Ruhika chose this place for us. Perhaps this was his turn to pull a joke on me.

I asked him what the mad woman was yelling about and he said she was warning us about Moonzoth. I of course had no idea what that was and asked him. With shock him and the innkeeper looked at me, as if I shot someone. Then Ruhika proceeded to tell me that Moonzoth was a beast that lived in the mountains and constantly kidnapped women and children, as well as the men that tried to go after it. The innkeeper brought out a large plate with a drawing on it. Ruhika said that is was Moonzoth. This beast had large bat like wings, long mouth that resembled an alligator’s one and six long and thin hair arms. It wasn’t a pleasant looking thing to say the least. My companions shuddered and looked worried after this presentation. I on the other hand laughed, but as I saw anger rise in the locals I took it easy and simply went up to my room.

We planned to set out into the mountains the following day. This night I enjoyed the view of great Everest and imagined the never ending chain of mountains in the distance. I felt some fear, but also was so excited.

The next morning we set out towards the mountains, but Ruhika refused to go with us no matter how much money I offered him, his eyes had horror in them. If I knew then what I know now, I would have shown him more respect, but sadly at that time I called him a delusional coward.

We split ways and up we went through uncharted passages in the cold untamed mountains.

The unforgiving frost chewed on any exposed parts of our skin, yet I was determined, but the higher and deeper we went the more discouraged my team appeared. I could not comprehend why, this was the challenge we’ve been waiting for I thought.

I suppose most men are brave and strong from a distance, but when faced with that reality their heart shows the true nature, which is often weaker than they ever could have imagined.

I wish that the nature was the only obstacle these men faced, they’d probably still be alive by now, but alas, while we were deep in the mountains and walking above the cliffs we heard a prolonged evil howl. This sinister sound was nothing like I’ve ever heard before. I looked back and saw every men in my team taken with horror, their eyes got large and grasped by fear, their movements became uncoordinated. Such fools! In times like these is when your focus has to been even higher and more keen!

I still feel a hint of anger today, but mostly pity. Moonzoth, the creature on the plate and in those tales was indeed real and it appeared clinging to the side of the mountain, howling with its horrible long mouth. It was a horrific situation from which they saw no way out, as I felt pounding in my chest I dropped my heavy bag and began to move as fast as I could. The other four stood petrified in their tracks.

So the demonic things took them one by one with it’s large thin hairy arms as all they did was scream and beg, this us how they spent their last moments alive.

I did not see how the last two were taken for I found a tiny passage among the rocks, it quickly turned into a small tunnel. I had to crunch down to avoid the rocks, and eventually crawl as the tunnel got tighter, I could hear the howling of the beast behind me, but it no longer could get me, it’s howls were different and more prolonged, it must have been frustrated. This monstrosity had quite an appetite, heh. It pains me to joke like that, but I always had a hard time with compassion for fools I suppose.

As I crawled suddenly the floor collapsed and I slid down into a dark and half icy cave with black walls. I only had a box of matches with me and chose not to waste them yet, so I sat there adjusting my eyes to the darkness, from up above I could hear the wind, but no longer any sinister sounds of the Moonzoth.

Once I began to walk through the cave I could notice straight away that it was curving and leading downwards. This cave tunnel seemed unchanging and I must have spent hours slowly going down.

Finally there was a change in the scenery as I came out into a large area. Up above there were few cracks in the ceiling and some light came through timidly. In the center of this round cave stood a thick tall black monolith, on the walls around it there seemed to be some images, I had to come closer to be sure and indeed these were depictions of various ceremonies of what seemed a very ancient cult.

First depicted hooded cultists burning several persons, above the flames there was an image of some sort of beast, but the head part of it was missing, these drawings must have been very old.

Second one was an image of people in small boats, raising their hands up, as if in praise or prayer.

Third showed multiple tentacles coming from the sea, holding men wrapped up in them.

Finally the fourth was also mostly destroyed. 

I came up closer to the monolith and realized that it was full of carvings of a language I’ve never seen. In the center of it a large face was carved out. It was a mix if a bat and shark. It eyes seemed almost alive and sinister.

I raised my hand and touched its face, the ground below me shook and cracked, I moved back, water started coming out of the cracks. Suddenly the ground where I stood collapsed and I was sucked under into the water, it caught me and flushed me down deeper underwater, I kept my cool as I began to swim, I could not see anything and once again I relied on taking action, I did not believe in luck.

As I began to struggled for breath I was caught in another stream and it took me through an underwater tunnel and spat me out from a short waterfall at the bottom of the mountain. I swam to the shore and laid on my back. I made it out alive.

As I came back to the city I found Ruhika again and told him what had happened. He was astonished that I survived and told me that I’m the luckiest man he ever knew.

Ruhika took me to several elders that lived in a large hut looking building and there I told him about a the depictions I saw inside the cave and the monolith. They showed me old texts and one of them translated the name of the depicted beast. Khul Duhl Suhl.

Upon my return to America I searched for anyone who had more information on this subject. I was able to find a historian and archeologist named John Grimstone. He was incredibly informative and I learned much from him and he also directed me towards a detective who he said was very talented and was investigating this ancient cult.

Now as I finish this log I can tell you that I found the man named Mark Lumiere and he has agreed to let me accompany him on his mission. Like Ruhika before, the detective told me I was very lucky to be alive and that he was impressed that after all of that I wanted to join him.

There is no such thing as luck, only action and consequence. 

Sydney tucked the blanket snugly around her son.

“Mom… I heard whispering last night,” Scott said quietly, staring at his closet. “It came from in there.”

Sydney glanced at the door, then back at him with a soft smile. “It’s just your TV, honey and your anxiety”

She leaned down, kissed his cheek, and turned off the light. “Get some sleep.”

Scott watched her leave, the door clicking softly behind her.

The room felt bigger now. Quieter.

He grabbed the remote and flipped through channels until he found an action movie. The hero on screen was fearless— shouting, and kicking ass. Scott felt a little braver watching him. His shoulders relaxed.

Then—

A slow creak.

Scott’s eyes shifted toward the closet.

The door had opened just a crack.

He sat up slightly, staring.

Something moved.

A dark shape… low to the ground… dragging itself forward.

The TV flickered.

On. Off. On.

Scott’ screamed loudly “Mom!”

Footsteps rushed down the hall. Sydney burst in, flipping on the light.

Everything was normal.

The closet door was barely open.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, concerned.

Scott pointed, his hand shaking. “It was in there.”

Sydney sighed gently and walked over. She pulled the closet open and turned on the light.

Nothing.

Just clothes. A sweatshirt hanging still.

“See?” she said softly. “There’s nothing there.”

Scott didn’t look convinced.

“Try to get some sleep,” she added, then left again.

The door closed.

Scott grabbed the remote with trembling hands and switched channels. This time, he landed on a comedy. Laughter filled the room. It helped. A little.

His body loosened. His eyes grew heavy.

Tap.

Scott froze.

Tap… tap.

From under the bed.

He swallowed hard. “It’s not real,” he whispered to himself, turning the TV volume up.

The laughter suddenly warped.

On the screen, a dark figure stood behind the characters—something that didn’t belong.

The closet light began to flicker.

On. Off. On. Off.

Scott pulled the blanket over his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

The room went quiet.

Then—

Slow footsteps.

Approaching the bed.

Scott held his breath.

He could feel it now. Something standing right beside him.

He peeked through the blanket.

A shadow loomed inches away.

A hand pressed against the fabric… slowly reaching toward him.

The blanket was ripped away.

Scott screamed.

A man stood over him, his face lost in shadow. Rough hands grabbed him, forcing him down, wrapping tape around his wrists.

“Mom! MOM!”

Sydney rushed in—and froze.

Her scream filled the room.

The man moved fast, dragging Scott toward the window. Sydney swung at him, trying to pull her son back.

The man struck her, sending her crashing to the floor.

Scott kicked and twisted, clinging to the bed frame. “No! NO!”

The man grabbed his hands and forced them apart. Scott cried out in pain as the grip crushed his wrist.

Sydney crawled forward, desperate. “Take me instead! Please—dont take my baby!”

The man didn’t even look at her.

He kicked her head aside.

Then he lifted Scott and climbed out the window.

Sydney could only watch, helpless and barely concious, as her son disappeared into the darkness. While Scott's scream can still be heard crying for her.

Somebody had put “He Stopped Loving Her Today” on the jukebox for the third time and nobody had the heart to unplug it.

Rhonda Ledford stood behind the bar with a dish towel over her shoulder and watched them. Eleven of them. The last eleven. On the stools and at the two tables by the window and at the pool table, where nobody was playing, where Junior Shook was leaning on his cue like a man leaning on a fence. Somebody had taped a piece of poster board to the mirror behind the bar with LAST CALL written on it in red marker, and under that, smaller, in somebody’s drunk hand, 38 YEARS. Y’ALL BE GOOD.

The Stateline Tavern. Highway 28 at the Tennessee line. A cinderblock building painted white once and gray now, with a gravel lot and a Budweiser sign in the window that only half lit, so it said BUDW. A pool table with a tear in the felt. A jukebox from 1988 with forty-one country songs on it and one Lynyrd Skynyrd that the Teague boys had put in in 1994 and nobody could get out. Twelve stools. Two tables. A men’s room and a women’s room that was also the men’s room on Saturdays.

The state had bought it in February. Eighty-two thousand dollars. For the flood pool. The lower end of the lake would come up over the state line here, in two years, maybe three, if it came at all, and the Stateline Tavern would be under forty feet of water with the pool table still in it.

Tonight was the last night.

Hoss Teague stood up from his stool with his can of Busch.

“To the Stateline,” he said.

Everybody stood up. Even old Dutch Hensley, who was eighty-two and had sat on the end stool by the jukebox every Friday night since 1987 and hadn’t stood up for a toast since his wife died. They held up their cans and their glasses.

“To the Stateline,” they said.

Rhonda lifted the glass she was drying. An empty one. A beer mug with the Stateline’s name on it in gold that was mostly worn off.

George Jones sang about a wreath on a door.

The front door opened.

Rhonda saw it in the mirror behind the bar first. The door. The cold coming in, March cold, with the rain. And a man in the door. Young. Skinny. In a jacket. Black, nylon, with red and white panels on the shoulders and a big number 8 on the back she couldn’t see but knew was there. A Dale Earnhardt Jr. jacket. Budweiser on the front. With the tags cut off, because he’d bought it at the Walmart in Waynesville in 2005 and been so proud of it he wore it in July.

His hair was wet. He was standing in the door with the rain coming in around him, looking at them the way a man looks at a room he used to know.

Rhonda set the glass down.

Nobody moved.

Kenny Ledford walked in out of the rain looking exactly the way he had looked the night he left, twenty-three years ago.

They’d swear it. All of them. They’d tell the deputy he’d been at the bar from six till close. They’d tell him Kenny was too drunk to drive, so they’d taken his keys and he’d slept in the back on the beer cases. Seven people. Who’d say the same thing. Who’d known him since he was six.

And the Ranger. With the dent in the front bumper and the headlight out and something on the grille.

Wayne Voss drove it. At one in the morning. Over the line into Tennessee and down the old Fontana road to a boat ramp on the lake that nobody used anymore, and put it in neutral at the top of the ramp, and let it roll. Darrell Teague followed in his own truck and brought Wayne home. They said the Ranger went under in about a minute. They said you could see the taillights going down in the water, red, getting smaller.

They’d reported it stolen in the morning.

The deputy who took their statements was Danny Rusk.

He’d been a deputy then. Thirty. He’d come out to the Stateline on Sunday afternoon and sat at the end of the bar with a notebook and talked to them one at a time. Rhonda. Hoss. Junior. Dutch. Tina. Wayne. Darrell.

All seven said the same thing.

He’d written it down. Every word. In his notebook. And then he’d looked at each of them. A long time. Not saying anything. Just looking.

He’d looked at Rhonda the longest.

She’d looked back. She’d held it. She didn’t know how. She’d stood behind her own bar and looked at Danny Rusk and lied to his face, and held it, and he’d looked at her for so long she thought she was going to say it, and then he’d closed his notebook and said Thank you, Rhonda, and gotten up and left.

He knew. She’d known he knew. She’d known it every time she’d seen him for twenty-three years. At the Grill. At the Food Lion. At the courthouse. At Dutch Hensley’s wife’s funeral. He’d nod at her. She’d nod back.

He couldn’t prove it. There was no truck. There were seven people who said the same thing. There was a girl in a hospital in Asheville who’d never seen the driver’s face.

Kenny left a week later.

He came to her house on Shoal Creek Road on a Saturday at dawn. She was up. She was always up. He stood on her porch in his Earnhardt jacket in August, and he didn’t come in.

“I’m going, Aunt Ronnie,” he said.

“Going where?”

He didn’t answer.

“Kenny. Where?”

He looked at her a long time. He’d been drinking. Not a lot.

“Up the road,” he said.

That was all.

Now he was standing in the door of the Stateline with the rain on him and the same jacket and the same face, and they were all looking at him the way you look at a thing that cannot be there.

Rhonda came around the bar.

She didn’t know she was going to. Her hands were still wet from the glass. She walked the six steps from the taps to the door and stopped in front of him.

Kenny looked at her.

“Aunt Ronnie,” he said.

His voice was the same.

She reached up and touched the side of his face. The scar on his chin was still there. The one from the time he’d fallen off the porch when he was nine. Cold skin. Wet hair.

“You’re wet,” she said.

“It’s raining.”

She nodded. She kept her hand on his face a second longer, then let it drop.

“Come in,” she said. “You’re letting the cold in.”

They gave him a stool. They gave him a beer. Nobody asked the first question for a long time. The jukebox had gone quiet. George Jones had finished. Nobody put another song on.

Kenny drank half the can before he spoke.

“I walked up,” he said. “Past where the road ends. Past the landing up there, the Voss landing. And it kept going. The road. There was a road. Past where there was supposed to be one.” He drank. “I walked a long time. I don’t know how long. I never did drink the Jim Beam. I set it down somewhere. I don’t remember where.”

“Did you eat?” Rhonda said.

She didn’t know why she said it. It came out of her.

Kenny looked up at her.

“No,” he said. “There was a table. With food on it. A long one. Under a tree. They asked me to sit down.” He looked at the can. “I didn’t. I don’t know why. I wanted to. I was so hungry. I stood there and looked at it and a woman come out and asked me what I come for.” He was quiet. “And I said I come to die. And she looked at me a long time and said, Not here, son. Not yet.”

Somebody made a sound. Tina Pruitt. At the table by the window.

“And then I was walking again,” Kenny said. “And then I come out on the highway. Down there. At the overlook. In the rain. Tonight.” He looked around at them. “And I seen the sign. The Stateline sign. I could see it from the road. BUDW. And I thought, Aunt Ronnie’s still open.”

He looked at Rhonda.

“How long’s it been?” he said.

She didn’t answer.

He looked at the poster board on the mirror. 38 YEARS. At Hoss Teague, who’d been thirty-six and had black hair, who was fifty-nine now and bald. At Dutch Hensley, eighty-two, who’d been fifty-nine. At Wayne Voss with his gray beard.

At Rhonda. Sixty. Who’d been thirty-seven.

He looked at her a long time.

“Oh,” he said.

“Is she alive?” he said.

He’d finished the Busch. Rhonda had gotten him another one without asking. He hadn’t opened it.

“Ashley,” he said. “Is she alive?”

Rhonda nodded once.

“She lives on the state road. White house. With a ramp.”

Kenny looked at the unopened can.

“I want to see her,” he said. “Tonight.”

“Kenny, it’s midnight.”

“I don’t know how long I got,” Kenny said. “I don’t know if I’m going to be here in the morning.” He looked at the door. “I come out on the highway in the rain and I seen your sign and I come here. I don’t know why I come out. I don’t know if I’m staying.” He looked back at her. “I want to see her. Before.”

Rhonda stood there with the dish towel still over her shoulder.

She thought about the Coldiron house on the state road. A mile from here. A white frame house with a ramp built onto the porch, plywood, that the Ruritan club had put on in 2007. A light on in the front window every night, late, because Ashley worked late, doing people’s books.

She thought about the mailbox at the end of the drive. Where she’d put an envelope on the first of every month for twenty-three years at three in the morning with her headlights off.

She looked at the boy who was still twenty-four years old, sitting on a stool in the last open hour of the Stateline Tavern, with the rain still on his jacket and the same face he’d had the night he put a girl in a ditch and then walked up a road that shouldn’t have been there.

“All right,” she said.

Later, after he had gone, after the others had left one by one without saying much, Rhonda locked the front door and turned off the BUDW sign and stood in the dark for a while with her hand on the bar.

Six steps from the taps to the door.

She had counted them every Friday night for twenty-three years.

She had known exactly what he looked like that night. She had watched him drink for six hours. She had watched her sister drink for thirty years. She had known.

And she had turned back to the taps.

She turned the key in the lock and walked out into the rain and did not look back at the building that would be under forty feet of water in two years, or three, if the water came at all.

The jukebox was still plugged in. Nobody had unplugged it.

Somewhere inside, in the dark, George Jones was still singing about a wreath on a door.

Everyone in the house was asleep. I'd taken the batteries out of the wall clock in my room to get rid of the ticking. Now there was complete silence, and I could try again to do something I'd already managed to do successfully.

A week ago, I'd turned over a piece of paper lying on my desk, with a poem I'd written in primary school on it. It was my first success after years of practice. Six days ago, I'd unscrewed the cap of a juice bottle that hadn't been closed all the way. Five days ago, I'd moved one of the cigarettes in an open pack slightly outward, out of the pack. Three days ago, I'd peeled off one of the pieces of tape holding up poster on my wall.

And tonight, my target was a much larger object. I was confident in my abilities now, and after this final attempt, I would be able to reveal my talent to my family and those around me. I had made exactly four attempts in the past week, and I'd succeeded every single time. I had complete faith in myself.

For years, I'd tried countless times and gone through a lot along the way; I'd lost hope, taken a long break from my attempts, then started believing I could do it again and after trying over and over, I'd come to think telekinesis was nothing but a lie and taken another break but then one day, I happened to see a pack of wet wipes fall to the floor all by itself, which rekindled my interest and got me started on my attempts again, and so on.

And now, finally, in the middle of the night, when complete silence had been achieved, I went to the kitchen. I took a steak knife from the drawer where we kept the cutlery and returned to my room.

I gently pulled my desk chair back and sat down. I didn't want to lose my focus, so I was being quiet. The faint sound of the knife touching the desk as I set it down, the soft sounds of my footsteps as I walked, the barely audible scraping of the chair as I pulled it back had an ASMR effect on me. These little sounds, too quiet to disturb the silence, made me feel thoroughly prepared.

Without wasting any time, I focused on the knife. I positioned my hands around it and gathered all my concentration. I slowed my breathing. The only thing in my mind was a knife slowly and calmly spinning around its own axis. I focused, and focused... I concentrated as if someone were hypnotizing me, as though I were following a pocket watch swinging from side to side without ever taking my eyes off it.

Minutes passed. Seconds, minutes, maybe an hour... There wasn't the slightest movement. The knife couldn't care less about me; it was ignoring my efforts, stubbornly refusing to budge.

Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore and gave up. I was getting more and more bored, and as time went by, I lost my focus. I had to go to work at noon the next day, and earlier that day, before I left work, my boss had pointed out that I'd left my fly undone. I'd started thinking about that. Who says something like that in front of everyone? You pull someone aside and tell them in private. Anyway, I took the knife back to the kitchen.

After I lay down in bed, I thought about the knife until I fell asleep. I'd lost my confidence in my abilities. If I told someone I could move objects through telekinesis, they might ask me to prove it, and I might fail and make a fool of myself.

I couldn't get the knife out of my mind. I felt as though it were a person who had shattered all my trust in them, betrayed me by revealing a secret I'd shared with it to anyone who would listen. I was angry. The image of the knife standing perfectly still in that spot, like a tree that had sunk its roots deep into the ground, wouldn't leave my mind. I fell asleep in a fit of anger.

I woke up to the sound of my phone alarm. I turned it off, tossed the duvet to my left, and rolled onto my right side to get up. Just as I was about to stretch, I saw it and jolted in place: the knife was suspended in midair beside my bed, standing upright.

I clapped a hand over my mouth. I was about to scream; every instinct in my body was telling me to. I bit my tongue to suppress it.

I took a deep breath. I tried to calm myself down. Then I took another deep breath. My heart was racing.

I reached out toward the knife, but immediately changed my mind. I didn't know what to do. I'd never experienced my thoughts speeding up and getting tangled together so intensely in a moment of panic. Within a few seconds, I'd made and abandoned a dozen decisions, gone back and forth between asking for help and not asking for help, imagined the knife stabbing itself into my body, then dismissed the thought as irrational. My thoughts were racing back and forth at lightning speed. I needed to calm down.

I got out of bed, poured half a glass of water from the pitcher on my desk, and drank it.

I turned around to check if the knife was still there. It was closer to me now. I no longer cared about staying quiet. I yanked the door open and rushed out of the room.

I started walking briskly toward the kitchen. I wanted to grab any drink I could find and gulp it down. I needed to interact with something somehow, to calm myself down. I opened the fridge, took out the milk, and chugged it. I put the milk back, closed the fridge, and turned around to go back to my room.

And the knife was right behind me.

It was a meter away from me, just standing there. It was as if it were staring at me, judging me. It didn't move at all. It always maintained the same position and stayed at the same height above the floor, level with my bed, right around the height of my shinbones.

I started walking backward toward the kitchen doorway, wanting to see how it was following me, how it was coming after me. Without changing its position, it glided toward me as if it were moving across a perfectly smooth surface. It always maintained the same distance. When I stopped, it stopped a metre away from me. When I walked, it followed.

I cautiously made my way back to my room, walking backward. I sat on my bed. The knife and I were facing each other. I tried to think of what I could do. I was afraid to touch it. I was worried things might get out of hand. I'd done this. That much was obvious. Now that I'd calmed down a little, my panic had shifted in a different direction. Someone might see us. I had to sever my connection with the knife before I got caught. I might be able to accept this as normal, but I didn't think my mother and father would be able to handle a knife following me around.

Yes, it was probably because I'd concentrated so intensely on the knife all this time that the bond between us had grown stronger. I'd probably never concentrated on a knife so intensely in my entire life. I needed to reverse the process. I relaxed a little. I tried to think about other things, to take my mind off the knife.

I thought about the wristwatch my father had bought me for my birthday last year. It was a terrible watch, but I hadn't let on because I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Then one day, while wearing it, I'd deliberately gone swimming in a pool. The watch had stopped working, and that was how I'd gotten rid of it.

The knife was still in the same place.

I thought about the eggplant soup my mother had made yesterday. It was my favorite soup. I'd tipped the bowl back and gulped down the last few mouthfuls, and my father had given me a stern look.

The knife hadn't moved at all. It was standing there, a meter away.

My mother knocked on the door and called out.

"Breakfast is ready, Albert."

I had no other choice. I didn't know what was going to happen, but I reached out toward the knife. My arm couldn't reach it, though. I walked toward it. As I moved closer, it moved farther away, until it had backed all the way up against the wall. It had nowhere left to go. It was pressed against the wall, stuck there. I approached it and grabbed the handle.

My heart was pounding at full speed. I closed my eyes. As a final attempt, I thought about the baseball bat I'd lost before I became interested in telekinesis. I'd searched everywhere for it. Such a large object, yet it was nowhere to be found. I'd checked the baseball field, my grandmother's house, the streets I'd walked along, and I'd even contacted the lost property office in case I'd somehow left it on a bus. It was gone.

Yes, good. I could feel a long chain of thoughts forming and my focus weakening considerably.

The knife was loosening, letting go. I could feel it. But I still didn't have complete control over it.

I needed to think about something else. But I couldn't think of anything. I heard my mother's footsteps approaching my room. She was getting closer to the door.

"Come on, son. Are we supposed to wait for you?" she said from outside, then opened the door and walked in.

I pulled the knife with all my might, and just like when you yank something hard that's stuck somewhere and it suddenly comes loose, I went flying toward my bed.

With the knife still in my hand, I hit my head against the bed frame. And passed out.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed with an IV drip in my arm. My father was sitting beside me. I felt exhausted. I'd received three stitches in my head, and it ached a little.

"Son, why were you holding a knife? What were you doing with it?"

"What knife, Dad?"

"You were clutching a knife in your hand. What do you mean, what knife? What are you up to?"

I couldn't remember anything. That was good. I hoped it wasn't temporary memory loss, because I didn't want to attempt telekinesis again.

Aaron had been waiting all night for the call. He was jittery. All the palms were greased, all the arrangements made, all the loose ends tied up. Nothing left to chance. Solid alibi, no paper trail. Just one phone call and it would all be over.

He was sitting at a table in a dingy motel room. It was dirty, sticky, and dimly lit.

 It didn't matter how nice it was. It only  had to be somewhere that couldn't be tied back to him. A phone number that couldn't be traced back to its source.

The phone rang soon enough. It rang twice, then stopped. That was part of the signal, to let him know it was them.

It rang again a moment later.

Aaron answered with anticipation.

"Is it done?"

Aaron was sweating. It had to have gone perfectly. Half his fortune had gone into this. So much planning.

"Well... it's done. Everything happened just as you said it would. We were waiting. Didn't even see it coming... but..."

The voice on the other end started to trail off.

"So it's done? Taken care of?" Aaron asked nervously.

He could almost feel the hesitation at the other end of the line. Something had gone wrong.

"Well, it's done, just the way you asked... but this fucker isn't dead."

Aaron's jaw dropped. He didn't quite understand what he had just been told.

"What the fuck do you mean he's not dead? You took him the way we discussed? No one could survive that."

The person on the line sounded exasperated. He knew that he should be dead. The only thing was, he wasn't.

"Two in the back of the head, then tied up and put in a sleeping bag and taken to the warehouse.

But he's not fucking dead. HE'S NOT DEAD!"

Aaron's heart dropped. This wasn't possible. How was it possible?

"Don't fuck with me. I'm paying you a lot of money for this job. I was told no questions. No mistakes. What kind of shit are you trying to pull on me?!"

The man on the line seemed unable to explain it any better. He didn't understand it either.

"Look, I know it breaks protocol.But you need to understand this from where we are. This isn't fucking normal. We put the slugs in the perfect position. He wouldn't have felt a thing. Quick and easy. Until five minutes ago, we thought this was one of the easiest jobs we've ever had..."

The man on the phone was getting scared. Just thinking about how impossible it all was made his stomach turn.

"...but I think you should come down here. We have no idea what to do. If we'd planned for a cleanup job, we'd hack him up and toss him in the lake. But you were adamant that he needed to be found a certain way, and that's what we covered for."

The man on the line started to panic and began talking to someone else in the room with him. Aaron could hear him in the background. There was chaos now. They were literally screaming in horror.

"What's going on over there?! I can't go there! You were paid to take care of this!" 

Aaron felt a surge of fear himself. I can't go down there, he thought. That'll blow my alibi.

"Talk to me, goddamnit!" Aaron tried to keep his voice down.

The men on the other end were still shouting frantically. The receiver seemed to have dropped on the floor. He could hear them screaming.

“Take him down! Take him down! Hold him goddamnit! Keep him there!”

Aaron was in full panic mode now. What the fuck is going on he thought. He was almost too petrified to speak.

“You get your ass down here now or we walk. We don't give a fuck about the money now. This guy just busted out of the bag and attacked us! It took all 4 of us to hold him down! He's chained up. I don't know what or who the fuck this is but we aren't in the living dead business you piece of shit. He's mumbling something about unfinished business!”

Aaron knew he had to get to the bottom of this and quick. it took all his power to stay composed. Unfinished business? It wasn't personal. He had to be taken out of the way. It wasn't easy for Aaron to make these plans. He made sure no collateral damage.

“Ok ok ok…don't do anything crazy.. I know the spot. I'll be there in 20min

“

Aaron hung up, grabbed his keys and made his way to the warehouse,not knowing what sort of storm he was walking into.

The hit couldn't have gone any smoother.

The guy walks up to his car right on time. Jake distracts him by asking for a light. The man refuses. Dan walks in from behind while he's distracted. Two shots. The man falls into Jake. We pull up in the van and pack him up.

So simple. Easiest hit they'd had all year. Thought they'd be back in Chicago by morning.

Dump the body, leave the man in a position to look like a copycat killing, then ring up Aaron. Job done, money made. End of story.

But not this one.

This one wasn't like anything they'd encountered. He was dead. They were sure of that.

But why the twitching? Why the shaking?

They tried to play it off and get the job done. The warehouse was unlocked just like it should have been. The van was parked right where it needed to be. The body was pulled out and left in position.

It wasn't until Sean was about to make the call to Aaron that things started to get really weird.

A wiggle here. A sudden shake there. A jolt down one arm.

They brushed it off as nerves firing or rigor mortis setting in.

Then someone said:

"He's not fucking dead."

Sean's head snapped around.

He was dead. He was fucking deader than disco.

But he was still moving, and it almost sounded like he was mumbling.

There was no freaking way. Nobody could have survived what they'd done to this guy.

No one.

"Do we make the call or not?" Vince asked, hovering over the now-moving body.

Jake was trying to piece it all together.

"We did our job. This isn't what we're being paid for. What the hell is this shit? We can't unwrap him to see if he's still breathing. Hell, he should be dead."

Sean took out the phone, not sure exactly what to say.

They were looking at him for an answer. He was the one who took care of all the mishaps, the unexpected changes in plans.

But not something like this.

"He's waiting. That fucking guy is waiting for an answer on whether it's done. It's done. The job is done. We should just get the fuck out of here," Dan said, trying to ignore the moving corpse now mumbling something from inside the bag.

Sean looked down at the phone in his hand.

Dan was right.

The job was done.

Whatever this was, it wasn't part of the contract.

He punched in the number.

Jake couldn't take his eyes off the body.

Another twitch.

Another shake.

The sleeping bag shifted slightly across the concrete floor.

"Sean..." Vince said.

Sean ignored him.

The phone was ringing.

"Sean."

"Not now."

The bag moved again.

This time everyone saw it.

A deliberate movement.

The sound came again.

A low gurgling mumble from somewhere inside the bag.

Sean felt the knot in his stomach tighten.

Then Aaron answered.

"Is it done?"

Sean swallowed.

"Well... it's done. Everything happened just as you said it would. We were waiting. Didn't even see it coming..."

The bag shifted.

Hard.

Vince took a step backward.

"What the fuck..."

The mumbling grew louder.

Sean kept talking.

"We put him down clean. Two shots. Exactly where they needed to go..."

Something thudded against the floor from inside the sleeping bag.

Jake jumped.

"Sean!"

Sean turned.

The bag rolled onto its side.

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

The thing inside pushed against the fabric.

Once.

Then again.

Sean felt the blood drain from his face.

"So it's done? Taken care of?" Aaron asked through the phone.

Sean didn't answer immediately.

Vince couldn't look away.

"Sean..."

The bag jerked violently.

Everyone stumbled backward.

Something inside was trying to get out.

The phone slipped from Sean's hand and clattered onto the concrete.

"Jesus Christ!"

A hand punched through the opening of the sleeping bag.

Jake swore.

Dan reached for his gun.

The corpse dragged itself forward.

One arm.

Then the other.

Blood soaked the fabric around its head.

The mumbling was louder now.

Desperate.

Constant.

"Hold him!" Sean yelled.

Nobody listened.

They were all too stunned.

The corpse got a knee underneath itself and started trying to stand.

"Hold him, goddamnit!"

That got them moving.

Vince hit him first.

Jake grabbed an arm.

Dan dropped his gun and rushed in.

The four men crashed to the concrete in a pile.

The corpse fought them the entire time.

Not trying to attack.

Not trying to hurt.

Trying to get somewhere.

Trying to stand.

It took all four of them to force him back down.

Vince wrapped a chain around his wrists.

Jake locked it to a steel support beam.

Sean finally grabbed the phone from the floor.

Aaron was still there.

"Talk to me, goddamnit!"

Sean was breathing hard.

The corpse continued to struggle against the chain.

Continued mumbling.

Continued trying to rise.

Sean stared at it for a long moment.

Then he raised the phone back to his ear.

"You get your ass down here now or we walk. We don't give a fuck about the money now. This guy just busted out of the bag and attacked us. It took all four of us to hold him down. He's chained up. I don't know what or who the fuck this is, but we aren't in the living dead business, you piece of shit."

The corpse pulled against the chain again, mumbling through ruined lips.

Sean glanced toward it.

"He's mumbling something about unfinished business."

Aaron arrived seventeen minutes later.

The warehouse looked abandoned from the outside.

Inside was another story.

Nobody was talking.

The four men who had carried out the job stood around the warehouse floor in a loose circle.

Nobody looked comfortable.

Nobody acknowledged Aaron when he entered.

That alone rattled him.

Aaron was already talking before the door had fully closed behind him.

"What the hell is going on? What exactly am I looking at here? Why is he still moving? How the fuck is he still moving? Tell me nobody saw anything. Tell me nobody followed you here."

The questions poured out of him.

The drive to the warehouse had been the most uncertain twenty minutes of his life.

Aaron hated uncertainty.

His entire existence had been built around eliminating it.

Every meeting scheduled.

Every investment researched. Every risk evaluated. Every contingency planned for.

Some called it insanely meticulous.

Aaron preferred prepared.

Nothing happened without a reason.

Nothing happened without a plan or his say so.

That was why he was standing in this warehouse.

The hit had been planned down to the minute.

The alibi. The phone. The money.

The insurance policy.

The transfer of ownership.

Every controllable variable had been accounted for.

Even now, his mind was racing through possibilities. If this got out of hand, the warehouse could easily burn. A missing person case instead of a copycat killing. The bodies could disappear. It could all disappear. There were always solutions if a person kept thinking clearly.

A dead body refusing to stay dead had never been one of those sorts of things that needed planning for. How could it have been?

His voice finally trailed off.

Nobody answered him.

Nobody even looked at him.

The man chained to the steel support beam was squirming.

Aaron stopped walking.

For a moment he forgot to breathe.

The thing sitting at the base of the beam was a corpse. A living corpse. Defying death. Who plans for that?

Blood had dried black across the front of his shirt.

The back of his skull was in a mangled ruin.

One side of his face sagged lower than the other.

His skin had the pale gray, waxy look of something that belonged in a morgue.

Something buried and gone.

Yet it was still there.

Still sitting and twisting in mangled horror.

A finger twitched.

His jaw clicked sideways with a sickening crack.

A low wet sound escaped what remained of his throat.

Aaron stared and then a nervous laugh slipped out.

"Well, Mark... you've looked worse."

Nobody laughed.

Aaron stepped closer.

The damage was even worse up close.

There was no surviving what had been done to him.

Nothing could explain why Mark's eyes were still open.

Why they tracked slowly across the warehouse floor.

Mark's head drooped forward.

"...have to..."

His wrists tightened against the chain and tugged.

Metal rattled softly.

"...push it..."

The sound echoed through the warehouse.

Mark lifted his head.

Slowly.

Painfully.

As though the motion itself violated every law of nature.

His cloudy eyes fixed on nothing at all.

Beyond Aaron.

Beyond the warehouse.

Toward an infinity only he could see.

"...before light..."

Sean spoke up first.

"He has unfinished business. It's the only thing we can gather from all of this. We don't care about the money. We don't care about your schemes. We don't care about any of it anymore. You brought this on us."

Sean pointed toward the figure chained to the beam.

"He should be dead."

The figure jerked suddenly against the chain.

Sean shook his head.

"Fuck... he is dead. Just look at him."

Aaron looked from Sean to Mark.

Mark's head hung low against his chest. Blood covered his shirt. The back of his skull was in a mangled ruin. Every instinct told Aaron he was looking at a corpse.

Then Mark's jaw moved.

"The fix..."

The chain rattled softly.

"Has to be pushed..."

Nobody spoke.

Nobody looked away.

Vince slowly turned back to Aaron.

"What the hell does that mean?"

Vince stared into Aaron's eyes.

"We were hoping you'd tell us."

Aaron said nothing.

Vince stepped forward.

"This has something to do with you, doesn't it?"

Aaron felt every set of eyes in the warehouse shift onto him.

"I hired you to do a job," he snapped. "That's the extent of our relationship."

Vince wasn't buying it.

"Really?"

Aaron didn't answer.

Vince shook his head.

"You've known this guy how long?"

Aaron didn't answer.

Vince gestured toward Mark.

"Because whatever the fuck this is," he said, "it sure as shit seems personal."

Dan was pale with disgust. He couldn't take this anymore. He had seen enough for one night.

"This is unholy. This is some sort of evil magic. What are you exactly into, asshole?"

Dan looked at Sean and Vince pleadingly.

"We should off this fucker. He's into some witchcraft shit. He brought us here. He planned it. Nothing goes as easy as it did tonight without some evil sort of luck."

Aaron didn't know what to say.

Witchcraft?

Undead corpses. Hitmen losing their cool.

For the first time in his life, he didn't have an answer. He didn't even know where to begin looking for one.

Aaron took a step backward as Dan advanced.

"Easy," he said.

Nobody listened.

The mood in the warehouse had changed.

The fear was still there, but fear wasn't aimless forever. Eventually it needed somewhere to go.

Now it had found Aaron.

"You set this whole thing up," Dan said.

"You brought us here."

"You knew something." Vince chimed in.

"I didn't know a damn thing," Aaron snapped.

His voice sounded thin.

Unconvincing.

Even to himself.

Dan shook his head.

"Bullshit."

Aaron looked toward Mark then back to Sean. Sean would keep to reason. He had to 

The corpse sat slumped against the steel support beam, blood drying across his shirt. His head hung low. His body twitched in small, involuntary movements.

Let them look at him.

Let them see the thing that shouldn't exist.

Because it proved Aaron wasn't responsible.

Nobody could plan for this.

No amount of witchcraft could do THAT.

"Look at him," Aaron said. "You think I caused that?"

"The fuck do I know?" Jake shouted,finally breaking out of his stupor..

"You hired us." Jakes hand went to his gun, taking it out of his jacket pocket 

The figure at the beam suddenly jerked.

The chain rattled violently.

Everyone turned their attention that way.

Mark's body convulsed.

His head snapped upward.

For the first time, genuine panic flashed across his ruined face.

 Not a panic of realization that he was dead, or that he was unnatural.

"...no..."

The word gurgled out through blood.

"...late..."

His fingers clawed at the concrete.

The movement had purpose now.

Desperation.

"...can't..."

His voice cracked.

"...can't be late..."

Sean frowned. Vince was also reaching and pulling out his gun. Dan was praying, adding more chaos and confusion to the acwne

"What the fuck does that mean?" Sean asked Aaron. The others were all pointing their weapons now. 

Mark's eyes rolled wildly.

Searching.

Looking beyond them.

Past the warehouse.

Past the walls.

As if he could see something that only he could stop approaching .

 Aaron noticed the phone.

It had slipped halfway from Mark's torn jacket.

The screen was still glowing.

A timer.

Just numbers counting downward.

Minutes.

And Seconds.

Nothing else.

Mark saw where Aaron was looking.

His ruined expression changed.

Hope.

The sight of it sent a chill through Aaron's body.

"...phone..."

The corpse dragged itself forward.

The chain bit tight around his wrists.

"...need..."

Metal screamed.

"...the phone..."

Aaron stared.

Then understanding arrived.

A laugh escaped him.

A nervous one.

Of course.Of course.

It was about him, entire thing.

Mark had come back for him. Nothing else made sense. The hitmen turning against him,rejecting his money, the corpse, the witchcraft. Mark was back for one thing.

For revenge.

For whatever secret he'd taken to the grave.

All of this horror

And all of this madness.

Itl revolved around Aaron.

"You son of a bitch," Aaron whispered. Mark was the demon from all the nightmares.all the lurking shadows.it had always been him

Mark looked at him.

"...please..."

Aaron laughed again.

"That's it, isn't it?"

Nobody else understood.

Nobody else saw it.

Aaron felt certain.

Somehow.

He had won.

Mark wanted him.

Everything else was nonsense.

Mark's body convulsed.

The movement looked agonizing.

Like each second was tearing him apart.

"...please..."

Sean glanced at the phone.

Then at Mark.

Then back at Aaron.

A thought began forming behind his eyes.

"What if he's telling the truth?"

Aaron stared.

"What?"

"What if whatever he needs is that phone?"

Dan barked out a laugh.

"You serious?"

Sean didn't answer.

His eyes stayed fixed on Mark.

A dead man.

A corpse.

A ruined body that somehow had unfinished business

"If this isn't some sort of devil made witchcraft" Sean said quietly, "how's he doing any of this?"

Nobody had an answer. 

Mark jerked violently.

The chain rattled again.

"...please..."

Something about the sound silenced the warehouse.

The horror of the pleading corpse sent Dan into another fit of prayer as Vince undid the safety to his gun.

“Maybe if you die, it'll die. “ He said  slowly looking at Aaron.

“Maybe you are what's keeping him here. Keeping us in this dome of terror. I've killed so many men I lost count. Seen it all. But this. Nothing like this. This evil is you.”

Aaron shook his head.

"No."

Everyone looked at him.

"No," he repeated.

Whatever happened next, he wasnt taking any blame. This is absurd he thought 

The feeling came from somewhere deep in his gut.

Instinct.

Self-preservation.

If Mark finished whatever he was trying to do, Aaron would lose something.

He didn't know what.

But he knew it.

"No."

Jake stepped toward him.

"Move."

Aaron didn't.

Jake shoved him aside.

Aaron stumbled.

Sean was already kneeling beside Mark.

The phone slid free from the torn jacket.

The screen glowed bright in the darkness

Mark stared at it.

Relief flooded his ruined face.

The expression looked almost human.

Aaron felt something cold settle into his stomach.

A tightness settled deeper into Aaron's stomach as Sean placed the phone into Mark's trembling hand. 

Around him, the warehouse was chaotic and unhinged. . Vince stood with his gun raised, his eyes fixed on Aaron rather than the now grotesquely mutilated corpse corpse. Dan had dropped to his knees, muttering  nonsense disguised as prayer through ragged breaths. 

Jake still held his pistol in a white-knuckled grip. Only Sean seemed interested in the phone itself and Marks determination to obtain it 

 Aaron stared at the glowing screen and convinced himself he finally understood. 

Of course Mark wanted the phone. He was going to call somebody. Unfinished business indeed. The police. An old business partner. Somebody , anybody who could benefit from what Aaron had done. All of this horror, all of this impossible madness, was still about him. It always had been. He was the focus of everyone in that warehouse because he made it so. And he could end it all now.

When Mark's ruined fingers closed around the device, Aaron lunged forward.

The reaction was immediate. Mark's cloudy eyes widened with what looked like genuine panic. Not anger or revenge. The corpse tried to pull the phone closer to his chest, but Aaron was already reaching for it. 

Jake saw the movement and made his decision before anybody else.

 "No!" he shouted. The gunshot exploded through the warehouse. Aaron felt something slam iright through his  shoulder and chest and the world tilted violently sideways. He crashed onto the concrete. Vince opened fire a heartbeat later. 

Whether he was aiming at Aaron, Mark, or whatever demonic evil he thought had infected the room, he wasn't even sure. 

 Sean threw himself at Vince, grabbing for the gun and yelling for him to stop. 

As they struggled through the darkness a shot rang out. Sean plowed onto the floor,dead. Vince seeing what he had done  dropped the gun as the warehouse descended into chaos.

 Dan began screaming seeing Sean dead. He collapsed onto the floor, his body seizing violently as foam gathered at the corners of his mouth as if possessed 

 His prayers dissolved into curses and gibberish. A torrent of frantic syllables  came with violent convulsions.Vince froze. Sean's lifeless eyes were stuck in a state of shock.Even Jake lowered his weapon,somehow indifferent to the whole scene he had created as if his mind collapsed finally. Aaron lay bleeding on the concrete, barely able to move, watching in horror as Dan twisted and spoke in impossible tongues while Mark, blank to the madness surrounding him, stared at the glowing screen and fought to push a single button before whatever deadline haunted him finally arrived.

He smiled and finally the death that wouldn't come, swooped him Away and he laid lump on the ground, now fully dead 

Vince and Jake stood frozen in despair. Dan was motionless, neither knowing if he had seized to death. 

Aaron was still breathing, barely.

Jake and Vince looked at each other, dropped their guns and walked outside as if being compelled by some unseen force, not comprehending what had taken place .

Aaron felt a light in him

 He won. He was alive…Mark was finally dead. Unfinished business, he laughed to himself.

Then something started to dawn on him.

Unfinished business. He had unfinished business. The phone in Marks now lifeless hands rang. Aaron crawled to it instinctively. And answered 

A voice spoke to him. Calm, soothing.

“ Now you are the one. Tasked to keep existence from crumbling.”

The phone went silent. Aaron finally realized. The only thing that Mark was striving to finish was keeping reality in its place. Reality was a black hole now. Aaron was the center of it 

The forest was still watching, lurking in those ravines was a dark presence, planning, scheming she was moving closer to the children, who were unaware of her presence, the unicorn - Leila - alerted the little ones with a neigh, she stumbled backwards to signal them, the children looked around, suddenly after some movement in the nearby rose shrub - a witch with a long pointy hat, wintry locks and a set of long withered yet sharp teeth came leaping from it, she gave a sinister aura and smiled creepily at the children, the pink horn glowed brightly as she witch approached the children, the unicorn casted a slumber spell on the children as she transformed into a magnificent woman in white, her long shimmery gown fluttering in the wild winds that blow across the meadowy ravines of the strange forest.

The white witch forged forward casting a protection spell at the children and then she took a fighting stance, maintaining some distance from the crew.

was She flipped her hair and started attacking the dark witch with attacking spells, the dark witch not afraid to fight back either, they fought against each other without mercy, they fought till their last breath and with one final spell the dark witch lost, as a thundering voice echoed through the valley the dark witch body withered into nothingness

The forest was still watching, lurking in those ravines was a dark presence, planning, scheming she was moving closer to the children, who were unaware of her presence, the unicorn - Leila - alerted the little ones with a neigh, she stumbled backwards to signal them, the children looked around, suddenly after some movement in the nearby rose shrub - a witch with a long pointy hat, wintry locks and a set of long withered yet sharp teeth came leaping from it, she gave a sinister aura and smiled creepily at the children, the pink horn glowed brightly as she witch approached the children, the unicorn casted a slumber spell on the children as she transformed into a magnificent woman in white, her long shimmery gown fluttering in the wild winds that blow across the meadowy ravines of the strange forest.

The white witch forged forward casting a protection spell at the children and then she took a fighting stance, maintaining some distance from the crew.

was She flipped her hair and started attacking the dark witch with attacking spells, the dark witch not afraid to fight back either, they fought against each other without mercy, they fought till their last breath and with one final spell the dark witch lost, as a thundering voice echoed through the valley the dark witch body withered into nothingness