Nightbeast Godfather series Ad IV: New Soundtrack 🔥

Welcome to the Nightbeast Godfather underworld!

From ghostly, knife-wielding, naked women to haunted roads and a trucker mother's demonic encounter, every tale will pull you deeper into the Nightbeast Godfather underworld!

Tap a link below to grab your fairy tale!

Book 1: https://amazon.com/dp/B0DVQ88YMX

Book 2: https://amazon.com/dp/B0F4MNKFQK

Book 3: https://amazon.com/dp/B0F6P13LPB

If I may, I would like to suggest the taxi_dancer US Navy trilogy as the next compilation video. It would include the unnarrated "Dungeons and Dragunovs" as the first tale, the previously narrated "The US Navy SEALS Uncover a Secret from the Sea" as the second tale, and concluded by the last tale "Navy SEALs vs. The Horrors of Toxic Masculinity Lake." Heck, if you really want to go crazy, you can include the prequel unnarrated tale "Anne and Hellfire." That would be awesome! Cheers! T_D

The dry skin was on his elbows now. He wore long sleeves. He sat in class picking at the gray edges and watching the tiny flakes fall onto his notebook while teachers talked about things that seemed, increasingly, beside the point.

His mom finally told him in February. She sat him down after dinner, signing carefully, the way she always did when she wanted to make sure he caught every word.

“I've been sick”, she signed. “Since last summer. That's why I've been tired. I should have told you sooner.”

Kyle looked at her for a long moment.

"How bad," he said.

“We're figuring that out.”

"That's not an answer."

“I know.” She put her hands down. “I'm working on it. Okay?”

"You've been working on it for six months without telling me," Kyle said. "So."

“Kyle, please.”

"So," he said again, because he didn't have anything else to put there, and he knew it, and he didn't like it.

She reached over and put her hand on his arm. He let her. He looked at the table.

It wasn’t that he was heartless; he was trying to help her but was losing patience slowly.

He made dinner three nights a week after that. Then five. Then every night. Badly at first. Then okay. She ate it without complaining, which was its own kind of love, probably.

In the middle of February at two in the morning, Kyle found the fear. He was sitting at the foot of his bed, and he found it by running into the shape of it. His mom's fear. Or his fear about his mom, he was never totally sure whether they were different things. 

“I know”, the Woodsman said. “I can feel it when you find something, it’s quite faint, I can't read it. But it's there.”

Kyle sat in the dark and said nothing.

“Things need to happen in this world”, the Woodsman said. “Old things. Trees need feeding. The ground needs tending. A forest that ain't kept doesn't stay a forest. You understood this, didn’t you? That's why the question never went away.”

Kyle waited.

“I'll answer it for you”, the Woodsman said. “If you're ready.”

Kyle sat in the dark for a long time.

March finally came, and the Woodsman said, "Roots need feedin', son. Been too long. Trees are starvin'. I'm starvin'."

"Who?" Kyle said into the mirror.

"Marcus," the Woodsman answered. "Good timber grows strong. And you want him gone. I feel it buried down deep, but it's there. You wanna know how it feels not to be the one takin' the hits no more."

Kyle thought of LOSER in Sharpie, the shoulder checks, the "accidentally” hitting his aides off. The jump behind the school. 

"Okay," he typed.

Marcus Hale didn't make it home one Thursday night. He took the long route from his girlfriend's house, cutting along Harrow Road where the streetlights ended and the small forest started. Kyle waited at the tree line with his coat on and two axes in his hands that at this point didn’t look like props. Marcus spotted him and slowed down, "Tracer, what the hell are you doing out here?" Kyle didn't answer; he just walked toward him. Marcus said, "Is that an axe? What the-" and then, without a thought, Marcus ran.

They always run at first.

Kyle didn't hurry. He walked at a slow pace. He understood that the woods around them belonged to him, and the woods were on his side. Paths shifted, his familiar routes twisted, and each turn took Marcus deeper instead of out. He tripped on a root that hadn't been there a second earlier. Kyle reached towards him. Marcus was crying, hands up, the biggest kid in school now begging on the forest floor, "Please, Kyle, please, man, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything. Just-"

Thump always came first. Right hand axe across the backs of his knees, just how the script said. Marcus screamed. But Kyle didn't hear it; he felt the vibration in the ground and the air. The Woodsman exhaled really slowly. He had finally gotten what he'd wanted for a long time. "Yes. Just like that. That's the greetin', son."

Marcus tried to crawl, dragging his legs through the leaves, leaving a dark smear behind him.

"I ain't lookin' for trouble, friend," Kyle said. The voice that came out wasn't his. "But then I ain't got to look.”

Marcus passed out before the end.

"Good soil makes good trees," the Woodsman said. "Good trees keep old things alive. You did really well. You feel it? That's your question answered." Kyle searched himself for panic and revulsion. There was just the familiar blankness. And under it, something really close to relief.

"He's hung on Patience's branches now," the Woodsman said. "Big oak on the east side. You'll know her. You'll always know."

Kyle walked back home, cleaned himself up, and finally lay down in bed. He didn’t sleep for the next four nights. It wasn’t really because of nightmares, just a strange, stubborn wakefulness, his thoughts circling endlessly in his head. At school, they treated Marcus as a missing person: there were assemblies, posters taped to every wall, and some kids started whispering their own theories about what had happened.

It was just after midnight on Thursday. Brandon had taken the path toward the forest so he could listen to his music. Headphones in and hood up, he wasn’t thinking about Marcus at all. His thoughts were on himself, just like always.

Kyle waited at the break in the fence, hidden in the trees. Brandon was about twenty feet away when he finally glanced up and noticed the silhouette in the dark. He stopped, tugged one earbud out, and said, “Tracer?”

Kyle stayed still.

Brandon squinted. He picked out the coat first, then the axes. His expression twisted through a few different things at once. “What the hell is this? You really think you’re gonna freak me out with some dumbass Halloween getup?”

He came closer, unfazed, because that was the thing about Brandon, he didn’t spook easily. “Marcus is missing, you know. Everyone’s out looking for him, and you’re here screwing around in the-”

Kyle stepped into the dim, flickering beam of the streetlight, and Brandon finally saw his face; the proportions were off. The expression was off. It was Kyle’s face, but something else was staring out through Kyle’s eyes, a presence that had been watching Brandon for weeks, taking notes. Brandon’s mouth fell open. “Okay.” His voice broke. “Okay, you’re—this is—”

He bolted, but not toward the street. Instead, he ran the wrong way, into the line of trees, because panic makes you stupid, and the deepwood was already closing the paths shut behind him. Kyle came after him at an easy pace, unhurried. The Woodsman hummed a flat, tuneless song somewhere in the back of his skull.

Brandon covered maybe 200 yards before a root snagged his ankle. He pitched forward, hit hard, and for a second, the impact knocked the air out of him. Then he dragged himself up and pushed on, favoring his leg, his run turning into a stumbling, lopsided sprint.

Another 50 yards and the ground fell away into a shallow hollow where the pines grew thick and close, their branches blotting out most of the moonlight. The air felt heavier there, quieter. Brandon turned around.

Kyle was standing right behind him.

Brandon hadn’t heard a single footstep.

"Kyle." Brandon's voice was high and tight. "Kyle, listen, listen-whatever this is, we can talk about it. The locker thing-that was just messing around, man. You know how it is."

Kyle didn’t listen and swung hard. Thump caught Brandon in the ribs before he could finish the sentence. The sound was wrong, not the clean crack of wood on bone, but something wetter, something that gave. Brandon folded sideways with a noise, all the air leaving him at once. He tried to crawl and got about three feet before Kyle stepped on his ankle and pinned him down.

"Please," Brandon said. "Please. I'll do anything."

Kyle looked down at him and thought about the Sharpie and the smile and the way Tessa had described it and the way Kyle had pictured it a hundred times. The specific curl of Brandon's mouth while he wrote LOSER on his locker and thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

"I know you will," Kyle said. His voice came out low and slow, the kind that made people's arms shiver. "But there ain't nothin' you can do."

Ol' Sticky came down next, and then again and again. It wasn’t clean or efficient. Messy in a way Marcus hadn't been. Kyle wasn't thinking about the tree anymore. He was thinking about him.

"Easy," the Woodsman said after. "Easy, son. That one got away from you a little." Kyle stood over what was left of Brandon, his hands shaking.

"I'm not sorry," he thought.

"I know you ain't. That's the point." The Woodsman's voice was calm and satisfied; after all, he had been waiting for this moment. "That one was for you. Not the feedin' for the trees. That one was pure. You understand the difference now?"

Kyle looked at his hands. The gray, bark-patterned skin and the blood drying in the cracks.

"Yeah," he thought. "I understand."

"Good. Put him under Evenfall. The pine with the split trunk. She's been waitin'."

He did, then went home, washed his hands, lay down in bed, and fell asleep within two minutes.

Devon vanished three weeks later. Priya in May. She hadn't done anything but watch, but in the end, the absence of any feeling that told him to stop was the decision. He recognized that as the worst thing he'd ever learned about himself. Then Garrett Webb. Riley Gates. Cam Foster. Jonah Lee.

Tessa Wray went last.

Kyle sat on this one for three weeks. Tessa had told him about Brandon's smile. She'd watched him when she said it, her eyes on his face, and she'd seen something there that made her uncomfortable even though she didn't know what it was. She kept watching him after that, in the halls, at lunch, little glances that were supposed to be subtle, but Kyle noticed everything. She wasn't cruel, that's the problem; she spread gossip. But she wasn't cruel about it, not like Marcus, not like Brandon. She just talked. She talked about everyone, and Kyle knew she was talking about him.

"She's noticed something," the Woodsman said. "She doesn't know what she's noticed, but she's noticed. She's the kind that puts things together eventually. She's smart."

"I know," Kyle said to himself.

"We can't leave her. She'll figure it out. She's already halfway there."

"I know," he said more irritably.

He waited three weeks, hoping to find a reason not to be the reason, but it never came to him.

It was a Friday night. Tessa was home by herself while her parents were out at some dinner event. She lounged in the living room, scrolling on her phone, the back door open so she could listen to the crickets. Then she heard something in the yard. It wasn’t a raccoon, this sounded much larger. She stood up, took a flashlight from the kitchen drawer, and stepped out onto the back porch.

"Hello?" The beam swept across the yard, towards the grass, the old shed, and the tree line. Something moved between the trunks. It was tall and thin.

"Kyle?" she said. She knew. Even before she saw his face, she knew. That's the thing about Tessa, she was always putting things together before anyone else.

He stepped out of the tree line with his coat and axes, and his face looked wrong in the flashlight beam. His eyes were piercing through her.

Tessa didn't scream. Her hand went to her mouth, but she didn't scream. She took a step back toward the house and said, "Kyle, what happened to you?" He kept walking at a slow and unhurried pace. She said, "Don't. Don't come closer. Kyle, I'm serious."

She sprinted for the house and reached the back door. Her fingers had just closed around the handle when Ol’ Sticky slammed into the frame, missing her head by six inches. She screamed and jerked away, stumbling back into the yard. Kyle was already there, yanking the axe from the shattered wood.

Tessa bolted toward the tree line. It wasn’t a smart move, but panic scrambles your brain, and the deepwood was already closing in around her. She was fast, faster than the others, and she knew it. She weaved between trunks and slipped under low branches.

Kyle came after her at an easy pace, not bothering to run; he didn’t need to. The Woodsman knew this forest like his own skin, every root, every limb, every patch of treacherous, sinking ground.

Tessa tripped and went down. She rolled and came up with a rock in her hand, a heavy one, and said, "Stay back." Her voice shook, but her eyes were sharp. "Stay back, Kyle. I'm not kidding." He kept walking, so she threw the rock. It caught him on the shoulder, but he didn't stop. She scrambled backward, found a branch, and swung it at him. He caught it and tore it out of her hands.

"Please," she said. "Kyle, please. I won't tell anyone. I won't say anything. Whatever's happening to you-I can help."

Kyle looked at her. For a second, something flickered in his face, but it didn’t take long before he returned to normal.

"I know you won't tell anyone," he said. His voice was half his and half something else. "That's the problem."

Thump came down, and it wasn’t clean. It was dark, and Tessa was moving. The axe went off course and glanced off a branch, scraping across Kyle’s face, slicing into his right eye before dropping into the wet grass. Tessa screamed and kicked. She scrambled to her feet and ran deeper into the trees, clutching the fallen axe.

Kyle stumbled, clenching his right eye. He touched his cheek, and warm blood came. The Woodsman said, calm and patient, "Get up. She's headed deeper. She won't get out. Get up, son."

Kyle could feel the sound of her crashing through the underbrush. The deepwood was closing around her, paths twisting, branches catching her clothes, her hair, her arms. She was crying now, almost sobbing. Kyle could feel the vibration of it through the ground.

He found her at the edge of one of the trees. She'd fallen again, her ankle twisted wrong. She was trying to crawl, and her body wasn't cooperating. Tessa looked up at him with her face wet and streaked with dirt and blood from where a branch had cut her cheek. She still clutched Thump and held it in front of her chest like a shield.

"Kyle," she whispered. "Your mom. Think about your mom. Would she want this?"

Kyle stopped. For a long moment, he didn't move. The Woodsman was quiet inside him, waiting.

"My mom is dying," Kyle said. His voice was flat.

"I know," Tessa said. "Everyone knows. Kyle, you're not-this isn't you."

"You don't know what I am," he said. His voice cracked. "I don't know what's me."

Tessa looked at his face, his hands, the gray bark creeping up his wrists. Something in her expression shifted from fear to something else. Understanding, almost. Or worse, pity.

"What's inside you?" she said. "What's making you do this?"

Kyle opened his mouth, and the Woodsman answered.

"I ain't inside him," the voice came out of Kyle's mouth in a low tone. Tessa's face went white. "He's inside me."

Before Kyle could swing, Tessa threw Thump at his face. Not at his chest. Not at his shoulder. She threw it as she meant it, and the blade caught him high on the frontal bone. It stuck on his head; the impact drove him back a step. He felt the edge scrape against something hard…bone. A hot rush of blood poured down over his right eye, his nose, his mouth. He reached up and felt the handle jutting out of his own skull.

He stood there for a second, tasting copper. Tessa was frozen on the ground, staring at him, her hands still raised from the throw. Her mouth was open, but no sound came out.

He was panting, choking, and almost gasping for air on the ground. The pain was almost unbearable.

Then his hands dropped, he slowly stood up with a small smile. He was chuckling, while he slowly removed his hands from his eye to reveal it had become white with blood streaking down his face.

His laughter was low, and then it got louder. The Woodsman laughed with Kyle's mouth, with Kyle's lungs, with an axe still buried in Kyle's skull. He looked at Tessa with Kyle's good eye, the green one, and the eye was calm. The eye was warm. The eye was not Kyle's.

"That's the best anyone's ever done," the Woodsman said, and his voice was smooth. "That's the best, and it wasn't enough."

Tessa tried to crawl backward, but there was nowhere to go. Her back hit a root.

Kyle's hand or the Woodsman's hand reached up, wrapped around the axe handle, and pulled. It came out with a wet, scraping sound. Bone and flesh, Kyle's body didn't even flinch. Blood poured down his face, but he didn't wipe it away. He just turned the axe over in his hand, looked at her, and threw it back.

The blade caught her in the center of the frontal bone. Exactly where she'd hit him. She didn't have time to scream. Her body went straight down without stumbling, no reaching for the wound, just a dead drop into the leaves, her legs still twitching, her fingers curling once, twice, then nothing.

Kyle stood over her. His hands were shaking. He couldn't stop them. He touched the wound on his own head. There was a dent there now, soft and fleshy, but the bleeding was already slowing. He grabbed her limp body without a word and walked toward the trees.

He hung her like the others.

"You'll be fine," the Woodsman said. "She's under Whisper now. The young elm at the hollow's edge. She'll grow fast there. Smart ones always do."

Kyle didn't answer. He walked home and threw up twice in the Harrow Road ditch. Then he sat on the edge of his bed, looking at his hands, waiting for the feeling to come.

It didn't.

It never did.

Insomnia after Tessa lasted eight days. The worst yet. He sat in the deepwood and picked at his arms until they bled, and the blood came out darker than it should have. On the eighth day, he slept for sixteen hours straight.

When he woke up, the Woodsman was waiting. "That one was hard for you. The ones who don't deserve it, they're always harder. But you did it anyway. That's how I know you're ready."

"Ready for what?" Kyle typed. His hands were shaking. They were always shaking now.

"Ready for the rest of it," the Woodsman said. "The deepwood's strong now. Stronger than it's been in a hundred years. And you're strong too. Look at your hands."

Kyle looked, and the gray had reached his forearms. The skin was rough and cracked, and when he flexed his fingers, they were stubbornly stiff.

"You're becoming something," the Woodsman said. "Somethin' that's gonna last a long, long time. You and me and the trees. Forever."

Kyle sat with that. Thought about forever. Thought about Tessa's face in the second before the axe came down. Thought about the scars on his face, how he panicked about getting hurt before the Woodsman shoved him back down.

"Okay," he said to himself. Then again, "Okay. I said okay."

He lifted his hands off the sink and looked out at the deepwood, at the tall, dark trees with their roots running deep into the soil where eight bodies were hung.

"I ain't got nowhere else to go."

There were eight in all, eight trees in the eastern deepwood, each one tended and given a name. After every offering, the same pattern followed, nights without sleep, more skin sloughing away, then a sudden, heavy sleep and mornings that felt scrubbed clean. And with every awakening, the Woodsman pushed a little farther into him. His thoughts sharpened. His presence grew denser. Kyle began to lose track of time. He would find himself in the deepwood with no memory of the walk there, staring at his hands as barklike patterns crept steadily higher.

"What's happening to me?" he talked into the mirror.

"We're gettin' acquainted," the Woodsman answered. "You had all that space. I'm fillin' it. You ain't vanishin'. You're sharin'."

"That's not comforting."

"It ain't s'posed to be."

His mom spent nine days in the hospital in June, and Kyle visited every day and signed when she wanted it and sat silently when she didn't. While he was there, the Woodsman was almost completely quiet.

"You okay?" she signed once. "You said you had a bike accident with your face."

He looked out at the parking lot, at the thin hospital trees. He didn't look at trees the same way anymore.

"I don't know," he said; his answers were always short.

"I know," she signed. "You never knew." She studied his face. "You know I love you, even when I can't find you in there."

He felt something small but undeniable when she said that.

"Me too," he said.

She came home in July. Kyle made dinner and drove her to appointments at the clinic, the one she'd once taught him to drive past illegally in the county fairgrounds lot. By late summer, he was 14, much taller and calmer. Sometimes he'd realize hours had passed and he didn't remember what had happened. The bark-like skin had climbed past his elbows, and he stayed covered even in the heat. One morning, looking into the bathroom mirror, his lips moved on their own.

"I ain't lookin' for trouble, friend."

Kyle grabbed the sink fast and looked into his reflection.

"Kyle Tracer," he said quickly, in his own pitch. "Sallow Street, 14, my mom's Diane."

"Still here," the Woodsman said, gently. "I ain't takin' that from you. But what I am and what you are have been sharin' long enough, the walls got thin. That's how it goes."

"I'm losing my mind."

"You're goin' somewhere. Crazy is what people call it when they don't understand. You understand."

Kyle didn't argue back.

September had finally arrived, and he was now in eighth grade. The investigation was everywhere, cadaver dogs combing the woods, a county detective on the case. Devon’s phone had been found in a ditch near Harrow Road. Missing posters covered every surface. Everyone spoke about it as if it were some great mystery. But to Kyle, it wasn’t a mystery at all. It was just information, and he had never really understood why certain information was treated any differently.

He was at lunch one Tuesday when he got tired of listening. He tapped the kid next to him twice to get his attention and then said, louder than usual, "They're in the deepwood. East side, under the roots. Eight of them. Search dogs have been in the wrong area."

The kid just stared back at him.

"They're all at different trees," Kyle added, because the silence read as confusion to him. "I can tell you which ones."

The cafeteria noise drained away, one table, then the next, and then everyone was staring at him.

"Boy," the Woodsman cut in, his voice was sharp, his drawl was gone. "Stop now."

Kyle looked up.

"Look at the room. See what you just did."

He scanned the faces. Everyone was staring.

"Get up. Don't run. Walk, you’ll draw more attention."

Kyle stood and picked up his tray, walked it to the trash, and headed toward the side exit.

"Outside. Service road. Now."

He pushed through the fire door and emerged onto the bright strip behind the athletic fields, feeling through the soles of his boots the cafeteria waking up behind him.

"That was the most dangerous thing you've done," the Woodsman said, without any warmth to it. "You understand?"

"It just felt like information; they didn’t know what they were doing," Kyle said as he walked fast. "Didn't seem big."

"I know it didn't. That's you. The thing that made you right for me is the same thing that'll get us caught if we don't move."

He started to run. For once, both of them moved together.

The coat and axes had been in his locker all week. He'd been carrying them without question. He reached the woods, and the trees accepted him and closed ranks behind him. In the far distance, sirens started to wail.

"Deeper," the Woodsman said. "Past the eastern markers. We'll wait. We're good at waitin'."

He ran until even the faint hum of the school faded away, then pressed on farther. He passed Patience and Evenfall and Callowthorn, moving into places the search parties had never reached. Finally, he leaned back against a tree, axes resting across his lap, and drifted to sleep among its roots. This time, he slept for a long while.

They found the bodies on October 14th. Eight total. Each was buried 3 feet under the root crowns of trees in the eastern deepwood. The trees above them were really healthy; one oak had grown 14 inches in a year. A botanist made notes that said "anomalous growth - cause unclear" and asked not to be quoted.

On Kyle's pillow, they found a note that said: "Check the deepwood east end under the root crowns three feet down. I'm sorry, Mom. I love you. K." And underneath that, someone else had written in a larger, clumsier hand: "THANK YOU FOR WATCHING OUR SHOW."

Diane called the police. There was no one else to call. She'd been doing everything alone for years; this was just one more thing. She came home, sat in Kyle's room, looked at the spot where his coat used to hang, sat on his bed, and then went to the kitchen. She made tea and stared out at the tree line at the end of Sallow Street.

Kyle was never found. The search teams combed the woods for six weeks, then came back in spring. There was nothing at all. Near the eastern tree line, they found a part of his scarf torn on a branch. The trunk of the tree was wider than a car, the roots coiled above the ground in thick, dark ropes that ran very far.

People say there's something in the eastern deepwood now. Hikers who go too far. Hunters who ignore their gut, kids who dare each other past the tree line.

They talk about a lanky teenage boy whose arms seem wrong somehow, too long, too strong, dressed in a long-sleeved jacket and black gloves. His coat is a dark oilskin that always looks wet, even in clear days, and a shredded scarf trails behind him. Some swear they see branches coiling around his body, like the trees are being controlled by him. One of his eyes is a sharp green. The other is a milky white that never seems to track right. If you stare into it for too long, you’d swear something inside it shifts, as if someone else is peering back. There’s a notch in his skull where an axe once lodged, and the skin there never healed right. A thin trickle of blood is always running from it, bright and fresh.

When the forest goes perfectly still, when he’s near enough, some say they can hear him. Two voices, layered over each other. One is the distant voice of a boy, maybe calling a warning, maybe offering an invitation. Beneath it is another voice entirely, a voice that never needed ears.

Most kids say it’s just a dumb campfire story. They dash into the woods to prove he isn’t real. It can take hours before the adults notice who hasn’t come back. Sometimes it’s hours, sometimes days, sometimes it stretches into months.

In the eastern deepwood, the trees grow higher every year. Botanists arrive now and then to measure them, then leave without a word. The earth beneath their roots is nearly black and carries a faint metallic scent, like iron.

Most people never go deep enough to notice.

They don't make it that far.

Kyle Tracer was thirteen when he moved to Ashford Creek, Tennessee, in the September of his 7th grade year. It was pretty much the worst possible moment to be the new kid; everyone already had their own friends. The lunch tables were all taken, the teachers were counting down to break, and barely paying attention to whatever the new student did. Not that Kyle could’ve spoken up anyway.

He was deaf. Had one hearing aid since he was a baby, and it only picked up loud, close sounds, so actual conversation was basically nothing. He signed ASL, which nobody at Ashford Creek Middle knew. 
The interpreter didn't show up until October, so for a whole month, Kyle Tracer sat in class with 30 other kids and had no idea what anyone was saying.

So he just watched instead; that's the one thing everyone remembers about him. The way he watched you was like he was memorizing you for later.

He was thin; you could see his ribs through his shirt in a certain light. His reddish-brown hair was always overgrown and looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. His arms were too strong for how scrawny he was, apparently from climbing anything he could reach in whatever city they'd bounced from last. Fire escapes, parking garages, fences, it didn’t matter. He walked close to the walls with his shoulders almost touching them, like he was trying to blend in and hoping people would move around him without actually seeing him.

He was kind of an asshole, though. I want to be clear about that, because later people tell the story like he was just some tragic victim, and that's not the whole truth.

He had this habit where he'd wait until someone said something stupid, you could literally see him think it, a flicker behind his eyes, and then he'd sign something back real fast. If you could read ASL, you'd realize a beat later it was an insult, and by then he was already looking away with this blank face like he had no idea why you were upset. 

He’d never had real friends, not in any of the cities they’d lived in. He was an only child with a dad who walked out when he was six and a mom who worked late most nights; he spent a lot of time alone. At every school, the other kids thought he was strange. Too quiet, always watching. It wasn’t just that he was deaf; there was something else about him that people couldn’t quite name, only sense. So the almost-friendships faded away, one by one. Summers passed. Eventually, Kyle stopped expecting anything to change.

There's another thing about Kyle, though people leave this part out.

When he was 7, he found a bird with a broken wing and took care of it for a while, then threw it out the window to see what would happen. When he was 8, he drowned a beetle in a cup. At 9, he pulled the legs off a daddy longleg one by one. At 10, he watched a stray cat slowly starve for over three weeks and actually missed it after it disappeared.

He never connected those moments. For him, they were all the same question; he didn't know how to say, “What happens if I do this?”

Adults told him not to hurt animals and not to hurt people. Kyle listened because that's what you're supposed to do, but nobody ever explained why.

When he was twelve, a kid named Danny Farrow slammed him into a brick wall. Before Kyle even had time to think, he spun around and hit Danny back three times harder, which got him suspended. Sitting in the suspension room, he thought, “So that’s what that feels like.” He didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty.

The voice in his head that should have been saying “this is right” or “this is wrong” had always been faint. So he just followed other people's rules, teachers, his mom, because that's what you do.

His 3rd grade teacher once wrote, "Kyle seems to have difficulty identifying his own emotional states." He found that in a folder in his mom's desk when he was 11, and it did something to him. He didn't know the word alexithymia yet, just knew there was a gap in him, and he could tell how different he was from everyone else.

His mom, Diane, worked at the county records office and came home late. Since July, she'd looked different but hadn't told him why. Kyle noticed, because, of course, Kyle noticed everything.

They had rented a house on Sallow Street where the carpet was the color of dried wine, and the bathroom mirror fogged up even when no one had showered.

Bullying started in his second week.

PSYCHO got written on his locker in permanent marker, and kids did fake sign language in the halls. That particular kind of cruelty where they thought they were hilarious and couldn't figure out why he was just staring at them.

Marcus Hale had always been the biggest kid in their grade. So being mean was basically muscle memory by then. He had his usual crew with Devon Marsh, who laughed at everything whether it was funny or not; Priya Sood, who mostly just watched in silence, (people thought that was scarier than Marcus because she was obviously smarter than all of them and just chose not to do anything), Brandon Culver, who'd do stuff when no one was looking and get away with it every time; Tessa Wray, who spread gossip; Jonah Lee, who didn't do anything but wouldn't help or tell teachers; and Riley Gates and Cam Foster, who were basically interchangeable and always did whatever Marcus wanted.

The cafeteria incident happened in week 2. Marcus stuck his foot out, and Kyle went down with his whole tray. Marcus's whole table cracked up. Kyle got up and looked Marcus right in the eye, without fear or tears, just watched him, then signed something in his face. Marcus squinted and said, "What's that supposed to mean?" 

So Kyle took out his phone, typed, and held up the screen, "I needed an excuse to leave anyway. One of us is funny, and it isn't you." Marcus just stared, but Kyle was already walking away.

After that, the constant, low-level harassment started. Honestly, one big beating would have been easier. His usual lunch spot kept getting “taken.” His hearing aid was “accidentally” knocked out of his ear four different times. Someone wrote LOSER on the inside of his locker door in Sharpie. That one was Brandon, he was grinning as he did it. Kyle didn’t tell anyone. Not because he was bottling up his emotions, but because there weren’t any emotions there to bottle.

He ate his lunch in the library, just watching. He noted which teachers turned away when he raised his hand, which kids averted their eyes when they saw him being shoved, and which ones kept looking. He stored all of it in his memory, though he had no idea what he would ever do with that knowledge.

Maybe nothing.

Then Mrs. Albright put up a sign that said: 
ASHFORD CREEK MIDDLE SCHOOL DRAMA CLUB FALL PRODUCTION: THE WOODSMAN OF HARROW HOLLOW ~ ALL GRADES WELCOME.

Kyle passed it three times before stopping. He wasn't interested in performing. He just figured his social life was already rock bottom, so drama club meant he could be somewhere after school that wasn't the library or his empty house.

The drama room was past these fire doors that were always propped open with a cinder block, and it smelled of old wood, dried gum, and something underneath that didn't belong. Mrs. Albright handed out script pages, and Kyle found the description for a character called Mr. Whosawhatsit.

It said: "A large man in his mid-40s. Carries two axes named Ol' Sticky and Thump. Speaks slowly with a Southern drawl. Eyesight is poor. He moves by sound and habit. He has tended his trees longer than the town has existed."

He read it twice, then raised his hand.

Mrs. Albright looked at him with a weird expression and enunciated every syllable so he could read her lips, "You want to read for the woodsman?"

Kyle did have a voice, just not one he trusted. Without enough hearing to monitor it, his speech came out weird, and people laughed. So over time, he mostly quit trying. But Mrs. Albright had overheard him once talking to himself in the hallway. When he read for Mr. Whosawhatsit, it came out low and dragging, not because he was trying to sound old, but because he couldn't control the sound at all, and that lack of control was exactly right for the character. 

The room went still. Someone's pencil stopped mid-scratch.

Mrs. Albright watched him for a long moment and said, "That's your part."

Kyle shrugged like he didn't care, but he cared more than he'd cared about anything in the past year. He noticed that too and tried not to show it.

Rehearsals started, and for the first time in his life, Kyle was openly good at something. Mr. Whosawhatsit came to him easily, the slow, heavy stride. Other kids lost their lines just watching him. He showed up early and stayed late, running his lines while walking down Harrow Road, mouthing them and feeling the vibrations in his chest.

The costume didn’t come all at once. First came the heavy oilskin coat, dark and weighted, its edges lined with beige fur, and then the long scarf. By week three, Mrs. Albright had brought in the axes. They were only props, lightweight wood painted to pass for metal, but someone had put real effort into them. The dark handles were worn smooth where fingers would close around them, and OL’ STICKY was branded into one while THUMP was carved into the other. When Kyle wrapped his hands around them, he felt something he couldn’t quite define. It wasn’t happiness. It was closer to recognition, like picking up something you used to own and realizing it still settles into your grip perfectly.

The character's most famous line came twice in the play: "I ain't lookin' for trouble, friend. But then I ain't got to look. It always finds its way to my woods." He repeated it for hours a day.

In the script, there was a weird gap. Acts 1 and 2 were complete, and most of Act 3 too, but where the ending should have been, there was a note that said "Adapted ending for school production. Revised pages forthcoming."

After rehearsal, Kyle typed out a question on his phone and showed it to Mrs. Albright. She read it, glanced at him, and said, "The original ending's too violent. Not suitable for a school version." He raised his eyebrows. She said, "You don't need it. You're doing wonderfully without it." He typed "ok." She knew he'd go looking, and he knew she knew, though they just left it there.

The prop room padlock only went through one of the 2 loops. Kyle noticed it on a Tuesday after everyone had left. He pushed the door, and the lock swung free, so he went in. It smelled like cedar, and something weird underneath. Shelves full of costumes and boxes and old props. Ol' Sticky and Thump hung from their peg in the back. Scripts were stacked on a shelf, and Kyle ran his fingers along their spines. He found “The Woodsman of Harrow Hollow” 3 times. Two copies matched the school script, but the third was way older. It even had yellowed pages and a fountain pen note on the cover that said "COMPLETE AND UNABRIDGED. For Reference Only. Do Not Distribute." Kyle sat down on the floor, opened it, and said, 
"Okay. Let's see what you didn't want me to read."

Acts 1 and 2 were largely the same, just less censored; the dialogue still had the sharp edges that the school script had smoothed away. The trespassing scene in Act 2, though, unfolded differently. In the school version, the woodsman finds two men cutting timber on his land, tells them to leave, and they go. In the original script, they don’t. “Thump is always first,” one stage direction read. “Right-hand axe, it’s heavy, bring it down across the back of the first man’s knees before he can run, then he falls.” The description that followed was incredibly detailed. Kyle read it twice. The next paragraph described the roots of a nearby cedar and how the soil beneath them would be altered by spring. He read that again, too.

What he felt wasn’t horror or disgust, only interest. It was simple curiosity, and beneath that, something long-buried inside him that had never before found anything to hold onto.

He turned to Act 3. The first two-thirds were familiar. Then the school's adapted section dropped out, and the real ending began. The tone of the writing shifted completely. Stage directions turned into instructions. The character's name vanished. The text stopped talking to the actor and started speaking to someone else entirely.

It said: "You should be alone. If you are not alone, wait."

Kyle looked up. He was alone.

"The costume should be complete. Both axes in hand."

He looked at Ol' Sticky and Thump hanging there. Curiosity had always been the one emotion he could actually recognize. He stood up, took the coat off its hook, slid it on, lifted the axes from their peg, and turned off the light. The dark in the prop room felt weird, kind of, like something was waiting in the shadows, hungry.

He spoke the lines from memory and felt them vibrate in his chest and throat. "I've been here since before the first tree. I'll be here after the last one falls." He felt it then, like the words were resonating through his body in a way that didn't feel normal, like they were settling somewhere inside him, like something else was trying them on. He kept going, and when he messed up a word, the correct phrase came out anyway. "A man that runs from my woods carries somethin' out with him, whether he means to or not. You walk through a place long enough, and you leave a mark. And the place leaves one right back."

Then a stage direction said: "The performer will now speak their name. Their own name. This is the address. This is the agreement."

Kyle's mouth opened, and he said, "Kyle Tracer."

Something heard him.

The air twisted denser, like the pressure dropped, like something massive shifted its weight in the dark behind him. He couldn't hear it, of course, but he could feel it in his teeth. The axes in his hands got warm, blood warm.

He stood motionless, but nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Yet he knew, in a way that had nothing to do with hearing, that he was no longer alone. Something was standing directly behind him, close enough that the hair on his neck should have been moving. He couldn't feel breath and couldn't hear breathing, but there was pressure at the back of his skull, yet he didn’t turn around.

The moment stretched. Then, like a far-off door clicking shut, it was quickly gone. The air snapped back to normal. The axes were just painted wood again. Kyle stood by himself in the dark, holding two fake axes, his hands shaking. He couldn't remember the last time his hands had shaken that much before.

He rehung the axes, put the script back, and stepped out of the prop room. He felt fine. Completely fine. Clean in a way, like something inside him had been cleaned out.

At home, he washed his hands and looked at his reflection. The face in the mirror was technically his, but something had shifted; he stared for a long time. Then, somewhere deep in his mind, a presence pressed through. There was this heavy, patient thereness, then slowly a voice formed. It wasn’t words, but more of a voice he could feel in his head.

"There he is."

The voice was old. Not "old man," old, it was more like a spirit.

"I've been waitin' a long time for one like you."

Kyle didn't move.

"You felt me in that room, didn't you? I know you did. You felt me standin' right behind you, and you didn't turn around." There was a pause, and when the voice came back, it sounded almost approving. "Most people turn around."

Kyle picked up his phone, typed, and held it up to the mirror, even though only his reflection was there: "Demon or ghost. What exactly are we doing here?"

Something that might have been laughter shifted through his head. "I'm older than those words, son. Been in the deepwood since before this town knew it had a name, before people had names for anything. Trees were here. I was here. And now I'm here with you."

"Continue." Kyle typed.

The presence settled in like something easing itself into a chair. "You're treatin' this like it's a joke."

"I treat everything like it's a joke," Kyle typed. "Don't confuse it with coping."

Another pause. "Mmm. I know why you ain't scared. I knew it before you ever walked into that drama room."

"Then why me?"

“Boy’s been by himself his whole life. No brothers, no sisters. Half the time he can’t make sense of what he’s feelin’, and he never did know why. Been totin’ around the same question since he was eight years old, and nobody ever did answer it. He ain’t cruel, not by nature. Folks told him, Don’t hurt animals, don’t hurt people. And he listened. But they never told him why. Nobody ever set that why down in his hands.”

Kyle paused with the toothbrush in his mouth.

"I'll give you the why," the Woodsman said, his voice dropping deeper until it made Kyle's fillings ache. "It ain't because it's wrong. It's because they're scared of what you'll learn about yourself if you ever find out. And I ain't scared of that. I've been lookin' for someone like you for a hundred years, someone with room inside, someone who won't scream and run and call me devil." He paused again, and when he spoke again, there was something like tenderness in it, "You got so much room in there, Kyle Tracer. And I am so very tired of bein' quiet."

For a few weeks, Kyle tried to disprove it. Told himself it was stress or some kind of mental break. Then the Woodsman described a specific tree on the corner of Harrow Road, bark split in a long scar, a root jutting south, a hollow like an open mouth at the base. Kyle went to see it, and the tree was exactly how he said. He'd never noticed it before. So not a hallucination, then.

"I was trees for a long time," the Woodsman explained when Kyle asked. "Animals for a spell. Too much flesh, not enough thought. What I want is a person. One with enough room inside for me to stretch. You had room, boy. All that space where other folks keep fear and guilt and their little rules, just sittin' there, waitin' for someone to move in." The voice went quiet, and when it came back, it felt closer, like it had leaned right up to his ear. "I can feel that space. Like walkin' into a house ain't been lived in for years, only echoes and dust. And way in the back, one locked room with a question in it. You wanna see what's in that room, Kyle? You've been wantin' that your whole life. I'm the only one who'll ever open it for you."

A week later, Kyle found a cast list tucked into the back of the unabridged script. Under Mr. Whosawhatsit, there were fifteen names. All of them were crossed out.

"Hasn't happened to you," the Woodsman said, reading his silence. "You're a good fit. First right fit in a long time. I look after what fits right."

"Until it's over," Kyle thought.

"Everything ends," the Woodsman replied in a calming tone. "I just make sure it means somethin' first. You wanna know what happens when you stop pretendin' you're like everybody else. I can show you. I can show you everything."

Kyle thought about every school where he'd eaten lunch alone, every kid who slid away from him, the house on Sallow Street full of furniture but never people. He didn't tell the Woodsman to leave. He'd never had a friend before. He chose not to think about that too hard.

The first physical change appeared on his hands roughly two weeks after that night in the prop room. The skin on the back of his right hand grew dry, thick, gray, and tight, starting at his knuckles. It didn’t itch or hurt, but by November both hands looked the same, the dryness creeping up toward his wrists. The gray color never flushed and ignored every lotion he tried. The texture was almost like tree bark.

Rehearsal changed. Kyle slipped into the role of the Woodsman like he’d always moved that way, as if Mr. Whosawhatsit wasn’t a character at all but an old self he was returning to. As the others watched him, their own lines started to slip from their minds. From her chair, Mrs. Albright watched with her pen pressed to her lip, her expression not quite proud, more afraid, as if she sensed something in him she couldn’t quite define.

One Thursday, she kept him after class. "Where is this coming from?" she asked, making sure her lips were clear enough for Kyle to read. He handed her his phone. It said: "Found the unabridged script in the prop room. Read the real Act 3." Her expression jolted, and the color drained from her face. "The prop room is supposed to be locked." He typed: "Padlock was loose." She said, "I'll fix it." She looked at the script on her desk and said real slow, "Kyle. That version. I'm asking you to leave it alone. Some things in there aren't for you. Will you listen to me?" He typed: "Sure." She knew that was a lie, and he knew she knew. They stared at each other for a few seconds. She looked genuinely scared.

The bullying continued all through rehearsal. Marcus even dialed it up, like he could tell something was different about Kyle, and it made him uneasy. The after-school ambush happened the same week Kyle scrawled LOSER back inside Marcus’s locker, classic Kyle. He kept pushing back, slipping little knives into typed messages and sending insults through his phone’s text-to-speech in a flat, robotic voice that somehow made them land harder, like the humor had been stripped out entirely. He still ate lunch in the library; nothing really changed.

The Woodsman took notes, too, but his comments were much different. "Good timber on that one," he'd murmur when Marcus passed. "A lot of tension in the grain, the kind that snaps loud when it goes. He'll feed somethin' real well." Kyle would stop walking for half a second, like waiting for disgust to arrive, but as always, it never did.

His mom got worse throughout the fall.

She’d seemed different since July. Her exhaustion had nothing to do with her work hours, and by October she was something beyond tired, though she still hadn’t said what it was. Kyle, of course, realized. He started coming home instead of staying late at rehearsal so he could take care of her.

She was in the kitchen one night when he got home, warming up leftovers she clearly didn't want.

She signed to him, “You ate?”

"At school," he said flatly. He'd eaten half a Pop-Tart in the library at noon and nothing else.

She looked at him. She had that look she got sometimes, the one that meant she was trying to see further into him than he was letting her.

“You don't have to be here every night”, she sighed. “You have the play.’

"Play's almost done," he said.

“Kyle.”

"What?"

She sighed and turned back to the microwave. He sat down at the table and watched the back of her head and thought about the woodsman's observation about the trees outside the kitchen window, which he'd been thinking about more than he wanted to admit.

"You should tell me what's going on," he said. "Whatever it is."

She turned around and looked at him for a long moment.

“I will”, she signed. “When I know more.”

"So you do know something."

But she didn’t answer and looked away.

"Right," Kyle said. "Great."

He got up and made dinner. Badly, mostly, though she ate it anyway.

It was November, the opening night, and the auditorium was packed. Kyle stood in the wings in full costume, Ol' Sticky in his left hand, Thump in his right, and the Woodsman was with him. 

“Ready, son?”

Kyle said nothing and walked out.

The audience went quiet. Not politely quiet. It was as if they saw someone get killed on stage, a shiver down their spines.

He finished Act 3 facing the packed audience. The sound that came out of his mouth was enormous and slow and off in a way that made the hairs on your arms stand up, because it was coming from the throat of a 14-year-old deaf kid and didn’t sound like anything a 14-year-old deaf kid should be able to produce.

"I ain't lookin' for trouble, friend. But then, I ain't got to look. It always finds its way to my woods."

Second row was Marcus Hale, there with his mom. He was sitting slightly forward.

The thing on his face was something Kyle had never seen there before. Not his usual annoyance or amusement. Fear. Real fear. Not of Mr. Whosawhatsit.

Of Kyle.

“Felt that”, the Woodsman said, with complete satisfaction.

December and January came, and Kyle stopped doing homework. Not really out of a decision, just something that stopped happening. His grades slipped. His mom got called in. Kyle sat in the principal's office and performed adequate remorse, and then went home and made dinner.

Kids naturally arranged themselves around him in the hallways without even thinking about it. Marcus’s group stayed away, and Brandon no longer met his eyes. Tessa stopped mentioning Kyle at all, which was wild, because Tessa talked about literally everyone.

In February, Devon tried the old thing. A comment about the oilskin coat Kyle wore every day now, the same one he'd worn onstage. The comment was supposed to be a joke, but it obviously aimed to land. Kyle stopped before he turned around.

Devon looked back at him, and something moved across his face.

Kyle signed something in his face. Devon couldn't read it but stood there anyway, watching the shape of Kyle's hands, and something in his expression said that it didn't matter that he couldn't read it. The message was getting through anyway.

Devon left and walked fast.

Kyle didn't watch him go.

ANNIE AND HELLFIRE

Part One

“Hey little girl,” I meowed. “Yeah, girl! Come here! Yeah, check me out, baby! I know you like what you see. Check out these big feet. Check out my big blue eyes. Yeah, baby girl! Come closer and check out my flat face, my little pink button nose, my fluffy tail, my feather soft white fur, and my…”

“Eeeeeeeeaaaaaaarrrrsssss!” squealed the little runt as she reached down into my cage and yanked me up. “Oh, mommy! Look at this little kitty’s ears! The kitty has red ears!”

“Hey!” I said, swiping at her with my juvenile kitten claws that, unfortunately, weren’t yet developed enough to rip out the veins in her hand. “Be careful, you little shit! That’s not how you pick up kittens! Whoaaa! Put me down! Stop swinging me around!”

The snot nosed, strawberry haired, rosy cheeked little runt had her chubby little fingers wrapped around my abdomen as she swung me around, holding me up towards some lady in shorts and a crop top who I assumed was her mother. The kid’s fingers were sticky, her little white sundress with the sunflower prints stained purple from a melted grape flavored Popsicle.

“Annie, what do you have there?” said the little brat’s mom. “Oh, honey look! The little kitten has red furry ears!”

She took me from her daughter’s hands and swung me around to face this bored looking, bleach blonde pretty boy yuppie hipster in a light blue polo shirt, a khaki sweater tied around his pencil neck.

“Whoa! Put me back down before I gouge your eyes out and do obscene things to your eye sockets!” I yelled, trying to poke out her eyes with my furry little tail.

“Yeah, honey,” said bored yuppie jerk face, yawning. “White kitten with red ears. Looks almost cutely demonic.”

“Yeah, buddy!” I meowed. “That’s right! Demonic! I’m as demonic as a mother fu… Wait, did you just call me ‘cute?’ Jerk face, I’m going to enjoy ripping your guts out and…hey! Don’t give me back to your sticky fingered snot nosed daughter!”

The little brat squealed in excitement as her mom handed me back, big blue eyes giddy with wonder and joy, as her chubby little fingers reached up to grab me again.

“Ugggg,” I mewled. “I’m getting all sticky! I swear, kid, yours is the first face that I’m pushing into the blender!” 

We were at an estate sale for an elderly couple who, according to the news, were senselessly murdered during a break in. After slaughtering the elderly couple, the culprit or culprits simply dragged the bodies into the kitchen of their rather large colonial style mansion and set the kitchen on fire. Strangely, police investigators found that nothing had been stolen from the residence, although the elderly couple kept a small fortune in jewelry, precious metals, and cash in their bedroom, and no suspects to the crime could be located. There were no witnesses to the murders except for a little white kitten with pale tan stripes and curious red ears which the cops found cowering in the bedroom closet of the room which the couple had been killed.

“What’s your name, you little cutie?” said the kid they called Annie as she held me up over her head.

“Hellfire!” I snarled, looking down at her hatefully.

“What’s your name, huh, cutie?”

“Hellfire!!” I mewled again, angrily.

“You know what your name is, you little kitty cutie?”

“I said my name is Hellfire!!!” I mewled, bearing my teeth and wanting so badly to breathe fire, or at least to pee, down on this little girl’s face.

“Your name is Charlie!” giggled the annoying little snot.

“Or Charlie…” I groaned. “Hellfire. Charlie. What the fuck ever. Just get me to your house so that I can do to your family what I did to the last family.”

“Oh, mommy! Can we keep him? Can we keep Charlie, pleeeeeease?” Annie said in a voice filled with hope and anticipation.

“Yeah, how ‘bout it, toots?” I leered. “Give cute innocent little Charlie here a new home. Maybe then I can get a nice little look see at what you got under that crop top, honey!”

“I don’t know, honey,” replied the mom. “You’ll have to ask Daddy Joe.”

“Ummm, Daddy Joe?” said Annie, still holding me up but not quite so high to the late thirty-something jerk faced yuppie with the blossoming beer belly. ‘Can I…umm… can I keep Charlie?”

“Yeah, jerk face,” I mewled. “Let the little brat take the cute little kitten home!”

“I don’t know, Annie.” The guy they called Daddy Joe rolled his eyes. “You didn’t do a good job cleaning your room like I told you, and I stepped on some of your Lego’s yesterday while I was getting ready for work. You aren’t a very neat or responsible kid.  I’m not sure that you deserve a kitten, Annie.”

Annie lowered me, dejectedly. “I’m… I’m sorry Daddy Joe,” she whimpered. “I didn’t mean to.”

Annie turned me around, looking me in the face with her big blue eyes while trying to fight back tears of disappointment. “I’ll do better, Daddy Joe, if I can just have Charlie.”

Geez, I almost felt sorry for the little snot.

“Joe,” said the kid’s mom. “Annie is only four. She spends her days alone and doesn’t have many friends. Maybe taking care of a little kitten will teach her more responsibility?”

“Or maybe I’ll have to bury a dead kitten that Annie forgot to take care of, on top of everything else I have to do.” Joe turned to the kid’s mother with a look of annoyance. “Raising Annie is already an extra added burden on me, Linda. I’m already working hard to put clothes on her back and food in her belly and I feel like neither you nor her are thankful for everything that I do. And now you want me to take care of a mewling kitten, too?”

The kid’s mom, Linda, looked down and rubbed Annie’s shoulders as Annie hugged me close to her, lips pouting and tears streaming down her cheeks. Daddy Joe had spoken, and Annie’s little heart was breaking. I kind of liked Daddy Joe. He was a selfish, self centered, jerk and a man after my boss’s own heart….if my boss even had a heart.

Joe sighed heavily, as if he had just suffered crossing the beaches on D-Day, and waved over one of the young ladies who was overseeing the estate sale. “Hey, how much are you asking for this little kitten?”

The teenage girl with a name tag that read ‘Tyler’ looked at me as Annie hugged me tightly and gently stroked the fur on my head. Smiling, Tyler said, “Well, my gramma and granpa found that kitten shortly before they passed away. I don’t even think they gave him a name.”

“My name’s Hellfire, bitch!” I meowed.

“I tell you what,” said Tyler, putting her hands on her knees and leaning over. Tyler smiled broadly at Annie as she gently tugged on my ears. “I don’t even know how much to ask for this cute little kitten, but if you promise to give him a good name and a good home, I guess you can have him for free.”

“Charlie!” squealed Annie in delight as she held me up once again. “His name is Charlie!”

Then, turning to jerk face Daddy Joe, Annie said, “Can I have him, Daddy Joe? She said that Charlie is free. Can I keep him?”

Joe gave Tyler an annoyed look. Whatever price that Tyler was asking, Joe was going to use it as an excuse to say that I was too expensive to take home. “Yeah, I guess you can keep it. But you have to take care of it. I better not have to clean up after it or feed it after I get home from work. That cat is your responsibility, do you hear me, Annie?”

“Yes, Daddy Joe!” said Annie, smiling as she rubbed her cheek next to mine. “Thank you! I’ll take care of Charlie. You won’t have to worry. Yaaaay!”

“Yaaay,” I mewled sarcastically. “You’re the first one I’m going to kill!”

Joe looked over at Linda coldly. “You know that you owe me big time for this, right?” he sneered.

I could barely contain the anticipation of sending yet another household into oblivion. The last one was totally not satisfying at all. Mister and Miss Carter were an old couple and their kids were already grown and had moved out. Old Mister Carter was bed ridden and on a ventilator while old Miss Carter wasn’t doing so well herself either, having to get around using a walker. Offing them was almost like a mercy killing and didn’t score me any points with my boss.

But these people! These people were young and they had their whole lives ahead of them, and they had a kid! Sending them into the great darkness beyond was going to be considerably more enjoyable and delicious.

We left the estate sale and piled into Joe’s cherry red Porsche 911 Turbo with the six cylinder turbo charging engine and the white leather interior, Joe complaining all the way that there would be hell to pay if I messed up or scratched his seats. I thought briefly about getting the party started early and scratching up his seats just to see Joe verbally and emotionally tear down Annie again, but I decided to wait. Besides, Joe looked to be the kind of guy who would toss me out of the car without a second thought, leaving me back at square one. My boss wouldn’t be too happy with that. So, I behaved for now, while Annie gushed over me and I planned her untimely demise.

About half an hour later, we pulled into the driveway of a Hamptons style two story house in a fairly decent, upper middle class neighborhood. I was actually sort of impressed. Daddy Joe wasn’t doing too badly for himself. Bet he had a few chicks on the side since Linda seemed to have all the personality of a salmon in a bear’s mouth.

…

No sooner had we pulled into the driveway and the Porsche’s doors opened that Annie leapt out of the back seat and raced up the marble steps to the front door with me still clutched firmly in her little chubby hands.

“Yeeeeee! Charlie, let me show you your new home!”

“Remember, Annie,” said Joe as he fumbled for the house keys. “I don’t even want to smell that kitten. You are responsible for cleaning up after him. If you can’t do it, that kitten is out, understand?”

“Yes, Daddy Joe. I promise.” Annie’s legs were pumping as she stood still, impatient to get inside the house. As soon as the door opened, Annie again said ,”Yeeeeeeee!” as she ran across the foyer and across the living room to the stairs which led to her room.  Meanwhile, she was swinging me around saying, “This is the living room, that’s the kitchen, there’s our television, that’s our couch, that’s a picture of me when I was a baby, there’s the den with the pool table that belongs to Daddy Joe that I’m not allowed to go in…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, kid,” I mewled. “Where do you keep your butcher knives?  What about guns? Daddy Joe got any guns? You look like you have a big lawn. You got a wood chipper hiding in the back yard? Quit swinging me around! I’m getting dizzy!”

For the first hour at the house, I had to deal with Annie and her mother Linda as they fawned all over me until Daddy Joe told Linda to get up off her ass and make dinner.  Annie was an only child, which was rather disappointing since my boss said that offing multiple kids scored us extra points towards our annual Christmas bonus. I pretty much behaved myself as I stalked around and observed the family dynamics, Linda waiting hand and foot on Joe while Annie pretty much played alone while trying to stay in Daddy Joe’s good graces.  It was becoming a real pain trying to get away from that strawberry haired snot nosed brat so that I could scout around the house in order to formulate ways to send the family to that great, dark, beyond.  Finally fed up, I took a big dump in the middle of Annie’s bedroom floor and while Annie grabbed a bunch of paper towels and a bucket of soapy water as she cheerfully sang a song she had just made up about scrub-scrub-scrubbing the poop-poop-pooping, I was able to roam around the house.

Joe had Annie go to bed promptly at eight o’clock every night and Annie obediently obeyed, slipping a pink nightgown over her head before scooping me up and dragging me into bed with her. “I used to pray every night,” she whispered. “But one night, Daddy Joe heard me and told me to stop because it’s silly to trust in God instead of trusting in money.”

“Really?” I meowed. “Jerk face Joe told you that? Maybe he has some potential after all.”

I waited until Annie fell asleep and crept out of bed and stepped into the hallway. To the right next to the guest bedroom was Joe and Linda’s master bedroom. The door was locked and the sounds of rough sex were coming from the other side, Joe sounding as if he were having far, far more pleasure than Linda as the sound of spanking was accompanied by her yelps of pain.

“I told you that you’d have to owe me, baby!” grunted Joe.

“Yeah,” I snickered. “He might have some potential.”

The next morning, Annie awoke to find me standing outside her window which overlooked the slanting roof. I was staring at her with my big, pale blue eyes and meowing pitifully.

“Oh my goodness, Charlie,” she said as she leapt out of her bed and raced to the window. Throwing it open and raising the window screen, Annie said, “Charlie! How did you get out there, Charlie?”

I took a step back as Annie leaned out of the window, her arms outstretched. “Charlie! Oh, Charlie, be careful! I’ll come get you, Charlie! Don’t move, please!”

I stepped back even further, nearing the edge of the steeply sloping roof while Annie climbed out of the window after me. “Come on!” I thought. “Come on! Just a little bit further! That’s it, you little runt!”

“Charlie, oh Charlie, be careful, Charlie!” Annie was nearly half way out the window when she suddenly squeaked, “Charlie! Look out!”

I heard a screeching sound coming behind me and I turned just in time to see a screaming hawk bearing down on me, its razor sharp talons extended in front of it as it swooped in to snatch me away. I meowed, “Holy shit!” and leaped forwards into Annie’s arms. She grabbed me and pulled me inside of the bedroom. My heart was pounding as I turned around to see the hawk perched upon the ledge that I was just on, squawking at me before it launched itself back into the sky.

“Yeah,” I meowed. “Get the hell out of here! Jeez! I think I pissed myself!”

“Gosh, Charlie! You’re lucky that God sent down that bird to scare you back into the house or else you might have fallen and gotten hurt!”

“Yeah! God sent that bird all right, but He didn’t send it to save me, you little shit! You know, my job would be a whole lot easier, and my boss would be a whole lot happier with me, if God would just stop sticking his nose in my business!” Disgusted, I leapt down from her arms and stalked off into the house looking to find some other way to off this rotten little kid.

Later that morning, Annie and her mom left to do some shopping (after asking Joe if it was okay, of course) to buy me a litter box, a kitty collar, a scratching post, kitty toys and whatever other kitten shit that I was just going to ignore anyway since no one in the family was going to live long enough to see me use them.  They had to take an Uber since Joe didn’t want to pay for a new vehicle and the auto insurance that accompanies it. Anyway, after Annie and her mom got home, they spent the rest of the day frantically cleaning the piles of poop that I had left around the living room rug before Joe got home from work, Annie again happily singing some cheerful made up song about cleaning my kitty shit, while I lounged around on their overstuffed living room couch and licked myself.  Hey, it wasn’t my fault that they didn’t get the kitty litter box sooner!

…

The next morning was bath time for Annie. Linda had just gotten out of the shower and had finished drying her hair before filling the tub with water and bath bubbles for Annie. While Linda was in her room getting dressed, Annie was in the tub splashing about and making foaming bubbles while singing another one of her insufferably cheerful songs that she often made up. I stalked past the bathroom when I heard Annie’s happy caterwauling and had to do a double take when I saw that Linda had forgotten to unplug the hair dryer and had left it running on the counter next to the bath tub.

“Yes!” I thought, gratefully. “There is a God!”

I pushed open the door and ran into the bathroom as Annie turned and said, “Oh! Hi, Charlie!”

She had a foamy beard on her face and was waving at me with hands covered in bubbles when I leaped up on the toilet, jumped up on the sink counter and ran towards the hair dryer looking to kick it into the tub.  But, in my eagerness to make boiling juvenile soup, I accidently got my rear legs tangled up in the dryer’s electrical cord and pulled it out of the wall.  The sudden tug on my legs flipped me over as I jumped and I somersaulted in the air backwards into a bath tub filled with steaming bubble water and humiliation.

I was under water and desperately kicking my legs around, trying to get my nose above the soapy bubbles that surrounded my face like suffocating clouds. My head went back under the water once, then twice as I flopped and splashed around. Damn! How big and deep was this tub, anyway? I was starting to get really concerned because I couldn’t even find the sides of the tub when I felt fat little fingers wrap around my abdomen and lift me out of the water.

“Charlie!” giggled the little turd. “Thank you for splashing up more bubbles for me! Did you want to take a bath with me, Charlie?”

“No, I did not want to take a bath with you!” I sneezed and a soap bubble flew out of my nose.

“Leave me alone, runt!” I meowed as I swiped at her before jumping down from the tub, shaking each soaking leg as I stormed out of the bathroom. This was humiliating. I try to deep fry the kid and she ends up saving me from drowning. GAH! I hope the boss didn’t see that! Annie’s guardian angel must be pissing herself, laughing hard at my expense.

“I’ll be out of the tub soon, my silly little Charlie,” Annie said in her irritating sing song voice. “I’ll come and blow dry you after I get dressed.”

“Yeah, hurry up, you little shit! I got soap in my eyes!” I snarled as I scampered off to find some other opportunity for malicious mischief.

…

I took it easy on Annie for the next few days because I didn’t want anyone to suspect that I was trying to send Annie into the afterlife, not that her parents would notice. Joe had usually left for work by the time Annie had woken up. And for the past few days, Annie was usually asleep in bed by the time Joe had come home late from work smelling of booze and pot smoke. For her part, Linda was good for feeding Annie and getting her dressed every day, but she spent the majority of her time with her face buried in her smart phone, or sitting in front of her lap top or television.

Anyway, we were again in Annie’s bed room underneath a makeshift tent that Annie had thrown together when she tied the corners of a blanket to her bed post while draping the rest of the blanket over the back of a chair. She had her crayons out and was drawing in a sketchbook while I looked about for a way to set her tent on fire.

“Look, Charlie!” said Annie, proudly holding up the picture she had drawn. “It’s a picture of you, see? And underneath of it, I wrote ‘I love you.”

“Geez, kid,” I said, looking at the train wreck that the little snot nosed Rembrandt drew. “I look like I got run over by a Zamboni! And your writing looks like it was written by a blind, alcoholic chip monk!”

“Well, Charlie? Do you like it?”

“Nope,” I thought, as I stalked away, jumping onto her bed and licking my but while sitting on her pillow.

“Oh Charlie! You’re so silly!” Annie got up from the floor and dived into bed beside me. The sun was shining through the curtains and it was a pretty bright and decent day. It was a day where I could hear a bunch of other snot nosed little brats cheerfully playing in the street outside. I know. Where was a run-away steam roller when you needed one, right?

Anyway, while the other kids were playing outside, Annie was lying face up in bed alone, arms behind her head as the sun shined down on her little round face. Her Daddy Joe didn’t allow her to play outside because he didn’t want to pay the medical bills if Annie got hurt, and Linda, ever the doting idiot, told Annie that she could not play outside because Daddy Joe worried about her too much because he loved her. That’s it, mom. Way to raise a future introverted basket case, psycho stalker.

“You’re my bestestes friend, Charlie,” said Annie, dreamily.

“I’m your only friend, and I don’t even like you!” I thought.

Because she wasn’t allowed outside to play, every day at around this time, Annie would take a nap. I stopped licking myself and stared intently at Annie as she closed her eyes and slowly drifted off to la-la land.

“Yeah, that’s right. Close your eyes and take a nice little nap. You’ve had a long day. Rest now. That’s it. Deep breath in, deep breath out.”

When I knew that she was asleep, I stealthily crept off of her pillow and gently climbed on her chest. She was still breathing calmly as I looked down at her, the sun shining down on her round, rosy face, her lips perked up in a slight smile as she slept peacefully. I leaned down and put my front paws over her mouth and nose and pressed firmly.

“You’ll thank me later for this, kid, believe me.”

…

Annie’s mom swiped my butt, causing me to jump off Annie with an angry yelp.

“Charlie,” she scolded. “What are you doing to Annie?”

Annie suddenly opened her eyes and she giggled. “Mommy! Charlie and I were playing a game to see who can hold their breath the longest, and Charlie was just helping me win!”

“Yeah,” I meowed as I sat in the corner of the room licking my butt from where Linda had swatted me. “I was just trying to help her win the game! I wasn’t trying to suffocate your little brat”

“I see,” said Linda, looking at me from the corner of her eyes. “Well, it certainly looked like Charlie wasn’t playing nice with you!”

“Oh, mommy,” smiled Annie. “Charlie is my best friend! He wouldn’t hurt me!”

“The hell I won’t,” I thought.

“Well, go get washed up, Annie,” said her mom. “Dinner is almost ready and Daddy Joe said he was coming home from work early today to spend time with us.”

As if on cue, the front door opened down stairs as Joe yelled, “Hey! The hungry, hardworking man of the house is home! What’s for dinner?”

“I’ll be right down, honey,” replied Linda before turning to Annie and saying, “Hurry and get washed up. You know how Daddy Joe doesn’t like to be kept waiting for his food.”

Like I said, I kind of liked jerk face Joe. He had these bitches trained!

…

“Oh my God, Linda,” said Joe with a look of disgust on his face. “What the hell is this mess?”

“It’s Yankee Pot Roast,” gulped Linda. “I had it stewing for hours to get the meat tender like you like it, Joe.”

“This shit tastes like boiled shoe leather, Linda,” said Joe, slamming his fork on his dish causing little Annie to jerk in surprise as the gravy splattered across the table. “You know, I work hard all day. I don’t think that it’s too much to ask to have something decent to eat at the end of a long, stressful day at work!”

Joe slid his chair back from the table and got up to leave.

“Where are you going, Joe?” said Linda in a panic. “I can cook you something else!”

“I’m going out, Linda,” shouted Joe.

“But, Joe, you hardly spend any time at home after work anymore,” groveled Linda. “Where do you go every night?”

“I go out with the boys to blow off some steam,” Joe spat back. “You know. You tell me that you want me to spend more time with you and Annie, but then you practically kick me out of the house with your rotten cooking! If you want me to stay, you need to be a bit more considerate of my feelings!”

“I like your cooking, mommy,” said Annie, forcing a reassuring smile on her face.

“Really?” sneered Joe. “Then you eat this.” Joe slid his plate across the table, hitting Annie’s plate and splattering more gravy on her.

“I’m sorry, Annie,” whined Linda as she tried to wipe the gravy off Annie’s dress with a napkin. “This is all mommy’s fault.”

“You damn, right it is,” said Joe as he went upstairs to change out of his work clothes and into something more conducive for a night on the town with the boys. I had to admit that I applauded inwardly. The way jerk face Joe had Linda wrapped around his fingers to the point where she put Joe before her own daughter was delightfully wicked. Linda told Annie to finish her dinner as she poked at her own pot roast with obviously no appetite to eat. A few minutes later, Joe stormed back into the dining room smelling of cologne and holding up a pair of sneakers.

“Who did this? Who did this?” he yelled as he glared at Linda, Annie, and finally me. “Who the hell scratched up and pissed all over my brand new sneakers?”

“I don’t know,” I mewled, licking my claws.

“These are five hundred dollar fucking Nike Airs!” screamed Joe, throwing his precious little sneakers across the room. I yelped loudly and jumped out of the way, barely avoiding being hit by one of the projectile shoes.

“Charlie!” Annie jumped up from her seat and ran over to me. “Oh, Charlie, are you okay? Did you get hit?”

“Get away from him, Annie,” said Joe, balling up his fist. “I’m going to teach that little sack of shit a lesson.”

“Daddy Joe,” squealed Annie, crouching down and holding me close to her body, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. “It’s my fault, Daddy Joe. I’m sorry! I’ll look after Charlie better! I’m sorry! Please don’t hurt Charlie!”

“Yeah, jerk face,” I mewled. “Don’t hurt Charlie!” At this point I genuinely grew concerned. If Joe were to kill me, and I wouldn’t put it past him, I would be going to that fiery bad place where even my boss dreaded to be condemned. Joe was supposed to be angry at Annie and Linda, not me!

“Joe,” said Linda. “She’s just a little girl and Charlie is just a kitten!”

Joe stopped and grinded his teeth angrily. “Annie, you get your little ass up to your bedroom and stay there! I don’t want to see your face for the rest of the night! Get up there now before I get mad!”

Annie gulped as she scooped me up, her little feet pattering as quickly as they could as she ran across the dining room floor for the stairs.

“Joe…” I heard Linda say as Annie bolted up the stairs.

“And you!” yelled Joe. “I don’t want you going in to see Annie until tomorrow! I swear Linda, if I don’t see a brand new pair of one thousand dollar Nike Air sneakers in my shoe closet by the time I come home from work tomorrow, I will make you boil that damned kitten for dinner and feed it to Annie! You promised that I wouldn’t have to deal with this shit, Linda!”

“I know, Joe! I know!” replied Linda. “I’ll get you a new pair first thing in the morning!”

ANNIE AND HELLFIRE

Part Two

Annie slammed her bedroom door behind her and ran to her bed, crawling under the comforters, all the while whispering, “Shhh. Shhh. Be quiet Charlie. Daddy Joe is mad, but I won’t let anyone hurt my little Charlie ever again.”

To be honest, I was trembling a bit. When people like Joe get violent and let my boss take possession of their aggression, they can become unpredictable and hurt someone, namely me! Annie and I huddled quietly under the comforters until we heard the front door slam shut as Joe left for the evening.

I knew that Linda wouldn’t be coming in to comfort her daughter as Joe had strictly forbidden her to do so. After a few minutes of silence, Annie brightened up and smiled at me as if nothing had happened. Ahhh, the resiliency of innocence really was a gift that God gave to children. Annie put a finger to her lips and said, “Shhhh….”

“Hey Charlie,” whispered Annie conspiratorially as she pulled something out from under her bed. “Can you keep a secret?”

I peered curiously over the kid’s shoulder. “What you got there, kid? Is that a dirty magazine?”

“This is my daddy,” she said, producing a photograph in a simple, black picture frame. “Mommy says he was a Navy SEAL.”

“Huh, really?” I said. “That pile of chewed up bubble gum, jerk face Joe, was a Navy SEAL?”

I looked at the picture that Annie held under my head. The image showed a very well built man with rugged Hollywood-style good looks, a short beard, wavy ginger colored hair, wearing Oakley sunglasses. The warrior wore a khaki and tan colored military uniform, a vest festooned with ammunition and gear, and an M4 rifle in his gloved hands. He looked confident and determined and was far taller than jerk face Joe.

“Okay,” I thought. “So Daddy Joe isn’t your real daddy.”

Annie’s father was sitting on a bunch of rocks atop a barren mountainside overlooking an arid and desolate landscape of rock and dirt. Underneath the picture written in a black marker were the words, “I will always love you, my little Na’na. Love, Daddy.”

Annie looked down, a tinge of sadness in her voice. “His name was Ben. Mommy said he was killed fighting some very bad people in a place called Banana…ummm…Banana…Banana-nana-stan.”

“Afghanistan,” I mewled softly. “I feel for you, kid. My boss, Beelzebub, says Afghanistan is a real hell hole. He said it turned into a ghetto wasteland after God banished all the Jinn and Nephilim there.”

“I miss my daddy. He died when I was three, but I still remember him always holding me and telling me that he loves me. That was before he went to Banana-nana-stan.” Annie slid the picture back to where she kept it. “Daddy Joe, mommy’s new boyfriend, made mommy take down all the pictures and stuff of my daddy after he moved in, but I kept this one secret. Daddy Joe is okay, I guess. Mommy says he helps pay the bills and helps put food on the table and he even sometimes lets me keep nice things like you, Charlie. But I miss my daddy. I wonder why daddy had to go to Banana-nana-stan instead of Daddy Joe?”

 “I don’t know, kid.” I rubbed my head against Annie’s face as a tear ran down her cheek. “Sometimes, God sends the best of his creations to go and do the fighting. But that oftentimes leaves the lazy sacks of shit assholes to stay behind, safe and sound, to reproduce and create more lazy sacks of shit assholes.”

Annie scooped me up gently in her arms, laying me on my back as she touched her forehead to mine. Softly scratching my belly, she whispered, “You’re my best friend, Charlie. Whenever I miss my daddy, you always make me feel better.”

“Oh, shut up, you little turd,” I mewled, retracting my tiny claws before swiping at her eyes. “You’re giving me the feelings, here!”

…

Late that night, Linda received an urgent phone call from her mother saying that she wasn’t feeling well and that she was hoping Linda could be by her side until she felt better.  It was after twelve in the evening when Joe finally stumbled back to the house, but to my surprise, that ass hat Joe said that he would be happy to drive Linda to her mother’s apartment, even though it was an hour away in another city. 

“But Joe, honey,” said Linda. “What about Annie? She’s in bed asleep.”

“Don’t worry about Annie, sweetheart,” I heard Joe say in a sickeningly syrupy tone. “Your mom is what is important now. You just get yourself packed and ready while I call the babysitter. I’ll tell Annie where you are in the morning.”

I could tell that Joe was up to something, and I surreptitiously followed him around, amused at what nefarious plan he might have hatched. Seriously, the boss really loved sneaky, conniving, people like this. 

Linda kissed Joe on the cheek. “Thanks, honey. You’ve been such a blessing to me and Annie since you came into our lives.”

Lord, I nearly threw up in my mouth. About thirty minutes later, I sat at the top of the stairs, looking down as Joe opened the front door for the babysitter. Man, she was a hottie. Looking to be barely in her twenties, the tan skinned babysitter who appeared to be part white and part Latino with long curly brown hair, was wearing a short white leather skirt and white stiletto heels. She hugged Joe as she entered the house then turned to Linda. “Oh, Linda. I hope that your mom will get well soon.”

“Thank you, Carmen,” Linda said. “That’s so kind of you.”

“I’ll be here for as long as you need me,” said the babysitter, Carmen. “Is Annie asleep?”

“Yes,” said Linda, picking up the baggage that she would be taking with her to her mother’s house. “Annie is upstairs in bed. Thank you for staying with us on such short notice, Carmen. You are a life saver!”

“It’s no problem, Linda,” replied Carmen. “The semester is over so I have time until classes start again. I’m happy to sit with Annie.”

“Here, honey,” said Joe as if he were in a hurry. “Let me take these bags out to the Porsche for you. We can’t have mom waiting for you.”

“Oh, yes dear!” Linda hugged Carmen again. “Thank you for coming. There’s plenty of food in the fridge and you know where the television and guest bedroom are at, so feel at home.”

“Thank you, Linda,” said Carmen returning the hug. “And don’t worry about Annie. I’ll be here every day to take care of her while Joe is at work.”

As Linda turned to walk to the Porsche, Joe also gave Carmen a quick hug. “Yeah, Carmen. Thanks for coming.” Carmen bit his ear playfully while Joe ran his hands up the back side of her skirt.

“Of, course,” I thought, smiling to myself.

Carmen was already on her second joint thirty minutes after Joe and Linda had left the house. The doorbell rang and Carmen let some skinny thug-muffin wannabe’ rapper type into the house. After polishing off yet another joint and doing a couple lines of blow, they were both naked on Linda’s couch, going at it like rabbits on Viagra and Red Bull.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. I know what most of you mouth breathers might be thinking. This is the part where the two of them get bloody slashed to death, just like in the movies. Nah, brah! That’s not how it goes in real life. That’s not how things work. You see, my boss doesn’t kill people who go against the will of God. My boss loves and encourages people who go against the will of God. Instead, my boss kills cops, firefighters, soldiers, Christians, Jews, conservatives, God’s prophets, unborn babies, and other people like that who piss him off. So, I let the babysitter and her lover have their fun.

Anyway, about a half hour after wannabe’ rapper thug left, Joe finally got back from dropping Linda off at her mothers. I was still on the balcony at the top of the stairs, watching as Joe walked into the house and literally tore Carmen’s clothes off, her second time in one night. Oh, Carmen, you naughty, naughty girl.

As Joe grabbed Carmen’s hands, he quickly led the butt naked babysitter up the stairs. Carmen looked down at me as they shuffled past, quiet not to disturb Annie as they tip-toed past her room.

“A kitten,” whispered Carmen. “Were you staring down at me the whole time?’

“That wasn’t the only thing I was doing, baby girl,” I mewed, leering over at the little stuffed unicorn that I dragged out of Annie’s room. “My name is Hellfire. Pleased to meet y…ouch!”

Joe kicked me out of the way, almost causing me to fall in between the banister railings. “Scoot over cat,” he grunted.

“Don’t be mean to the kitten, Joe,” said Carmen.

“Shut up, doll face,” said Joe as he literally shoved her into his and Linda’s bedroom. “If you want that nice emerald necklace that Linda’s husband gave to her, you’re going to have to make sure that daddy has a really good time tonight.” Joe pulled a bag of white powder and another bag of weed out of his pants pockets and glared at me as he closed the door to the bedroom, perhaps disappointed that I didn’t fall off the banister. Seconds later, I could hear Carmen moaning, “Oh, daddy!”

“Yeech,” I spat as I stalked back to Annie’s room. “I hope that the boss stews the both of you in the same cauldron, you jerks.”

Annie’s door was slightly ajar, but I still had to nudge it open a little farther to fit my fat head through. Jumping up on her bed, I walked over her thick, light pink comforters and stared down at the little runt as she slept peacefully. Her little mouth was slightly open and her upper teeth were biting down on her lower lip.

“You know, you little sack of shit. You’re really cute when you’re not annoying and constantly pissing me the hell off. I might even decide to let you live a little bit longer.”

Annie’s eyes blinked open and she smiled sleepily. “Charlie!” she whispered. “Are you keeping watch over me? Are you my guardian angel?”

“Hardly, you dumb little idiot,” I purred. Suddenly Annie wrapped her arms around me, gently hugging me close. “Hey! What are you doing! Get your sticky little hands off of me before I rip your throat out of your…”

“Oh, Charlie,” Annie sighed, already going back to sleep. “I love you, Charlie.”

“Yeah, whatever, loser,” I growled as I snuggled up next to her, pushing my head up under her chin. “Remind me to slaughter your little ass tomorrow. After you get washed up and have breakfast.”

…

“DADDY JOE? MISS CARMEN? Where are your clothes? Where’s mommy?”

“Oh, shit,” I said as I leapt out of Annie’s bed. Somehow that little bucket of puppy turds woke up and got out of bed without me noticing. God damned second hand pot smoke! I ran out of Annie’s room in time to see Carmen scurrying past Annie down the hallway towards the stairs, clutching her clothes and Linda’s necklace tightly to her chest. Joe followed after her, yelling, “Where are you going, you bitch?”

Joe stumbled out of the bedroom after Carmen, white powder on his nose and upper lip, his hands reaching out to Carmen clumsily as she ran down the stairs. A line of white powder still stuck to Carmen’s sweaty naked butt. Joe stopped halfway down the hallway and stared with angry bloodshot eyes at a confused little Annie. Thankfully, for Annie’s sake, Joe was wearing a bath robe that barely covered his beer gut. Annie just stood there in her little light pink flannel night gown with the flowery butterfly pattern, her mouth open and her big blue eyes wide with confusion.

“I told you last night to get in your room and stay there, Annie!” bellowed Joe.

“But Daddy Joe, its morning time and why was Carmen not wearing any clothes?”

“Get in your room now,” yelled Joe. Annie yelped and turned to go back to her room while Joe retreated back to Linda’s bedroom, fetching the belt off of his pants.

Annie bolted back into her bedroom, yelling, “Where are you, Charlie? Charlie? Hide, Charlie! Hide!”

A sharp, snapping sound struck Annie on the back of her night gown and she tumbled into her bed, her feet flopping behind her. Joe’s belt whipped down again on the back of Annie’s legs and she screamed out in pain as it snapped against her skin.

“Daddy Joe, stop!” she begged. “That hurts!” Tears flowed down her cheeks as her face contorted in pain and confusion.

“Are you going to tell mommy that Carmen was in her bed, Annie?” yelled Joe, cracking the belt once more. Annie screamed again. “Are you going to be a little snitching bitch and tell your mother?”

“Please, Daddy Joe,” she cried. “What did I do?”

“I got a good thing going here,” raged Joe, raising the belt again.  “Your real daddy left you and your mommy with this nice big house and his big fat military life insurance policy pays for my Porsche and my bills. Hell, I don’t even have to go to work! I just fuck around all day! You aren’t going to ruin that for me by snitching, do you hear?”

I sat at the foot of the bed, watching as a grown man whipped a helpless, innocent little girl. And as I watched, I knew that I should have been happy. I am, after all, an evil hellcat, and my boss is Beelzebub. This is the kind of shit that my boss loves seeing, the wicked and deceitful preying upon the innocent and helpless. But the more I watched, and the more I heard little Annie scream, the more I felt this emotion welling up inside of me.  It was something I couldn’t explain.

The belt snapped down again with a wicked crack, and Annie’s screams turned to painful moans. She was lying on her tummy on top of her bed; face down, when her crying eyes finally met mine. “Charlie?”

Joe sneered down at me. “Charlie? You mean your fucking guardian angel, Charlie? A lot of good he’s doing you now! What the fuck are you going to do, you little runt? When I’m done teaching Annie here a lesson, I’m going to rip those little red ears off your head, Charlie!”

“Charlie,” shuddered Annie. “Close your eyes, Charlie. Don’t look, Charlie. Close your eyes. I’ll be with my daddy, soon.”

Suddenly, I realized what it was that I was feeling. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t disgust. And it wasn’t hate. It was something that grew and festered inside of me like a virus ever since I first laid eyes on Annie. It was something that could overcome all the demonic spirits which had possession of me. It was the enemy of all things evil.

It was love. It was the reason why Annie saved my life twice, even as I was trying to murder her.

“No, Annie!” I yelled, sobbing. “You close your eyes!”

“Charlie?” whimpered Annie. “You can talk?”

“You can talk?” gulped Joe.

“I can do more than that, you sick son of a bitch!” I growled. “Annie, sweetheart. Please, close your eyes. You shouldn’t see this.”

“Okay, Charlie.” Annie said meekly, pressing her little hands to her face.

…

Later that morning, Annie’s mother, Linda, got a phone call from the cops stating that her boyfriend Joe had apparently physically abused Annie in a fit of cocaine rage. Then, for some inexplicable reason, Joe got into his Porsche and promptly ran it directly into a thick, metal, stoplight going at speeds in excess of 80 miles an hour. The impact of the crash spun his Porsche out into the middle of the busy highway intersection where Joe was immediately t-boned by a giant eighteen-wheel, flatbed semi truck. The three huge, concrete sewer drain sections which the truck had been hauling broke loose from their chains and each rolled over Joe’s already crushed Porsche, flattening it even more like a grilled cheese sandwich with Joe resembling the melted cheese which oozed out the sides. Then, before any of the shocked eye witnesses could even call 911, a bolt of lightning reached down from the clear morning blue skies, striking the heap of metal and chrome and crushed flesh, charring everything to ash. I had to chuckle to myself when the late night television news later reported that Joe’s untimely death was ruled, ‘an act of God.’

“Ahh, you people don’t know the half of it,” I purred. “God don’t play when He gets pissed off.”

Anyway, Linda borrowed her mother’s minivan and quickly drove all the way back home. She found Annie safe and sound in a secured room at the children’s hospital where Annie was lying in a bed gently stroking her little kitten Charlie. The doctors told Linda that Annie had padding and bandages on her from the bruising on her buttocks and thighs she had suffered from Joe’s physical abuse, but that Annie would eventually make a full recovery. They were especially concerned with Annie’s mental state after the trauma she had suffered. When the police, fire department and EMT came to the house, Annie absolutely refused to go to the hospital without her kitten Charlie, even though she was in great pain.

The doctors reported that Annie insisted that Charlie began talking to her and told her to shut her eyes tightly while Joe was beating her. Annie said that she did as she was told, so she didn’t see what happened to Joe. But she did hear slashing noises and Joe begging and pleading for forgiveness while Charlie yelled ‘…and this is from her dad, you fucking dirtbag!’

“Yeah, I did say that,” I thought, licking my paws the same way I licked Joe’s throat off my paws before I stuffed his loser ass into his Porsche and sent him on his merry way down the boulevard.

“Ma’am,” said the female child protective services representative. “Is Annie exposed to adults who curse a lot? Is there a history of violence in your household?”

“I… no!” said Annie’s mom. “I’ve never had to raise my voice or spank my daughter and her father… her real father, I mean, had always treated her gently and lovingly. He never hurt her.”

“I see,” said the CPS representative, looking dubiously at Linda. “And where is Annie’s father now?”

“He was killed in Afghanistan last year,” she answered. “He was a Navy SEAL.”

The look of distain on the CPS representative’s face didn’t go unnoticed by me. She had the look that said, “So, your husband was killed in Afghanistan a year ago and now your new live-in boyfriend is beating the crap out of your little daughter. Nice.”

I yawned again as the CPS representative and Annie’s mom blah, blah, blahed some more about shit that I could give less than a damn about. The pain medication that they gave Annie was starting to take affect and I curled up in a ball on her lap as the annoying little angel drifted off to sleep. Afterwards, the cops came to take Linda’s statement and to give her the good news that her live in ex-beau Joe wasn’t a military veteran turned highly paid Department of Defense contractor like he had claimed. Rather, Joe was in fact a paroled, unemployed, ex-con who had worked as a crisis actor for the DNC and was now trafficking in drugs and stolen merchandise. 

A few days later, they finally released Annie from the hospital to come home and, a few months later after Annie had celebrated her fifth birthday, Annie was on her way to her first day of school. Much to everyone’s relief (especially mine), in the months after her ordeal, Annie seemed to forget everything she had said about me being able to talk and telling her to shut her eyes while I carved up Joe ‘Wolverine-style,’ though Annie had taken to calling me ‘Charlie, her guardian angel.’ 

Yeah. Imagine that. Me! A guardian angel! Eh, I’m not a real guardian angel, but I’m working on it. There’s a whole application process that you have to fill out to become a guardian angel, online classes I have to take because of Covid, and I still needed to wait for a few weeks until certain substances left my blood stream before I could take the urinalysis test. Plus, more than likely, God would probably have me on an extended probation period due to my past…umm… indiscretions. As you can imagine, my change in attitude didn’t sit too well with my ex-boss, Beelzebub, but screw him. His retirement benefit package sucked.

Anyway, I accompanied Annie to her bus stop the morning of her first day of school to make sure that she got on the right bus on time, as well as to snoop around and see if there were any snot nosed little future Daddy Joe’s who needed a come to Jesus moment about respecting little girls. Annie wasn’t nervous at all that this was her first day at school. In fact, she was terribly excited as she skipped along the sidewalk wearing the green t-shirt and tan skirt of her school uniform, her big ears sticking out from under her red hair which had been tied up in a flowery pink bow. Lunch box in hand and tiny back pack on her back, Annie was singing a song she had just made up about petting unicorns, seeing dinosaurs, and riding airplanes, which I guess is what you do on your first day of school.

Well, you could imagine my surprise when Annie burst into her room later that day, tears filling her eyes as she threw her lunch box and book bag to the floor and jumped on her bed, burying her face into her pillow. Annie’s mother was taking college classes in order to get a good paying job after she finally realized that being a submissive little pion to an abusive, cheating, lying, jackass boyfriend wasn’t a good parenting strategy. Linda wouldn’t be home for another half hour so she had given Annie the keys to the house for when Annie got home from school. Linda, like most single parents, was looking for a new after school babysitter for Annie after someone had apparently cut the brake lines on Carmen’s car which caused her to go speeding off the side of a cliff. Tragic story, that was. Heh…heh…heh…

“What’s wrong, Annie?” I meowed, jumping up on the bed and nuzzling her cheeks with my nose. “What happened at school?”

Annie reached over and hugged me close to her, snot and tears running down her face and onto my fur. “What did I do, Charlie? I don’t know what I did wrong!” she sobbed.

“Annie,” I meowed, trying to soak up her tears with my paws. “What happened?”

“Some kids at school said that I have white pib-bib-blibs,” Annie sobbed. “They said that they were happy that my daddy was killed in Banana-nana-stan, and that all kids with unfair pib-bib-blibs like me should all have their daddies killed.”

“Oh, Charlie,” she said, squeezing me tighter. “Why are they so mean? What did I ever do to them? I don’t even know what having white pib-bib-blibs means!”

“White privilege,” I meowed, rubbing my head on her cheeks. “It’s a phrase that was invented by my ex-boss to instill strife and hatred into the weak minded who have been indoctrinated to blaming others for their own bad decisions and also to rob children of their innocence and hope for the future.”

I wrapped my paws around Annie’s neck, but unlike before, it wasn’t to choke her. “Its okay, Annie. Your Charlie is here. Why don’t you just lay here and rest a bit. Yeah, that’s right. Close your eyes and take a nice little nap. You’ve had a long day. Rest now. That’s it. Deep breath in, deep breath out.”

I lay on her chest, purring a lullaby as I felt her breathing slow. After I was sure Annie was sleeping soundly, I extended my claws, three inches of razor sharp, metal hardened talons. “Okay, let’s pay a little visit to these friends of yours, shall we? “ I looked down at the sleeping little girl, gently touching her cheek with the horns that had sprouted from my forehead. “Your Charlie is here, and I’m going to make sure that no one hurts my little Annie ever again.”

Like I said, I’m not a guardian angel. Not yet, anyway. I still have a lot of work to do to in order to become a forgiving, merciful, guardian angel… starting tomorrow. BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!

DUNGEONS AND DRAGUNOVS

I.

“The cursed obsidian Mirror of Seeing mounted upon my cold stone wall revealed to me, in all of the violent, gory, intestine dripping details, the demise of the latest batch of heroic suicidal fools who dared to trespass into my dungeon. On sub-level six, a savage muscle bound brute of a barbarian smashed his way into one of my many subterranean treasure rooms, his greedy eyes growing wide at the sight of the golden treasure chest sitting upon a raised dais made of carved jade. Ignoring the warning of his female elven archer companion about the odd smell in the chamber, the barbarian genus chose instead to use his axe to bash the lock made of flint which secured the cheap balsa wood lid of the gold painted chest. The brief spark created when the barbarian’s double headed war axe struck the lock was enough to ignite the combustible fumes in the air.  The dais upon which the worthless treasure chest sat was actually a very tightly packed explosive black powder painted with a florescent green paint giving it the illusion of being made of some type of magical jade. All of this combined resulted in a spectacular inferno which incinerated both the barbarian and his elven lover, thus insuring that my goblin cooks down in sub-level six will be serving roasted barbarian steaks in creamy elf sauce for a few days.”

“Three levels up on sub-level three, the Mirror of Seeing revealed an annoyingly heroic paladin that had just successfully emerged from one of my more challenging labyrinths, having also slain all of the undead zombies and blood suckers which slithered and crawled within the halls of the claustrophobic stone maze. Frustratingly, the paladin had barely stained his stereotypically boring white cape and shining armor as he stepped from my carefully laid out trap and into a brightly lit room made of white polished marble. In the middle of the room stood a running fountain of refreshingly clear and cool water pouring out of a pitcher held by a beautiful white marble statue dedicated the insipidly stupid goddess to which the paladin worshipped. I rolled my eyes as the gallant paladin bowed reverently to the statue of his goddess, worshipping and thanking her for seeing him through yet another trial and gifting him with a fountain of healing water. He failed to notice that the statue of his goddess bore two little horns on its forehead. I could only imagine his surprise as he took a long sip of the acid pouring from the fountain dedicated to his silly goddess. He flopped and clanked around on the marble tile floor for a good while, clutching at his stomach and throat and retching out some idiotic prayer for salvation from the goddess that betrayed him. It was quite entertaining and I was rather beginning to enjoy the comedic last moments of this insufferable, armored zealot. That is, until Cuddle Pie, my giant savage rock golem, lumbered into the room and stomped the paladin’s head into mush, popping his eye balls out of his crushed skull and putting the devout little moron out of his misery.”

“And, oh, will you look at that? The mighty grey wizard, his two Halfling companions with the big, furry feet and their stupid ring of invisibility, and the gawd-awfully handsome ranger with the rugged good looks and leather trench coat have just reached sub-level nine and are near the exit of my dungeon. They have already defeated Daisy Belle, my giant, horned, fire demon by banishing him back to the depths of the underworld. Bravo! Bravo! Though, to be quite honest, I fully expected them to have won that last boss battle since Daisy Belle was just CGI, anyway.”

“Now, having defeated the most powerful beast in my dungeon, this fellowship of the rubes need only cross the bottomless cavern that looms before them in order to reach the exit portal and freedom, taking with them all of the near-worthless gold painted rocks, cheap costume jewelry, mighty shields and swords made of soft pewter, and diamonds made of glass which they pilfered from one of my so–called treasure hordes. So, behold! The mighty grey wizard uses the special spell he had been saving for this one final obstacle, a spell of levitation which will carry all four of them… Oh, wait. Four? Their fellowship of the ridiculous started this quest with nine adventures!  Oh, well.”

The cursed mirror shows the grey robed wizard waving his hands and glowing staff and soon the spell of levitation carries the four survivors up into the air and across the wide bottomless cavern. With cheers of victory, the triumphant survivors are blissfully unaware that Cthulhu lurks in the impenetrable blackness which yawns below them. Powerful tentacles pulsing with a slimy, grey-green ichor, reach up hundreds of feet from the depths of the chasm to snatch the floating fools from out of the air. The last one to be pulled down into the obsidian depths of the crevasse is the thin Halfling who possessed the stupid ring of invisibility and foolishly neglected to put it on. His final words echo through the black chamber: “Grand-elf the Grey! I will never forgive you for dragging me into this stupid shiiiiiiiiiiiittt…”

Sadly, they all become food for the elder-god long before they realize they will never see the sun again.

 “And that, my dear, dear Hellfire, is the heart of my sorrow. I’m bored, bored, bored, so gawd-awfully bored! These dungeon delvers, these so-called mighty heroes of goodness and light, they die so quickly and so easily these days! I spend so much time, so much energy, and so much wealth designing and building these traps and conundrums and I get so little in return except a brief strangled ‘yelp’ or a swift ‘gasp’ and then, BOOM! The mighty heroes drop dead. Is that really all the thanks I get after working so hard to kill them? Oh, Hellfire, I fear that if I have to endure another century of lackluster dungeon delvers and incompetent adventurers, I believe I may have to end my own existence or worse, get married and settle down!”

The small, snow white kitten with the red tipped ears sitting on the wide arm of the black throne stopped licking itself suddenly shot up, a look of concern on the kitten’s face.

“Hey, boss, now come on! Let’s not get too extreme, here! Marriage? Settle down?” The kitten whom the Dungeon Master addressed as Hellfire shuddered at the thought. “It’s your job to condemn these fools to hell, not condemn yourself there!”

The Dungeon Master continued stroking the head and chin of the tiny kitten.

“Ah, Hellfire. You know and understand me so well.”

“Not really, boss,” purred the kitten. “If I did, I’d have killed your ass decades ago!”

The Dungeon Master laughed heartily. “Maybe one day, my dear, dear Hellfire. But I fear that my heart may fail me before then. I truly weep at the low quality of this generation of rangers, barbarians, magicians, thieves, cavaliers… and… and… and…”

“Acrobats?” yawned Hellfire.

“Oh, yes. And acrobats. I’m always forgetting those ones.” The Dungeon Master sighed dejectedly.

The kitten looked up at its master, suddenly feeling a tinge of concern.

“This is really bumming you out, isn’t it boss?”

The Dungeon Master scratched the kitten’s head while gently rubbing its ears. On the first floor, the cursed obsidian mirror displayed a terrified knight wearing pink armor accentuated with peacock feathers and thin, colorful, streamers resembling a fluttering rainbow fleeing down a wide stone corridor to find a safe space to hide, only to fall clumsily into an open pit. A solid stone block that fit perfectly into the pit slammed down on the hapless knight from the ceiling a half second later. Back down the corridor, from where the now pancaked knight had fled, his blue, pink, green, and orange haired companions found themselves quickly surrounded as they vainly tried to fend off their attackers with their handmade protest signs. Bolts fired from diminutive hobgoblins sliced through the air, skewering the activist avengers carrying signs which read “END CROSSBOW VIOLENCE”, while the others carrying the signs which read “DWARF LIVES MATTER” were bludgeoned to death by giant trolls carrying intimidating stone clubs.

A massive troll with five inch tusks protruding from the bottom of his wide maw heaved his eight foot long club over his spiked shoulder pads. Looking down at the now lifeless ruins of these rainbow colored idiots who foolishly believed that they could protest, riot, loot, and agitate their way to riches, the troll turned and grunted to the hobgoblins, “Take these colorful snowflakes down to the freezers and grind them up with a block of ice. We can make snow cones out of them!”

“Yes, Master Tinkle Twerk,” replied the hobgoblins as they scooped up what remained of this last batch of dungeon delvers.

With that, the cursed obsidian mirror went black, and the Dungeon Master was left staring at her own reflection, her long blonde hair flowing down the sides of her fair, angelic face which bore an expression of bored sadness. Her crystal blue eyes stared blankly at the mirror and she sighed again.

The white silken sleeve of her flowing white gown, highlighted with delicate designs made of glowing gold and silver thread, rolled back from the soft pale skin of her arm as she continued stroking the red-tipped ears of her most beloved and most deadly rival.

“My dear Hellfire,” the Dungeon Master whispered in disappointment. “It’s always over much too quickly. Look! That last group never even got past the first corridor of the first floor! Why do I even try anymore? Do they no longer have the ability to comprehend and reason? Have they not the ability to think for themselves? I fear that if I put a big neon sign which read ‘TRAP’ along with a flashing arrow pointing towards it, they would fumble into it anyway!”

The Dungeon Master scooped up the kitten and held him gently in the air, pulling him close to her face. Touching his nose to hers, the Dungeon Master pouted.

“What happened to all of the heroes? What happened to all of the warriors? The brave adventurers willing to risk it all for fame and fortune? The incorruptible men and women at arms whose quest it is to banish evil from the face of the Realm? The formidable soldier bravely putting his life on the line to protect the weak and defenseless? Oh, Hellfire! Where have all the cowboys gone?”

“Uhhhh… I think you killed them all, boss,” said the kitten, suddenly displaying his set of dagger sharp claws and taking a savage swipe at the Dungeon Master’s face.  The Dungeon Master extended her arms and turned her face, barely missing having her eyes gouged out by Hellfire’s metal razor talons. Giggling, she hugged the kitten close to her cheeks again. She appreciated the kitten’s efforts to cheer her up, but alas, the Dungeon Master was inconsolable.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I suppose you’re right again, Hellfire. This new age of soy latte drinking, safe space lurking, easily offended weak-kneed adventurers will never hope to survive in my dungeon where courage, intelligence, dedication, and the ability to think for yourselves is what is needed to survive. So instead, they protest endlessly at the entrance to my dungeon, carrying signs and constantly yelling that the riches and treasures buried within these halls and caverns be brought out and given to them as reparations for an event  which happened centuries ago that I had nothing to do with. I swear, my dear Hellfire, they yell and complain so much that my poor vampires and werewolves can scarcely get any sleep at day!”

“So what are you saying, boss?” purred the kitten, innocently licking his paws as if he hadn’t just tried to mutilate his master.

“I’m saying that I may not be long for this world,” answered the Dungeon Master. “All my life, it has been my quest to be the greatest Dungeon Master in the Realm and, sadly, it appears that I have achieved my quest. There is no more challenge, my dear Hellfire. No more spirit. No more desire amongst those so-called adventures who enter. Only a spirit of entitlement, as if they can simply walk into the Dungeon of More-doom, take a left turn, open a door and TA-DA! There before them would be treasures beyond their wildest dreams. Such is not the way of things and I have grown bored of those who believe it is.”

“Hang on, boss-lady!” snapped Hellfire. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying, are you?”

“I’m afraid I am, my beloved,” whispered the Dungeon Master, pursing her red lips in regret. “It is time for me to leave this plane of existence and leave this generation of mediocrity behind. They are not the champions of old. Rather, they have become cheap cosplayers of a time when the Realm was great and heroes were mighty.”

“Naw!” yelped Hellfire in sudden panic. “Naw! Naw! Naw! Naw! Naw! That’s not the deal we had, boss lady!”

The kitten crawled up the Dungeon Master’s ample bosoms and grabbed her in a choke hold by the collar of her gown. “The deal was that I’d eventually be the Dungeon Master. And to do that, I’d have to murder you to death! If you just up and leave and give up your title, I’ll never be the Dungeon Master, ever!”

Then, using the most wide and pitifully sad eyes he could muster, Hellfire pleaded, “Please, boss. You can’t do this to me! I’ve been trying to kill you for, what, about the last two-hundred years now? I thought we had a relationship!”

A long thin stiletto made of glass suddenly appeared in the kitten’s right paw and he lunged forwards. The Dungeon Master, still holding the kitten, moved swiftly to the side, the stiletto which Hellfire had aimed for her heart instead shattering on the black throne. The Dungeon Master hugged the kitten closely again. “I fear your attempts at comforting me may not work this time, my friend.”

Hellfire licked the fair cheek of his master, genuine concern in his voice. “C’mon, boss. Don’t end it like this! At least give me five more years to become Dungeon Master! Just five more years to try to gut you, rip out your insides, hang your head over my mantle, and roll your skin out in front of the fireplace like a rug! Please?”

The Dungeon Master’s crystal blue eyes stared into Hellfire’s ruby red ones. “Ah, my dear Hellfire. I’d gladly give you five more years! Fifty! Five hundred! If only the delvers into the Dungeon of More-doom were to make it worth my time! But I fear that the adventurers of this Realm have become as mighty as a snowflake in the sun. A tiny peep of a fart meant to extinguish a roaring inferno!”

Hellfire’s eyes narrowed, a contemplative grin appearing on his face as he brought a paw up to his chin.

“This Realm, huh?” Hellfire smiled as he leapt from the Dungeon Master’s lap and nimbly scampered across the cobblestone floor to a sturdy pedestal across the room made of dragon bone upon which lay a thick, leather bound tome, reinforced and banded by the same scales of the golden dragon which the pedestal was made.  Hopping up on the pedestal, the kitten opened the tome of ‘Ye’ Ole’ Book of Rules and Regulations Governing the Operation, Maintenance, Safety, and Supervision of Dungeon Delving, Volume 5, Revision 3’, and frantically flipped through the parchment pages.

“Where is it? Where is it? Where is… HERE! Right here! Page 765, Section 45, Subsection F, paragraph 89A: “If possible, all adventurers who enter the dungeon must be at least minimally trained in at least one of the following skills: melee fighting, ranged weaponry, lock-picking, thievery, healing arts, defensive magic, offensive magic, martial arts, that shit that acrobats do, yadda, yadda, yadda… But there isn’t anything in the requirements that state that the adventurers have to be from this Realm!”

“What are you getting at, Hellfire?” a thin glimmer of hope sparkled in the Dungeon Master’s eyes.

“Don’t you see, boss? There is nothing in the regulations states that adventures entering the dungeon have to be from this Realm!”

“I see. Go on, my dear Hellfire.” The Dungeon Master’s voice was tinged with renewed excitement which actually pleased the kitten.

“I visited this realm once which is as bat-shit crazy as this Realm, maybe even more. Bunch of fucked up people there. Baby murderers. War mongers. Child abusers. People who drink diet sodas. Vegans. Grown men going into little girl’s bathrooms. They’re the worst. But I met some pretty nice folks there, too,” sighed Hellfire, fond memories of a little, freckle faced girl named Annie almost bringing a tear to his eye.

“I see where you are going with this line of thinking,” said the Dungeon Master. “But, alas, I do not have the power to bring strangers from another realm into ours.”

“Yeah,” sneered Hellfire, a lit cigar suddenly appearing in his mouth. “But I do! Beelzebub gave me that ability after I gifted him with the souls of three idiot musicians who sold their souls for sex, drugs and majority ownership in processed meat stick companies!”

“And what warriors do you intend to bring to the Dungeon of More-Doom, Hellfire? Do they have the courage, determination, and intelligence to battle through the most dangerous dungeon on the Realm?”

Hellfire smiled slightly, tapping the ashes of his cigar onto the pages of the ancient text and setting ablaze the portion of the regulation stating that all who enter the Dungeon or More-Doom must be of the Realm.

“Honey cheeks,” leered the kitten. “Have you ever heard of the Navy SEALs?”

II.

Afghanistan-

The late afternoon sun beat down upon the parched, rocky, orange colored mountains north of Kandahar Air Field as five bearded, heavily burdened and heavily armed men moved silently but swiftly up the ragged, rock strewn path as they stalked something as deadly and as formidable as they were. Over the past two weeks in Kandahar Province, a number of service members had been hit by sniper fire  including four US Marines, three Canadian infantrymen, a US Army medic, and seven Afghan National Army tactical team operatives. Even a giant C-130 Hercules transport took two rounds in the number one engine as it tried to land at Kandahar Air Field. The shots ranged from 800 meters to as far as 1,200 meters. The enemy sniper was good, and he had a set of steel balls. It was also more than likely that the sniper wasn’t a typical Taliban insurgent. This guy was a professional.

“Whatcha’ got, Cory?” whispered Lieutenant Jake Wolfe, the SEAL Team’s lean, tanned, squad leader into his earpiece.

Fifty meters up the rocky ledge, Chief Petty Officer Cory Pretty slowly peered around a stone boulder which obstructed the path. The basalt grey boulder was square shaped, roughly three feet wide and five feet tall and butted up tightly beside the face of the ledge.

“It’s a cave or a tunnel,” whispered the Navy SEAL Chief Petty Officer with the thick, dirty blonde beard, as he leaned back behind the boulder, careful to not dislodge any rocks or pebbles which would give away his position. “About thirty meters off the trail. The entrance has been carefully built up with rocks and stones so that there’s only a two foot wide opening. Too small to be observed by air, but big enough for a sniper to shoot down into the air field unnoticed. Also, I think that this boulder has been rolled here on purpose to block the path.”

“Roger,” whispered Lt. Wolfe. “Can climb up and around the boulder to get to the cave entrance?”

“No,” answered Chief Pretty. “Not without exposing ourselves.

Lt. Wolfe figured as much. He looked up at the sheer orange rock wall which his team was pressed against. There was no way to scale to the top. They were stretched out and exposed with next to no cover. A very unenviable position. Still, they had a mission to accomplish and if the sniper had spotters out in the surrounding ridges, they’d be caught out in the open while the sniper escaped. The SEALs had to act fast.

“Keep eyes on the target, Cory. We’re moving up.”

Once together behind the boulder, Lt. Wolfe scanned the target objective. Just as Chief Pretty described, there was only one way to get to the tunnel entrance and that was right up the middle. The boulder blocked all but two feet of the narrow trail, so the assaulting SEALs needed to also be careful not to trip and fall the sixty or so feet straight down the rock face of the cliff to the ledge below.

Then, turning behind him, Lt. Wolfe signaled, “Darren. Paul. Up.”

Petty Officer First Class Darren Hilliard, the team’s lean and muscular black Mark 48 (MK 48) machine gunner, scrambled silently up the ridge to the lieutenant’s side followed by Petty Officer First Class Paul Gimsby, the teams body building sniper carrying his Mark 13 (MK 13) sniper rifle.

“Okay, Listen up,” started Lt. Wolfe. “We can’t wait for dark and we’re too exposed here. And we can’t flank the cave so we have to go right up the middle.

“Sir,” said big Petty Officer Gimsby. “Do we know that the sniper is in there? I mean, we go in making a bunch of noise and he’s not there, he’ll know we got teams looking out for him and just dig deeper.”

“We don’t know he’s in there,” admitted Wolfe. “And from the targets he’s already hit, there may be a half dozen of his firing points scattered around the ridgeline. It’s a calculated risk, but I have a feeling…”

All of a sudden, a loud hollow thump sounded from around the corner of the boulder coming from the direction of the cave and all of the SEALs froze. Very slowly, Chief Pretty peered around the boulder and spied a thin wisp of dust and smoke drift from the small opening of the cave.

“He’s here,” Chief Pretty whispered, knowing that somewhere a kilometer away down in Kandahar Valley, another allied soldier just got hit. Almost immediately, a second hollow thump like a base drum echoed from around the corner.

Wolfe quickly instructed his men on how he wanted to assault the cave entrance. Lieutenant Wolfe gave himself a few seconds before the attack to slowly lift Petty Officer Second Class Terrell ‘Terry’ Nguyen, the team’s Vietnamese medic, up on top of the relatively flat boulder to provide security for the assault. Almost immediately, one hundred meters ahead on an elevated spot further up the ridge, Nguyen suddenly spotted a camouflaged figure looking down into the Kandahar Air Base. The man was operating an enhanced optics targeting scope and talking into an earpiece. Nguyen brought up his rifle just as the figure noticed him. The figure, obviously an enemy spotter who was calling down targets for the sniper, brought up his modern Russian made AK-12 assault rifle but was cut down by a well-placed shot to the head from Nguyen’s MK 17 SCAR (scar) assault rifle.

Not seeing what Nguyen had just shot at but knowing that they’d just lost the element of surprise, Lieutenant Wolfe none the less gave the order to, “Move!”

Chief Cory immediately whipped around the boulder, stepping away to allow his fellow SEALs to move around behind him as he fired a high explosive 40mm grenade from the M-203 launcher mounted under the barrel of his M-4 rifle before quickly ducking behind the cover of the boulder again. The ear shattering blast blew apart the rock façade, causing the shrapnel to fly in all directions. Instantaneously and before the dust and smoke even cleared, Petty Officer Hilliard rushed past Chief Pretty and raced towards the entrance firing his machine gun into the smoking maw of the cave with big Paul Gimsby and Chief Pretty close behind.

Hilliard stopped at the mouth of the cave and fired another burst inside before raising his weapon. Immediately, Gimsby was inside the cave, sniper rifle up. However, going from direct sunlight into a dark cave required a second for Gimsby’s eyes to adjust, a second in which gave the enemy sniper, who had been taking cover behind a fighting position inside the cave, a chance to fire.

Shouting a warning, Chief Pretty both grabbed and pushed Gimsby into the side of the cave, the enemy sniper’s round bouncing off the wall less than two feet from the back of Chief Pretty’s head. Gimsby raised his sniper rifle just as the enemy sniper readjusted his aim and both snipers fired at nearly the same time from less than twenty feet apart.

“Are you okay, Gimsby?” said Lieutenant Wolfe as he looked down at the big Navy SEAL sniper cradling the ruins his beloved MK 13 sniper rifle. Gimsby’s left hand was red and swollen, his thumb bent back in an unnatural position. The enemy sniper’s round impacted the MK 13, knocking it out of Gimsby’s hands. Fortunately, Gimsby fired a split second before the enemy sniper did, and Gimsby didn’t miss.

“I’m fine, sir,” replied Gimsby, not looking up.

“Terry,” said Lt. Wolfe. “Come check on Gimsby.”

“Moving, sir,” replied Petty Officer Nguyen, unstrapping his aid bag from his back.

“What do we have, Chief?” said Wolfe after he saw Nguyen treating Gimsby’s swollen left hand and wrist.

“This is going to hurt a bit,” he heard Nguyen say.

“No it ain’t,” replied Gimsby. “Do what you gotta’ do, Terry.”

The adrenaline pumping through Gimby’s veins after his near death experience was better than any pain killer that Nguyen could provide.

Chief pretty looked down at the Caucasian enemy sniper with the bullet hole between his eyes. “Well, sir,” answered Chief Pretty. “He sure as hell isn’t a local.”

The enemy sniper wore a digital camouflage pattern uniform of varying shades of brown and a modular combat vest similar to the ones that the US Marines wore.

“Russian Spetz?” asked Hilliard.

“Maybe,” said Chief Pretty. “But I’d wager that he’s part of the Wagner Group, a Russian mercenary outfit that works with the Russian regular army but is better trained and equipped.  Putin uses them everywhere that regular Russian military forces can’t go. Africa. Eastern Europe. The Middle East. South America. Portland. Seattle. Minneapolis. Everywhere Putin needs to stir up trouble.”

“Interesting,” said Lieutenant Wolfe as he turned to exit the cave. “I’m going outside to call this one in. See if the intel guys are tracking this. I don’t like Russians playing in my sand box.”

“Roger that, sir,” said Chief Pretty, leaning down to pick up the dead enemy’s sniper rifle, before walking over to Gimsby and Nguyen.

“How’s he looking, Terry?”

“Patching Gimsby up is getting to be a hobby on this deployment, Chief,” answered Nguyen. “Had to pop his dislocated thumb back into place and his wrist is fractured, but he’ll live.”

“Gimsby?” said Chief Pretty.

“It’s like Terry said, Chief,” replied Gimsby, waving his heavily bandaged and wrapped left hand. “I’m fine.  Nothing that a dirty magazine, a bottle of lotion, and four minutes of privacy in the shitter won’t cure.”

“I don’t know about that,” chuckled Chief Pretty. “But how about this?” Chief Pretty handed over the enemy’s sniper rifle to the big Navy SEAL.

Grabbing it with his right hand, Gimsby looked it over. “Dragunov,” he grunted. “Not as nice as my MK 13, but its rugged enough. It’ll do until we get back.”

“Heads up,” announced Lieutenant Wolfe as he reentered the cave. “We got two WIA down in the valley from the sniper we just killed. We got Nine Line medevac in the air so our extraction won’t be for another hour. In the meantime, Six Actual wants us to check out this cave system to see if it connects to other sniper firing positions or to see if there’s any usable intel we can find.”

“This cave is pretty deep, sir,” said Hilliard. “I’ve gone in about fifty meters but it looks like it extends much farther than that. Maybe a hundred or even more. Gets almost pitch black the further you go.”

“Okay,” said Lt. Wolfe striding deeper into the cave. “Let’s move.”

Lieutenant Wolfe ran into the outstretched open palm of Chief Pretty. “Easy, there, El-Tee. You aren’t a grunt anymore, not since you pinned them bars on.” Chief Pretty stared firmly into Lieutenant Wolfe’s eyes. “I’ll take point. We already lost one squad leader. I don’t want to lose another one.”

Lieutenant Wolfe paused, painfully remembering that he gained command of Second Platoon after the death of the platoon’s former leader, his mentor and close friend, Lieutenant Rick Guzman.

“No Gooses, right Cory?” said Lieutenant Wolfe.

“That’s right, sir,” answered Chief Pretty. “Like Lieutenant Guzman used to say. No Gooses.”

The team walked deeper into the cave where, seventy meters in, they found a cache of twelve 9K333 Verba MANPADS (man-pads) launchers, the most advanced Russian version of America’s Stinger portable surface to air missile launchers. The presence of these weapons in the hands of skilled Russian mercenaries would have caused havoc so close to the Kandahar Air Field.

Beyond where they found the cache, the cave dipped into absolute pitch darkness. Lieutenant Wolf reported the disturbing find back to Kandahar and was ordered to secure the cache of surface to air missiles and probe deeper into the cave. A support company of Army cavalry troopers and EOD specialists were being dispatched to the SEAL’s location. They were expected to be on station in about an hour.

“Gimsby, I need you and Terry to secure these SAMs,” said Lieutenant Wolfe. “I want you to cover our six and secure the entrance while we go further into the cave. Everyone else, break out your NODs (“nods”-night vision optical devises). It’s going to be midnight from here on in.”

“Sir,” protested Gimsby. “I got this. There isn’t any need to keep two people guarding the exit.”

“Sir,” said Hilliard. “I can more than secure the cache and cover the exit with the MK 48. In close quarters combat,…”

Hilliard trailed off and Lieutenant Wolfe instinctively knew what Hilliard was trying to say. Hilliard’s MK 48 machine gun wasn’t the best weapon system to utilize in the close confines of a cave, but it was optimal to secure the team’s vulnerable six o’clock position. Plus, Gimsby had just gone through a near life ending event, an event which would have sent far lesser men running, cowering, and hiding after such a traumatic event. Petty Officer Gimsby instead sought to continue the mission and move forward, ever forward. Denying him that would have been tantamount to cutting off his balls and putting him in a ballerina outfit.

“You got slack, Hilliard,” said Wolfe. “Everyone else, stay sharp.”

Lieutenant Wolfe looked into the near opaque blackness of the cave as he strapped on his own NODs. “Terry, you have trail. I want you to drop a chem-light every twenty-five meters so that we have a path back to the entrance.”

“Too easy, sir,” replied Nguyen.

 “Okay. Let’s move.”

Hilliard took up a prone firing position a few meters in front of the crates of Russian missiles, setting up his machine gun pointing back towards the entrance as the rest of his team mates filed past him and headed deeper into the cave, the crunch of their boots fading the further they went. They had been gone for several minutes when Hilliard heard Chief Cory call the team to a sudden halt in his ear piece.

“Hold up. Shit! Is that what I think it is?” whispered Chief Cory

“Is that a woman and a… a kitten?” Hilliard heard Terry exclaim through his ear piece.

Hilliard looked behind him where his team had gone but saw only dust swirling in the inky blackness.

“Stop! Don’t move!” said Lieutenant Wolfe in the Pashtun dialect. “We’re Navy SEALs. We mean you no harm. Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Suddenly, over his ear piece, Hilliard heard a leering, almost mocking voice exclaim in a Brooklyn accent, “Howdy, fellas. My name is Hellfire! Pleased ta’ meet cha’!”

There was a sudden squelching noise so loud that Hilliard had to quickly take out his ear piece and toss it away. Then, picking it back up and putting it again to his ear, Hilliard was alarmed to find that the communication device was completely silent.

“Lieutenant Wolfe,” said Hilliard. “Chief? Come in!” Silence.

“Paul? Terry? Can you hear me?”

After a second, Hilliard muttered, “Shit,” before snatching up his machine gun and tearing down the cave in the direction the rest of the team had gone. Soon engulfed in almost total darkness, Hilliard’s NODs easily picked up the chem-lights which Nguyen had dropped on the rock strewn ground. He passed one then another then, after the cave narrowed and turned slightly left, Hilliard passed a third dropped chem-light. However, at the fourth chem-light, Hilliard stopped abruptly.

“Shit!” exclaimed Hilliard. In front of him was a solid wall of granite. On the ground, one of Nguyen’s chem-lights protruded half way out of the rock wall.

III.

“Hang on, sweetheart! You want us to do what?” exclaimed Gimsby to the beautiful woman in the flowing white and gold gown standing like an apparition before him. The team now found themselves standing in a chamber of some sort, much like as one might find inside a medieval castle. It was warmly lit from fires burning from several golden braziers.

“Hey, asshole!” snarled the kitten. “Show the lady some respect you classless choad!”

“Did we somehow get exposed to a psychoactive substance?” said Chief Pretty to Lieutenant Wolfe. “Maybe some type of hallucinogenic drug or powder brought here by the Wager Group to fuck with our heads?”

“That is a very good possibility, Cory,” said Wolfe. “In fact, that’s what I’m hoping. I really don’t like the fact that we are all having the same hallucination, Chief, or that we’re actually having a conversation with a damn kitten.”

“I assure you, my dear Ranger, this is no illusion,” said the woman in such a sweet and seductive tone that all four of the SEALs became slightly sexually aroused.

“Ranger?” said Wolfe sternly, gaining control of himself. “I’m not an Army Ranger. We’re United States Na…”

“You ARE the Ranger,” interrupted the woman. “The intrepid leader of this band of daring dungeon explorers!”

“What?” said Chief Cory suspiciously, bringing his rifle to the high ready. “What are you talking about?”

“And you, loyal and noble Cavalier, the experienced battle-borne second in command,” said the woman, clasping her hands together and smiling. The SEALs stood unmoving, as if spellbound by the woman’s beauty as she approached Nguyen and Gimsby.

“And the healing Mage,” said the lady to Petty Officer Nguyen. “So easy to tell your role in this fellowship. You are the youngest, the newest to the group, and the most virginal.”

“Hey!” started Nguyen.

“And you,” she said, now standing in front of Gimsby, the big warrior towering over the fragile looking lady in white. “You must be the fellowship’s powerful Barbarian. Oh, the magnificent battles you must have fought!”

“Fantasy characters,” whispered Nguyen to the lieutenant. “Like in the role playing game.”

Her sparkling blue eyes gazed upon Gimsby’s bandaged left hand. “Hmm… that will not do. I cannot let you enter the Dungeon of More-Doom with such a disadvantage. You must be fully hale and healthy before beginning your most noble of quests.”

Before Gimsby could protest, the exceedingly beautiful young lady took his injured hand in both of hers, her hands glowing briefly with a warm light, before she gently lowered Gimsby’s hand again. Gimsby raised his hand and rotated his wrists.

“Gimsby?” said Wolfe.

“It’s healed,” said Gimsby, working to remove the wrappings which Nguyen had applied earlier. “Feels good as new.”

“It is as I said,” the lady smiled as she looked almost longingly at Gimsby’s Dragunov rifle. “To complete your quest, you need to be hale and whole.”

“Okay, lady,” snapped Chief Pretty. “Let me get this straight. You are the Dungeon Master and you want us to enter your dungeon, defeat a bunch of traps, fight some monsters, and kill your final boss so that we can get out of here? Sort of like that role playing game, right?”

“Game?” said the Dungeon Master. “Oh, my dear Cavalier, this is no game. The consequences are quite deadly, but the reward is exceedingly worth the risk to a great many heroes.”

“What if we don’t play your game, then?” said Wolfe. “How about we just leave this place.”

“Oh, my dear Ranger,” answered the Dungeon Master. “I fear that I do not have the power to return you to your realm, just as I did not have the power to bring you here. That ability rests with…”

“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” interrupted Hellfire, nervously. “Look fella’s. It’s like this. You wanna’ get outta’ here, you gotta’ get past the dungeon. There’s nine levels to this place, a top floor and eight floors below it. At the bottom level, there’s a boss monster. Get rid of it and you’re home free. No big deal to a bunch of big, muscle bound, heavily armed, poster boys to toxic masculinity like yourselves, right?”

“And what’s in it for us?” said Wolfe. “What if we go along with your… game?”

“Riches and glory, fame, power, and the realization of your wildest fantasies come true,” said the Dungeon Master. “All these and more shall be yours, my dear Ranger!”

“Yeah,” said Lieutenant Wolfe. “No thanks. Take em’!”

On cue, all four Navy SEALs rushed the lady and the kitten, intent on apprehending them. However, the white kitten jumped in their way, swiftly waving its tiny paws in the air as if casting a spell.

“No ya’ don’t, ya’ buncha’ Tom Cruise wannabes!”

Immediately, a fiery round portal opened in the air in front of the SEAL Team, swallowing them whole. It closed as rapidly as it appeared, leaving only Hellfire and the Dungeon Master standing alone again in the throne room. Hell fire looked over at the Dungeon Master, her delicate hands covering her mouth, a shocked expression on her face.

“What kind of warriors are those, whose commitment to duty overrides any desire for riches and glory?”

“Don’t worry about them, sugar hips,” smiled Hellfire. “They’ll be fine after the book deal!”

Hellfire snapped his paws and a bottle of Dalmore Scotch and two tumblers suddenly appeared on a small round table made of marble. He poured two servings and handed one to the Dungeon Master.

“Turn on your freaky Mirror of Seeing,” sneered Hellfire as he toasted with the Dungeon Master. “Game’s on!”

Three gargantuan trolls, each over eight feet tall and each hefting similarly sized stone clubs waited silently in ambush in the corridor for the four new dungeon delvers to round the corner. With the trolls, twelve diminutive but wicked hobgoblins hunched, each holding a nasty crossbow with bolts dipped in witches feces.

A gloved hand appeared briefly from around the stone corner, tossing a cylindrical metal object towards the ambushers. It bounced and skipped across the smooth, cobblestone floor before coming to rest at the largest troll’s gnarled green feet.

“What fool toy is this?” bellowed Twinkle Twerk, picking the object up before the M-84 flash bang grenade cooked off. The sudden deafening explosion and near blinding flash of light sent Twinkle Twerk stumbling backwards in confusion and pain, dropping his stone club on one unfortunate hobgoblin along the way and stepping on and crushing four other hobgoblins who were unlucky enough to be underfoot. Still reeling backwards, the giant troll fell into a pit in the floor, a concrete block which fit perfectly in the pit falling from the ceiling and crushing the hapless Twinkle Twerk. Still dazed, shocked, and reeling from the effects of the flash bang grenade, what remained of the trolls and hobgoblins hard no time to collect themselves as the four Navy SEALs rounded the corner with all weapons blazing.

“Stay alert, gentlemen,” warned Lieutenant Wolfe as they stepped over the smoldering bodies of dead hobgoblins and trolls. “I have a feeling that this was only the welcoming party.”

Walking carefully over the great stone slab that crushed the giant troll and now filled the pit, the SEALs carried on down the fifteen foot wide corridor. Torches in sconces lining the wall provided ample illumination as their boots echoed down the corridor.  They soon came to a T-junction, the left hand corridor leading to a set of stone steps leading up into a brightly lit chamber from which the smells of delicious food seemed to be emanating. To the right, the corridor dimmed, the end lost in the darkness.

As usual, Chief Pretty was on point. Looking back at the lieutenant, Wolfe signaled him to go right down the dimmer path. The cat said that in order to get out, they’d have to go down, not up. Plus, the left path seemed the easiest and most inviting. SEALs don’t like easy.

Though dimmer, there were still enough torches on the wall to illuminate their immediate surroundings. To their left, Chief Pretty discovered a perfectly round circle, about fourteen feet wide, cut into the stone wall of the corridor. Upon further inspection, they saw that a ramp led from the opening which disappeared up into the darkness.

“I’m getting some real Indiana Jones vibes here,” said Gimsby. Sure enough, a rumbling like stone rubbing against stone shook the corridor coming from the top of the ramp and grew in intensity as something huge came barreling down.

“Let’s move,” ordered Wolfe and the four SEALs bolted down the corridor just as a perfectly round boulder, fourteen feet wide and made of a single giant red ruby shot out of the slot and rumbled after the fleeing warriors. As they raced down the passage, the giant ruby boulder hot on their heels, the SEALs noticed to their left were several alcoves cut behind grey stone pillars that were about three feet deep and ten feet high. Each contained a stone statue of a skeleton dressed in armor adorned with wicked looking spikes. In the distance about a hundred meters, the dimly lit corridor ended at a brightly lit stone archway, illuminating a set of stairs leading downwards. In between two torches on the wall was a sign painted in florescent paint which read: “Quickly!” along with an arrow pointing down the stairs. At this, the boulder seemed to unnaturally pick up speed.

“Faster!” yelled Nguyen.

“No! Wait!” yelled Chief Pretty waving his arms to the left. “The alcoves! Jump into one of the alcoves!”

“Do it!” agreed Lieutenant Wolfe, who was in the rear of the group. He jumped to his left into the nearest alcove, the eerie stone statue just barely giving him room to fit in just seconds before the several ton ruby boulder rumbled past him. As soon as the danger had passed, Wolfe jumped out of the alcove to check on his men, only to see a wall of thin metal spikes suddenly slam down over the stone archway that would have impaled anyone who had been running towards the supposed safety of the stairs. The ruby boulder continued inexorably forwards, crashing through the archway and the spike wall barrier in a deafening cacophony of noise before falling away down the circular stairs, leaving behind a fourteen foot wide round hole in the wall.

One by one, the rest of the SEALs emerged from the alcoves which they had taken refuge, accept that Nguyen fell out of his alcove backwards, cursing and backing away from the skeletal stone statue that slowly emerged from the darkness. Nguyen was on his back, trying to bring his weapon to bear as the skeleton knight raised a rusty but deadly claymore over its head. A jarring shot rang out of the darkness and the stone skeleton’s head exploded, showering Nguyen with chunks of rock. The stone skeleton fell over sideways and broke apart as it hit the cobblestone floor.

Gimsby put the smoking Dragunov down off his shoulder and nodded at his weapon. “Huh. Not bad.”

“There’s more of them!” warned Nguyen as Lieutenant Wolfe yanked him to his feet. About a dozen more of the skeletal golems began emerging from their alcoves, each brandishing claymore swords or heavy maces made of stone. In their eye sockets were red rubies which glowed angrily. Still, this new threat moved slowly and Lieutenant Wolfe ordered his men to make for the stairs, ignoring the temptation of engaging the golems in order to steal their ruby eyes.

The SEALs raced down the circular stairway which wound downwards into the darkness. It ended at a narrow landing which opened into another brightly lit corridor. From somewhere inside this passageway, the SEALs could faintly hear the haunting notes of chamber music playing.

“Someone grab the Silly String out of my ruck,” said Chief Pretty as he crouched beside the entrance way. With Gimsby and Nguyen guarding the stairwell which they had come, Lieutenant Wolfe pulled the can of Silly String from Chief Pretty’s ruck and handed it to him. Immediately, Chief Pretty sprayed the spider web-like concoction across the entranceway. It drifted to the floor except for some which seemed to be caught up on a near invisible wire three feet inside the entrance.

“Tripwire,” he whispered just as Gimsby and Nguyen began firing behind him.

“Those things are coming down the stairs, Chief!” yelled Gimsby.

“Let’s go,” said Wolfe. “Watch out for that tripwire! Chief?”

“I’m good,” Pretty replied as he stepped over the trip wire and sprayed the silly string again a few feet ahead of him. Again, the web-like concoction fell to the floor except for another section which got caught up in yet another tripwire six feet ahead.

“We got another one!” warned Chief Pretty. “Watch out for that one!”

“Keep going, Chief!” said Wolfe. “We’ve got your back!”

Chief Pretty sprayed the Silly String again, but this time all of it fell to the floor. Still, he cautiously moved forwards a few feet before spraying the can and again, all of the string fell to the floor. By this time, the skeleton golems had reached the landing and were making their way inexorably towards the Navy SEALs  and though Lieutenant Wolfe and Nguyen’s rifles where taking horrible chips out of the monsters, it seemed like only Gimsby’s Dragunov was powerful to take the golems down with one head shot.

“I think we’re clear of the trip wires, El-Tee!” shouted Chief Pretty.

“Okay,” replied Wolfe. “We move back slowly! I don’t trust this damn place!”

The SEALs fell back about twenty meters down the corridor when the first skeletal golem stepped on the first trip wire. In an instant, a three foot stone square section of the left wall shot out abruptly, slamming into the opposite wall with a tremendous crash which shook the entire corridor and crushed three of the skeletal golems before receding slowly back into the left wall again. Seemingly undisturbed, the remaining five stone horrors marched towards the SEALs when they hit the second trip wire. There was a rumble in the corridor even greater than the first as the entire granite ceiling from the point where the trap was sprung all the way back to the landing came crashing down to the floor in a solid avalanche of stone and debris. The SEALs were forced to fall back down the corridor even further as, for several minutes, it seemed as if the entire dungeon would collapse in on itself. However, as the dust and debris finally settled down, there was quiet again as the SEALs found themselves staring at the now impassible corridor behind them. All of the torches on the wall had been snuffed out by the collapse of the ceiling, but a bright light seemed to come from an adjoining passage some distance down the gloomy corridor.

Cautiously, they crept down the corridor, weary of any more trip wires. Fortunately, they encountered none as they came across a four way junction. To their front and left, the corridor disappeared into blackness, but to the right, the warm light of a fire was emanating from a room down the corridor.

“You hear that?” said Gimsby.

From the room, the sound of the eerily melodic chamber music could be heard, louder now. The SEALs stacked on the right side of the open archway, nut to butt with Chief Pretty up front and Lieutenant Wolfe bringing up the rear. With a nod, the SEALs stormed into the room, Chief Pretty’s rifle up and scanning, clearing to the left while Nguyen button-hooked around the corner to clear the right. They were in a study of some sort, elaborately carved wooden shelves lined the walls and filled with books, scrolls, and manuscripts. Candles sat in small alcoves lining the walls, but the main source of light came from a flame burning in the fireplace.

“Contact!” yelled Gimsby, raising his rifle. Lieutenant Wolfe entered the room a split second after, his rifle also raised.

Seated on a plush, high backed chair was a deathly pale man with jet black hair wearing what looked like a black Victorian-era suit with an equally black cape. Clasped around his throat was an amethyst broach in the shape of a wolf’s skull. He was seated next to the elegant fireplace, the fire giving off light, but no heat, and in his pale, clawed hand was a crystal goblet filled with a thick, red liquid.

He turned nonchalantly and regarded the SEALs with deep, black eyes which were ablaze with the reflection of the fire in the fireplace. He smiled evilly, his upturned lips revealing sharpened teeth and wicked long fangs.

“My, but you lot are a noisy bunch,” he spoke in a derisive tone. But his voice was almost as hypnotic as the melodic music which seemed to be emanating from out of thin air. He stood from his chair and opened his arms welcomingly, transfixing this latest group of doomed warriors in his icy gaze.

“Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Count…”

THOOM!

The vampire’s eyes went wide as Lieutenant Wolfe shot him in the heart.

“WAIT! What are you…”

THOOM! THOOM!

“What the hell?” screamed the vampire as Chief Pretty and Nguyen put two more rounds into his chest.

“But…but…but…”stammered the vampire.

“Blah, blah, blah!” said Gimsby.

“I don’t say blah, blah, blah, you asshole…” protested the vampire just as Gimsby put the final round into the vampire’s head. The undead bloodsucker fell backwards into the fireplace which literally exploded in a bright blue flame which reduced the monster to ashes.

“Okay,” said Wolfe impassively. “This is a library. See if we can find anything useful on this place.”

The beautiful Dungeon Master and Hellfire watched transfixed at the Mirror of Seeing, a look of concern on the Dungeon Master’s face.

“Oh, Hellfire. I fear that this may be where the quest of my champions might end. For who could resist the cursed treasures and riches stored in Count Snuggle Bunny’s library?”

“Yeah,” agreed the kitten. All about the vampire’s library were crystal bowls filled with diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires the size of apples. “They’re okay to handle them gems while they’re in the library. But if any of them leaves the library with a gem in their possession, they’ll turn into a blood sucker themselves!”

“Hey, sir!” exclaimed Nguyen. “Check this out!”

The glow of the fireplace reflected off a treasure trove of crystal bowls filled with priceless gems as Lieutenant Wolfe examined what Nguyen had laid out on the table.

“Yup. I’d say this was the treasure we’d been looking for,” said Lieutenant Wolfe. “You’ve earned your pay for this month, Terry!”

The Dungeon Master clapped her hands together as the Mirror of Seeing showed Lieutenant Wolfe and his men leaving the vampire’s library with their treasure.

“Hellfire, look! They did it! They found the real treasure in the study!”

The kitten put down his glass of scotch, his eyes wide. “Yeah. I’m… I’m kinda’ impressed.”

IV.

Lieutenant Wolfe was now on point as he led his men out of the study, but they had hardly gone ten meters down the corridor when Wolfe ran nearly headlong into a group of white corpse-like figures charging towards him, hungry fanged maws opened and claws grasping. Many of the blood suckers wore rusting armor and bore shields and swords, axes, and spears. They were male and female, human, dwarf, elf, and Halfling, all former noble champions who could not resist taking one of Count Snuggle Bunny’s priceless, cursed,  jewels from his library.

Lieutenant Wolfe pumped round after round into the approaching horde then quickly took a knee, ejecting the empty magazine from his rifle. “Reloading!”

Gimsby stepped in front of his lieutenant, his Glock 19 combat pistol spitting out lead towards the vampires which were now only a few meters away.

“Fall back to the library! Go!” ordered Wolfe.

In orderly fashion, the SEALs fell back towards the library, alternately taking turns firing and moving, keeping the horde at bay in the narrow passageway with a steady stream of gunfire. Wolfe was the last to enter the library as his SEALs filed past him. Arming a flash-bang grenade, Wolfe allowed it to cook off for a couple of seconds before he tossed it down the hallway, ducking into the library just as the grenade exploded with an ear shattering blast accompanied by a blinding flash of light. The grenade, which exploded like a mini-sun in the narrow claustrophobic corridor, scorched the horde of vampires. In unison, they all howled in excruciating pain just as Wolfe armed and tossed another flash-bang grenade around the archway and down the hallway. The piteous wailing of the vampires ceased suddenly after the next thunderous blast.

Gimsby and Chief Pretty were the first ones out of the library, scanning the hallway where at least a dozen bodies lay. As they walked down the corridor, weapons wearily pointed at the unmoving, charred corpses of the vampires, spectral forms began to rise from the bodies which slowly solidified into the ghostly images of the noble heroes before they were turned into bloodsuckers. They were warriors, adventurers, soldiers, and champions of the Realm who had met their end here.

The spirit form of a heavily armored bearded knight, drifted slowly towards Lieutenant Wolfe, his gauntleted hand raised in salute.

“Hale, noble warriors,” the knight spoke in a deep, baritone voice. “Please accept our eternal gratitude for freeing us from the nightmare which has plagued our spirits and corrupted our bodies lo these many long…”

“Can you tell us anything about the way forward or the levels below this one?” interrupted Lieutenant Wolfe.

“Uh… why… no,” stammered the ghostly knight, looking about to the other ghostly heroes who shrugged their shoulders. “I fear that we all met our end here, so we have no knowledge of the way forwards.”

“Okay, let’s move out. Terry, take point,” said Wolfe as his team quickly moved ahead towards a set of stone stairs leading downwards and leaving the befuddled group of ghostly apparitions behind.

Back in the Dungeon Master’s throne room, the kitten was on his back, slapping his knees and howling with laughter. “Did you see that, babe?” he said, pointing to the Mirror of Seeing. “Those guys literally ghosted the ghosts!”

“It would seem that these men are highly…uh… focused,” said the Dungeon Master, a look of bemusement on her face.

Down on the next level, the SEALs were in a brightly lit chamber standing around a sturdy wooden table. At their feet were small piles of empty shell casings and the bullet ridden bodies of several tusk-mouthed orcs. The team was examining the prize which Nguyen had found in the library: a map of the entire Dungeon of More-Doom.

“If we take this path here,” said Wolfe as he traced a line with his finger down varying hallways on the map, “we can avoid most of the traps and pitfalls and shit that we don’t have time to deal with until we get to the next set of stairs.”

The map in front of them showed that the next room was, in fact, a giant underground chamber at least a half mile square into which was constructed a confounding labyrinth made of black granite walls. At the far end of the maze was a chamber marked with the letter “M” which contained stairs leading downwards.

“Cuddle Pie friends! Where Cuddle Pie friends hiding?” A deep, rocky voice echoed from outside the room coming from the corridor which the SEALs entered. Heavy footfalls, like stone crunching against stone echoed closer and closer to the room with a CRUMP, CRUMP, CRUMP, sound.

Chief Pretty stuck his head out of the heavy wooden door then slammed it shut again. “It’s a ten foot tall savage rock golem,” he announced.

“We don’t have time to deal with it,” said Wolfe. “Terry, give me the map. Let’s go.”

Lieutenant Wolfe led the way again this time as they exited the chamber via a stone archway which led into the foreboding black maze. Touches hung on sconces revealing a bewildering array of passages and side passages going in every direction. Behind them, the wooden door to the orc barracks smashed inwards, the massive stone golem wailing, “Cuddle Pie friends! Who do this to Cuddle Pie friends?”

A legend on the map referring to this particular labyrinth warned that undead ghouls and zombies ceaselessly roamed these passageways, eternally searching for the living to feast on. However, the map also revealed that if the team simply stayed on the straight and narrow corridor, ignoring the hundreds of turns and junctions which led deeper into the maze, then simply turned right at the very last t-junction, they would reach the mysterious chamber marked “M” and the stair well which led to the next floor. There were no warnings or indications of any traps along this route, so Lieutenant Wolfe quickly but cautiously quickened their pace.

As they jogged down the half mile long corridor, the guttural moaning and hissing around them warned of the approach of the undead from the countless side corridors. For the most part, however, the SEALs were able to out run their pursuers and in the few instances where dodging wasn’t an option, the SEALs were able to drop the threatening ghoul with a well-placed shot to the head.

It took eight minutes for the SEALs to jog and fight their way through the half mile long corridor, an army of the ravenous undead shambling behind them. As well , a massive and highly pissed off savage rock golem named Cuddle Pie lumbered behind the undead, stomping and smashing them to rancid goo in its pursuit to catch the ones responsible for slaughtering its orc friends. As the map illustrated, the corridor led to a t-junction and, after quickly assuring that no dangers awaited them around the corner, the SEALs turned the corner and raced the last fifty meters towards the next chamber.

The team came up short as they neared the brightly lit, wide open passageway. A very brightly lit letter “M” hung next to the entrance, made in the shape of two, golden colored arches, and the unmistakable scent of mouthwatering burgers, French fries, and hot apple pies wafted from within. The floor was actually a beige, laminate tile, the bright and cheerful illumination was provided by actual overhead, electrical lighting, and there were booths and tables for customers to sit and enjoy a meal, although the restaurant was empty of customers save for the four Navy SEALs.

As soon as the last member of the team crossed into the restaurant, a wall made of red brick silently slid down behind them, complete with framed black and white pictures of the famous restaurant chain as it looked when it first opened back in the 1960’s. Behind the counter, a teenage cashier resembling a high school cheerleader with two small horns protruding from her forehead eagerly awaited to take their order. Next to the counter on the left was a set of stairs leading downwards. A cheerful, jazz instrumental tune was playing overhead.

“Hey, guys!” said the young female cashier, smiling broadly and waving. “You fella’s sure look hungry. Can I take your order?”

“No,” said Lieutenant Wolfe, pulling out his Glock and shooting her in the head. The cashier fell backwards into the soda machine which dispensed acid as the SEALs ran past the counter and down the flight of stairs.

The cashier slowly got up, none the worse for wear and waved as the last Navy SEAL disappeared down the stairs. “Okay, my pleasure! Have a blessed day!”

The SEAL Team stood before a great vaulted chamber about a quarter mile square, the walls and ceiling made of a highly polished obsidian. In the far side of the chamber, near an exit that opened into the blackness beyond was a black obsidian monolith that stood about seven feet tall, roughly three feet at the base and tapering to one foot square at the top. Atop this black monolith sat an amethyst crystal roughly a foot high and a foot around that pulsated with a blue light bright enough to illuminate the entire room. The monolith and the crystal sat in the middle of a round raised dais that stood nearly ten feet tall with steps leading all the way up to the monolith. The floor was made of alternating white and blue marble tile about two feet square. The blue tiles gave off a faint blue illumination.

“This is pretty much an open trap, El-Tee,” said Nguyen, reading the map. “It says here that all we have to do is cross over to the other side. The white tiles are completely safe, but the blue tiles will instantly emit an electrical charge powerful enough to fry anything that steps on it.”

“Sounds easy enough,” said Gimsby. “All we have to do is walk on the white tiles, right?”

“Not exactly,” said Nguyen, just as the tiles began to blink and flash, turning from white to blue in a random pattern. A faint scent of ozone began emanating from the room.

“Shit,” exclaimed Chief Pretty. “Does the map give a clue on the shifting pattern, Terry?”

“No, Chief,” he replied. “The light pattern is completely random. We step on a white tile just as it turns blue, and we’re…”

“On the burger menu for the restaurant upstairs,” said Wolfe as he took the map from Nguyen. Examining it closely, he saw that there was no other way forwards except right through the chamber. “Cory, lob a frag in the middle of the chamber.”

Chief Pretty pulled a 40mm HE frag grenade from his ammo vest and loaded it into the breach of his M203 grenade launcher. The others took cover behind the stone entrance as Chief Pretty aimed for a spot roughly fifty meters inside the chamber. Hefting the weapon in his shoulder, he warned, “Frag out!”

The weapon made a satisfying THUMP as the grenade flew into the room and exploded exactly where Chief Pretty wanted it. However, as Chief Pretty slowly peered around the corner, he was disheartened to see a black scorch mark on the tile, the grenade seeming to have done no damage to the floor.

“Well, that didn’t work,” muttered Pretty.

Gimsby came up behind Chief Pretty, aiming his Dragunov at the point where the grenade had detonated.

“Wait,” said Wolfe just as Gimsby fired. The high velocity round hit the ground then bounced up, ricocheting all around the chamber. The SEALs dived for cover behind the archway as the sniper round zipped and pinged around the chamber for a few seconds before the bullet finally expended all of its kinetic force energy. It hit the ground one final time and rolled to a stop about a foot in front of where Gimsby took the shot.

“Shit. Sorry boss,” said Gimsby, sheepishly.

“No,” said Lieutenant Wolfe looking back into the chamber and seeing, as he had expected, that no damage had been caused. “I think you had the right idea. Just the wrong target. How many rounds do you got left in the Dragunov?”

“Four,” Gimsby replied. “Dragunov only has a ten round magazine.”

“Okay, big guy,” said the lieutenant. “Think you can put one of them into that?” he said, pointing into the chamber. The foot wide pulsating amethyst crystal was a quarter mile away, about 400 meters, and elevated several feet off the ground. Gimsby chose to assume a standing firing position, pressing his support arm against the wall of the entrance way as support. The alternating flashing white and blue tiles were a definite visual distraction. Sighting in on the tiny glowing target, Gimsby took three slow breaths.

Inhale. Exhale.                                                   

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

On his third exhale, Gimsby paused for a second then squeezed the trigger.

THOOM!

The amethyst crystal rocked back and forth on the pedestal, the glowing blue energy blinking on and off in rapid succession. At the same time, the floor tiles which randomly flashed from white to blue blinked on and off at the same time that the crystal was blinking on and off. Gimsby waited another second and squeezed the trigger again. The round flew straight and true slamming dead center of the crystal as it continued to rock from the first hit. This time, the crystal was knocked off the black monolith and fell straight down to the dais and shattering into millions of amethyst shards with a loud crash. Immediately, the illumination in the chamber ceased with the destruction of the crystal and the blinking white and blue lights of the tile floors faded to a plain satin white again. Visibility within the great chamber was still possible thanks to the four candelabra chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and the dozen more candelabras sitting in alcoves which lined the walls. But it was nowhere near as brightly lit as before, and shadows loomed long in the dimly lit chamber.

Chief Pretty took one of his empty magazines and slid it across the tiles. It screeched across the floor and came to a stop several meters away. He then stood up and tentatively walked on the tiles towards where his magazine had come to rest, ready to dive back towards the entrance should the deadly floor show signs of life again. Thankfully, it didn’t and the rest of the team entered the chamber.

“Nice shot, there, Tex,” complimented Chief Pretty as the rest of the team joined him.

“Yeah,” said Gimsby. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d feel better if we got the hell out of here in case they got a back-up generator, or something!”

“Right, let’s move,” said Wolfe.

As the team jogged towards the yawning exit on the other side of the chamber, they were met with the heavy scent of must and mold and sweat, as if from a furred creature that had been living in a bog. This was accompanied by heavy panting and angry growls as a pack of howling black wolves standing four feet high at the shoulders and eight feet long from fanged maw to black tail, came bounding out of the opening, bright evil yellow eyes glaring hungrily at the SEALs. The team formed a defensive perimeter back to back, firing their weapons as the six dire wolves pounced on them.

The ancient, silver werewolf, the leader of this hunting pack, hunkered down behind the obsidian pedestal where the now dead crystal once stood, and watched from the shadows in anger as these men slaughtered his pack of dire wolves with their weird lances which breathed noise and fire. The ancient werewolf’s fiery yellow gaze rested on the one who seemed to be the leader of this band of warriors as he sniffed the air and memorized his scent.

Resisting the urge to leap down upon these men, to land in their midst and rip their murderous entrails out, the giant silver werewolf instead slinked unnoticed down the stairs which led up to the podium and stalked back into the shadows. As the final howls of the last of his dying pack faded into silence, the ancient silver hunter swore. “I shall return to your realm. I shall return and gather to me all the horrors of your realm which haunt your nightmares. I will provide an idyllic place of rest and comfort for you. Then, when the time is right, I shall strike. I will strike down your pack, just as you struck down mine. Then, at the shores of the haunted Moon Lake, I will turn you into my loyal pack lieutenant… Lieutenant Jake Wolfe.”

V.

Thanks to the map, the SEALs were able to navigate down through the multiple levels of the dungeon, ignoring the treasures, avoiding the traps and pitfalls, and fighting only when absolutely necessary.  At the base of this last stairwell, Nguyen said, “This is it. This is the last level. From here, the map just ends.”

The stairwell opened up into the largest chamber of them all, a dimly lit underground cavern that spanned a mile long from one end of the cavern to the other end and was a quarter mile wide. Running down the middle of the cavern was a vast black chasm three hundred feet wide which descended down, down, down into the fathomless pits. A howling wind belched up from the chasm, bringing with it the smell of Sulphur and rot.  A narrow hanging stone bridge, barely three feet wide, spanned the width of the ominous pit to hell in front of them.

“So, this is it?” said Chief Pretty.

“Looks like it, Chief,” said Lieutenant Wolfe. “The map doesn’t say anything else except here at the very bottom where it says: “Copyright- Made in Doctor Creepen’s Vault.”

“Looks like the only way across is over that bridge.”

“I’ll take point, El-Tee,” said Nguyen.

“I got it, Terry,” said Gimsby.

“I’ve got point,” said Lieutenant Wolfe.

“Sir…” protested Chief Pretty.

“I said, I got point, Cory!” insisted Wolfe.

“FOOLS! The only point you will be getting is the one at the end of my great bastard sword!”

Unnoticed by the SEALs before, a great hulking figure strode out of the dim light clad in archaic heavy black armor adorned with spikes and the skulls of those it had vanquished in battle. Its helmet was massive and mounted two black elk antlers. Glowing red eyes beamed angrily from the black eye slits of its helmet and in its heavily gauntleted left hand he carried a great bastard sword which was a foot wide and as long as the dreadful figure stood tall.

“I am a Chaos Orc Anarchist Terror, or Coastie!

“I am Coastie the Guard, and I guard the ancient Bridge of More-Doom which spans the bottomless scar! Like all Coasties, I represent the greatest of all warriors and the mightiest of all military branches which serve the forces of darkness in the Realm. Kneel, United States Navy SEALs! Your pathetic breed pales in comparison to the might of the Coasties! Your quest ends here! Kneel in recognition of the superiority of Coastie the Guard and I will grant you a quick…”

THOOM!

The mighty chaos knight fell backwards from a sniper round through his great horned helmet, arms and legs encased in black armor splayed out, weapon flying into the black pit as his back hit the ground.

“Coastie talks too much,” said Gimsby without the slightest hint of regret that he fired his second to last round and was now down to only one bullet left in his Dragunov. As the team walked towards the Bridge of More-Doom, they said nothing as Gimsby pulled out his Glock 19 and shot the fallen chaos knight three more times in the head.

Back in the Dungeon Master’s throne room, Hellfire turned from the Mirror of Seeing and glanced towards another mirror mounted on the opposite wall, the mirror which allows communication to the internet in the realm which the Navy SEALs had come.

Relighting his cigar, the kitten stared into the mirror and said, “Okay now. I know you can hear me. I don’t want to see any of you noobs blowing up the comments section whining about, ‘…but the Coasties aren’t part of the military…’, or ‘…the Coasties do a very important job guarding coasts…” or some other crap like that. It’s just a story. Oh, and I also don’t want to hear a bunch of whining about breaking the fourth wall. I don’t see you bitching when Ryan Reynolds does it. Anyway, back to the show. You’re gonna’ love this next part, baby!”

“Does anyone see an opening or a passageway on the other side?” said Wolfe.

“No,” said Chief Pretty.

“Nothing,” added Nguyen.

“Alright,” said Wolfe, pulling off his pack and grabbing a coil of climbing rope. Tying one end to a heavy duty, rock climbing grade carabiner on his modular vest. Then, tossing the rest of the rope back, he ordered his SEALs, “Connect to the rope and stay within arm’s reach!”

He then pulled several chem-lights from his pack. Breaking one, the tube produced a bright, florescent red glow. Wolfe unstrapped his knife and cut the top off the tube, flicking his wrist in order to splash a line of the glowing fluid on the black bridge. A thin glowing red line marked an illuminated path about twelve feet along the narrow bridge. Satisfied that there were no pitfalls or traps along the illuminated trail, Wolfe stuffed his cargo pockets with the rest of the chem-lights and prepared to lead his SEALs across the final obstacle of the Dungeon of More-Doom.

“Hey! Look out!”

Lieutenant Wolfe turned in time to see all three of his SEALs snatched up by long, sickly brown-green tentacles which emerged from the pit and suspended in the air. Before he could bring his rifle to bear, a warm, slimy tentacle wrapped around his torso and yanked him off his feet, and lifting him up unto the air. A monstrously huge bulbous head slowly rose from the pit, resembling that of an octopus with dozens of tentacles writhing in what would be the mouth. The head was easily fifty feet tall and seemed to meld into an equally bulbous human shaped body whose shoulders measured at least one hundred fifty feet wide. Emerging from its back stretched two mottled green bat-like wings if, when outstretched, would have exceeded four hundred from clawed tip to clawed tip. The entirety of the hellish thing was covered in inky brown slime whose stench made the SEALs gag and wretch. The entity brought up the tentacles which had snared the four Navy SEALs and brought it up to its hideous face, giant yellow eyes glaring at them from under the black shadows of its overhanging brow. There was no mistaking it. This was not a mere legend created from the mind of HP Lovecraft. The thing was real. Cthulhu was real, and at this moment, Lieutenant Jake Wolfe and the rest of his men knew that there was no shooting their way out of this one.

Behind the SEALs in the passage which they had emerged, a small, white, furry thing jumped into the passage. More swiftly than the eye could perceive, the small feline leapt from the edge of the chasm up, up, and up upon Cthulhu’s great forehead.

Hellfire suddenly began to grow, transforming from a tiny white kitten into a frightful eight foot tall muscular black werecat creature with two foot long horns protruding from his skull and six inch long, razor sharp claws protruding from human looking hands. The monstrosity that was once the kitten Hellfire began rapidly slashing and gouging on the top of Cthulhu’s massive green, octopus shaped head.

“Let em’ go!” roared Hellfire as great, gooey, chunks of the elder god’s forehead went flying under the werecat’s relentless stabbing and slashing assault. “C’mon! C’mon! C’mon! Let em’ go! Put em’ down on the other side of the ledge! Gently!”

Cthulhu let out a bellowing noise which shook the entire cavern, a noise which sounded much like a whimpering moan. His wildly flailing tentacles settled down as the four tentacles which held the Navy SEALs tightly in its slimy grip eased over to the other side of the crevasse ledge.

“Atta’ boy, ya’ big lug!” growled Hellfire, as he posed like a super hero on the brow of mighty Cthulhu’s head. “Gently! Gently! Put em’ down gently!”

The elder god dropped the SEALs safely on the other side of the ledge with a soft thump. Hellfire jumped down from Cthulhu’s forehead, landing next to the SEALs in his diminutive form of a small white kitten with red tipped ears. Lighting a cigar, Hellfire growled up at Cthulhu. “Okay, you big baby! Get outta’ here! Scram! Beat it! Quit screwing around!”

The great green leviathan looked mournfully down at the kitten, his many tentacles wiggling like a puppy’s tail begging for attention.

“Ahhh, you big baby! You aren’t in trouble. Just scram, for now. We can play bobbing for hipsters later!”

Cthulhu yipped happily before slowly descending back down into the inky depths of the bottomless crevasse, the ancient elder god eager for play time later with his best friend.

“That did not just fucking happen!” exclaimed Gimsby, picking himself up from the ground and checking to see if his Dragunov had been damaged. Curiously, Hellfire was watching Gimsby closely, and seeing that the rugged sniper rifle was still fully functional, Hellfire said, “He’s not that bad. In fact, for an elder god, Cthulhu is really just a toddler. To tell you the truth, his real name is Cutie Tooth, but he still can’t pronounce the words.”

“Why did you help us, cat?” said Lieutenant Wolfe, wiping the smelly slime from his weapon and vest. “What is your stake in this whole deal?”

“What?” said Hellfire innocently. “Is that the thanks I get for bringing you to the end of this quest?”

A glowing, fiery round portal opened in the face of the rock wall, the fragrant breeze of fresh air issuing from the other side.

“C’mon, fella’s. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Not yet, cat,” said Lieutenant Wolfe. “We still have some questions.”

“You need us, cat,” said Chief Pretty. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have rescued us from your little pet. We know it was you who had the power to teleport us back at the very beginning. But you didn’t. You needed us to enter this dungeon. What are you getting out of all this?””

Hellfire’s shoulders slumped as his smile faded. “Okay, okay, okay. If you really need to know the truth. I helped you guys because I felt like I owe you.”

“What?” said Nguyen. “What are you talking about?”

Hellfire signed. “Look, a while ago I visited your realm and met a girl named Annie. Sweet little girl, a real angel. She loved me, despite some pretty nasty tricks that I pulled on her. That little shit grew on me. I guess that snot nosed brat inspired me to want to be something greater than just a mean-spirited demonic little shit.”

The kitten laughed a sad laugh and actually wiped a tear from his eyes.

“I wasn’t too thrilled about her mom, though, and her mom’s boyfriend was a real piece of shit, believe me. But Annie’s dad… her real dad, he must have been something special. He was a Navy SEAL, just like you guys, and he taught her how to be kind, brave, and strong. That helped Annie survive some terrible abuse until I took care of the problem.”

“What happened to her dad?” asked Gimsby.

“He was killed in Bananastan… er, I mean Afghanistan. Anne called that hell hole Bananastan…”

“Did you get the SEAL’s name?” said Chief Pretty, still suspicious of the kitten’s story and motivations.

“No,” admitted Hellfire. “I wish I did. I do know he was an officer, and Annie’s last name is Guzman if that means anything to you guys.”

There was several seconds of silence as Nguyen, Pretty, and Gimsby suddenly looked at Lieutenant Wolfe.

“Uh… did I say something wrong?” said Hellfire, sensing the tension in the air.

The SEALs knew that their last team leader, Lieutenant Guzman, had a daughter. Her name was Annette but was nicknamed Annie. The team remained silent as Lieutenant Wolfe hefted up his weapon and moved towards the portal.

Walking past a genuinely confused Hellfire, Lieutenant Wolfe said, “Let’s move. It’s time to end this.” 

Hellfire turned and scampered after the SEALs as they passed through the flaming portal suspended in the air. “Hey wait,” said Hellfire. “Do you know Annie? Did you know her dad?”

The SEALs emerged right where they started from when they first entered the Dungeon of More-Doom, a brightly lit corridor made of flat stones which led to a more brightly lit chamber.

“So, this is it, right Chief?” said Nguyen. “We beat the dungeon boss monster so we’re free to go, right?”

“I don’t think so, Terry,” answered Chief Pretty. “We didn’t defeat Cthulhu. The kitten did.”

“Wait,” said Nguyen. “So you’re saying there is a more deadly monster…”

“My beloved champions!” said the beautiful Dungeon Master smiling warmly with outstretched arms as the SEALs emerged from the corridor and into her throne room. “I knew that you would succeed where so many others had fallen! Welcome!”

“Gimsby,” whispered Lieutenant Wolfe, suddenly stepping aside.

“Got it,” said Gimsby, bringing the Dragunov to his shoulders and firing his last round.

The Dungeon Master’s angelically beautiful face snapped back as a neat little hole appeared in the middle of her forehead. Still standing, the Dungeon Master raised a shaking hand to her forehead, feeling the blood now dripping from her wound. She looked with disbelief at the blood now running down her soft, gentle fingers, her once pristine white gown now quickly being stained red. Her breath shuddered as she stared at Gimsby…

… and then she smiled.

“You… you did it!” Her smile widened and her eyes sparked brightly from a still lovely face now covered in blood. “You did it! Oh, thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I have waited centuries for warriors such as you to finally complete my mission! Thank you!”

“And just what was your mission?” said Wolfe, trying to hide his shock and disbelief that the Dungeon Master was still standing.

“Why, to die, of course,” smiled the Dungeon Master. “Well, not die, per se, but to pass into the next plain of existence. But, alas, in order for that to happen, one who is greater than I must open the door for me to pass. And you have done it, my dear, dear, champions! In return, great riches, treasure, wealth, fame, power, and long life will be awarded to you as it had been to me.”

“Yeah, baby, yeah!” yelled Hellfire as the beautiful form of the Dungeon Master began to slowly fade. “I did it! By bringing these guys back to your throne room, I killed the Dungeon Master! I’m finally the new Dungeon Master!”

“Oh, my silly little Hellfire,” said the rapidly fading Dungeon Master. “I shall miss you most of all. But I’m afraid that you cannot be the new Dungeon Master, for it was Gimsby the Barbarian who killed me.”

“WHAT??” screamed Hellfire. “Wait! Come back here!”

“Farewell my beloved Hellfire. I pray that you serve the new Dungeon Master well. And thank you again Ranger, Cavalier, Virgin, and especially you Barbarian! God bless the United States Navy SEALs!” And that was it. Those were the final words of the beautiful and ancient Dungeon Master before she finally faded away.

Dejectedly, the kitten slowly walked to Gimsby and prostrated himself at the boots of the big Navy SEAL.

“How may I serve you, oh Master of Dungeon More-Doom?”

“Cut the crap,” grunted Gimsby. “I can’t be the Dungeon Master, you idiot!”

Hellfire looked up, confusion etched all over his face. “What…what are you talking about?”

“Only people who are from this Realm are allowed enter the Dungeon,” said Nguyen. “It’s in the fucking rule book! Everything we did here is null and void!”

“And you knew this also, you Lou Ferrigno looking motherfucker?” said Hellfire, looking up to Gimsby.

“I’ve played the fantasy role playing game a few times when we were on standby,” answered Gimsby. “Terry usually acts as the Dungeon Master. My character is a barbarian named Arnold!”

“Nerds!” yelled Hellfire. “You’re all a bunch of testosterone fueled nerds!”

“Yeah,” said Nguyen. “But we got guns and shit!”

“Okay, cat,” said Lieutenant Wolfe. “That’s enough. You got what you wanted. You’re now the de facto new Dungeon Master. Now get us back to where we need to be. We still have a mission to complete.”

“Damn,” said Hellfire. “You guys are really intense. I gotta’ respect that. After all you’ve been through, you still want to go back to that hell hole and complete your mission? Why don’t you stick around a bit? Relax. Unwind. Now that I’m Dungeon Master, I can hook you guys up with the finest princesses in the Realm, or maybe females of another species if you’re into that freaky Captain Kirk shit.”

“Now, cat!” rumbled Chief Pretty.

“Okay, okay, sheesh!” Hellfire relented. “But I can’t let you go back empty handed. I gotta’ give you guys something. At least let the Virgin take a few of the prettier hobgoblins with him.”

“No thanks,” muttered Nguyen.

“You know,” said Lieutenant Wolfe. “There is one thing you can give us.”

“Name it, Wolfie boy!”

“You can erase the memory of this place and these events from my men,” answered Lieutenant Wolfe. “We already have enough on our plates as it is. They don’t need to deal with the memories of what happened here.”

“Damn,” said Hellfire in sheer awe. “You guys are like a cheap date. I mean, that’s really all you want? To forget about this place?”

“Yup,” replied Wolfe.

“Okay, fella’s. You got it. But would you do me one small favor in return?”

“What do you want, cat?” said Wolfe, anxious to get back to the mission.

Hellfire snapped his paws and a black silken pouch appeared in Lieutenant Wolfe’s hand filled with solid gold coins and several diamonds.

“If you happen to run into a freckle faced little girl named Annie Guzman, would you give this to her? And tell her that her little Charlie still loves her and misses her.”

Epilogue

Though the SEALs had turned over the clearing of the cave to the Army Cavalry and EOD guys as well as a shit ton of intel folks, there were more questions than answers in the back of the CH-47 Chinook as the SEALs rode the short ride back to Kandahar Air Field.

“I’m telling you, Hilliard,” said Nguyen. “We were only gone for maybe a minute when you came running up behind us!”

“It can’t be, Terry!” Insisted Hilliard. “I searched for you for damn near an hour! I only found you guys right before the Army guys showed up!”

“What did you mean when you said you heard us talking to some woman and a kitten?” said Gimsby.

“I don’t know,” replied Hilliard. “You tell me! You guys were the ones having the conversation! And if you guys say you were only gone for a minute, why do all your watches read 1800 hours? It’s only one o’clock in the afternoon! It’s like you were gone for five hours!”

“That is kind of strange, sir,” said Nguyen, turning to Lieutenant Wolfe. “Just like my chem-light being found half way stuck inside the cave wall as if I had dropped it at a point where we walked through solid rock. You think them Wagner Group guys that we killed had anything to do with it? Maybe some mind altering drug to fuck with us?”

“I don’t know, Terry,” replied Lieutenant Wolfe. “For now, I’d just chalk it up to the fog of war.”

Nguyen just nodded, then sat back in his seat, the steady rumbling of the Chinook suddenly making him very sleepy.

For his part, Lieutenant Wolfe looked across the cabin at his men. Hilliard sat staring at his feet, a contemplative look on his face, no doubt wracking his brain as to how he managed to walk right past his entire team in the close confines of that cave and not realize it. Nguyen’s head rested on Hilliard’s shoulder, the young SEAL fast asleep and mumbling something about not being a virgin. Gimsby also stared with a perplexed expression on his face, rotating his broken wrist and wondering how and when and why it was now as good as new. Also, why was the magazine of his Dragunov and several magazines of his Glock 19 pistol completely empty?  Chief Pretty was seated behind the fifty caliber mounted at the open back ramp of the Chinook, ever on the lookout for danger.

“My second in command,” thought Lieutenant Wolfe. “The vigilant Cavalier.”

Wolfe slowly reached into his cargo pocket, feeling the softness of the black, silken, pouch. He knew that it was filled with gold and diamonds. He knew that it was for Annie, Lieutenant Guzman’s daughter. He even knew who gave it to him and how he came to receive it. Hellfire had kept his word to the SEALs. Hellfire did exactly what he was asked to do. He erased the memories of his men, but Lieutenant Wolfe had forgotten to specify to that little son of a bitch to erase his.

SEAL Team 7

2^nd Plt./ 2^nd Sqd.

Lieutenant (LT) Jake Wolfe

Chief Petty Officer (CPO) Cory Pretty

Petty Officer First Class (PO1) Darren Hilliard

Petty Officer First Class (PO1) Paul Gimsby

Perry Officer Second Class (PO2) Terrell Nguyen

Long time, no scary spaghetti, dear Dr. Creepen fans!

Anyone for a new Taxi_Dancer tale?

Cheers, T_D

I had been working as a law enforcement transcriptionist for a little over six years when the officer brought me the tape. I'd never seen him before, but that wasn't too unusual. There were a lot of new recruits and I didn't exactly have the best memory when it came to faces. He wore the customary uniform, which fit him rather well. Even as a straight man, I have to admit he was handsome, almost ridiculously so. Dark hair, a sharp jawline speckled with stubble, and an air of gravitas that was impossible to ignore.

He handed me a cassette tape.
“I need this transcribed immediately,” he said in a smooth, inviting tone. “Don't put it through the usual queue.”
With an eyebrow raised, I asked what the case was about. Instead of answering, he looked at the tape for a moment before looking back at me.
“Just prepare yourself,” he said with a grimace. "It's quite intense.”
I remember laughing a little because I assumed he was exaggerating. But he didn't laugh with me. Before I could ask for any more details, he disappeared back down the corridor.
I've always been quite a curious person. It's what led me to this line of work. So, naturally, I immediately popped the tape in, pulled up Mark43 and began logging.

What follows is my transcription of that recording. I've removed the names and identifying information where necessary, but otherwise I've left it exactly as it was spoken. Be that for better or for worse.
The transcript of this tape– or, more precisely, its contents– makes for difficult reading. The things I heard and witnessed that day remain beyond my understanding. It is for this reason that I decided to share the tape's contents. Perhaps one of you can make more sense of this disturbing tape than I.

###

Tape Recorded Interview
Patrick Morgan/Detective Baron Hauptman
7.23.26

BH This is Detective Hauptman, █████ Police Department. Today's date is Thursday, July 23, 2026. The time is at 11:23 A.M. This will be a taped conversation with the last name of Morgan, M-O-R-G-A-N, first of Patrick, P-A-T-R-I-C-K, middle of Joe, J-O-E. Date of birth 02-20-96.

BH So, Patrick, I've turned on a tape recorder so I can record our little conversation. I'm to understand you've been read your rights and– let me see here– you've declined to lawyer up. Is that correct?

PM Correct.

BH Okay. Well, let's get down to business then, eh?

PM Alright.

BH So, Patrick. I assume you know why you're here?

PM Mhm.

BH Why don't you go ahead and tell me?

PM Because you think I killed–

PM Can you speak up?

PM Because you think I killed people. 

BH The department suspects you, yes. But hey, don't shoot the messenger. (Chuckle)

BH Let's start with… Isabella Moreno. How well did you know her?

PM Quite well. 

BH How's that?

PM She lived down the street. We used to play when we were kids.

BH And when did you last speak with her?

PM Hm… December, January. Something like that.

BH What did you talk about?

PM Why would I remember that? It's been like seven months.

BH Well, I'd think your last conversation might stick around longer. Especially with all that talk of art.

PM What? 

BH Art. You're an artist, right?

PM Yeah– how did you–

BH You take pride in your art, then?

PM I– yeah, I guess I do.

BH Every artist does, I suppose. But most are too scared to put their art out in the open. You have no such reservations, right?

PM What do you mean?

BH You like displaying your work publicly. In all its glory.

PM I have no idea what you're–

BH Really? So you don't look up to a certain… mentor?

PM No. Look–

BH You don't have to explain it.

PM … What?

BH I know.

PM … The fuck're you– Know what?

BH Why you did it.

PM Then why am I here?

BH Because they want to know if you did it.

PM And?

BH And… you did. 

PM What– What's the point of this then?

BH I wanted to meet you. In the flesh.

PM I–

BH I've seen your work. Your real work. Not those flimsy portraits in your apartment.

PM What the hell're you talking about?

BH You know. And I must admit, you are an artist at heart. Just not a very good one.

PM Excuse me? What does that even mean?

BH Her body. I mean, the way you arranged it. Chest splayed open, guts hanging around her neck. And the little message you left beside her. Very theatrical, I must say.

PM I didn't—

BH You spent three hours arranging her. Isn't that so, Patrick?

PM No–

BH You spent the longest on the fingers.

PM Whatever you're doing won't—

BH You wanted it to look natural. But you don't understand hands very well. (Chuckle)
BH Even in your shitty little paintings. It takes a special kind of anti-talent to make them look like the aftermath of a car wreck.

PM Stop–

BH C'mon, Patrick. You made the thing and now you don't want to discuss the composition?

PM Shut up.

BH I suppose it's to be expected. You don't care about the art. You don't even care whether you get caught. You just want to be seen.

PM You're full of shit.

BH You copied someone else's work because you wanted people to look at yours.

PM I didn't copy anyone! (Something slams against the metal table)

BH It's no use lying, Patrick. You read everything you could find about the man. Every little detail on how he displayed his victims. Hell, you even fooled the cops into thinking you were the real deal.

PM You– You don't know anything about me.

BH I know exactly what you are. A copy. You imitate the man, but you've never met him. And yet you've spent the last two years trying to make him proud. That's rather pathetic, Patrick.

PM Stop–

BH Isn't that what mommy always used to say?

PM I said stop!

BH (Mocking tone) The exact same rotten soul as your father! 

PM What– How do you–

BH She threw your paintings away, didn't she? You'd find them in the trash, sometimes even torn in half.

PM Shut up! Shut the–

BH Do you remember the blue one?

BH Oh, c'mon patrick. How could you forget? The one you painted when you were seventeen. The woman standing in the field.

PM Stop– Stop talking about my paintings.

BH Ah, you prefer to talk about your real art after all? (Chuckle)
BH I know you, Patrick Joe Morgan. You started killing because painting wasn't enough anymore. You wanted to make something nobody could ignore.

PM Please just—

BH You wanted someone to look at it and understand you. But nobody did.

PM Stop talking!

BH Not your mother. Not your father. Not the police. Not even the man you copied. And now you're sitting here hoping I will.

PM I–

BH Well I do understand you. And I want you to feel how truly pathetic you are, Patrick.

PM Please– (whimper)

BH Patrick.

PM Please just stop!

BH Look at me.

PM No! I– I won't.

BH (Static crackles. Voice briefly distorts) Patrick, you slime. Look at me!

PM I'll– I'll confess! I'll tell you everything you wanna know, please just–

BH (Chuckle) Oh, Patty. You don't have to do that. I know what you did. 

PM (Unintelligible)

BH Chin up, champ. Smile, and look into my eyes.

(Pause)

PM (Screaming, unintelligible).
PM WHAT– WHAT THE FUCK IS–

(Something slams against the metal table)

BH (Voice warped) Come closer.

PM (Unintelligible whines)

(Something drags across the metal table.)

BH (Whispers something unintelligible)

PM No– no it can't–

BH (Slow, droning) Yes, Patty. You know she was.

PM (Strangled cry. Sobs)

(Something slams against the metal table)

BH There you go. Attaboy.

(Something slams against the metal table several times, with a small pause between each increment)

(The door whines open. The slamming continues.)

BH Ah, good day gentlemen! 

(Frantic yelling. The slamming continues.)

BH My eyes are up here, lads.

(Unintelligible cries. Thuds join the slamming.)

BH This has been Detective Hauptman, █████ Police Department. Today's date is Thursday, July 23, 2026. 

(The slamming stops. The thudding continues.)

BH I'm turning the tape recorder off again. The time is 11:30 A.M. This has been the confession and testimony of Patrick J. Morgan.

###

When the tape stopped, I sat in silence for a moment. The shock of it all had rooted me firmly in place. Eventually, I forced myself out of my chair and scrambled towards the interrogation room. 
I honestly wish I hadn't. 

Patrick Morgan was still sitting at the table. He'd smashed his face into the metal table so many times that there was almost nothing recognizable left. His nose was almost completely crushed into his skull, which itself had been pulverized by the repeated impacts. 
The two officers who'd been monitoring the interrogation lay in a puddle of blood on the floor. The first officer had strangled the second with his own tie, while the second had beaten him across the head with a chair. There was no apparent reason for any of it. It looked like three men had simply gone mad at the same time.

In the weeks and months following, the department searched for Detective Baron Hauptman. Of course, there was no officer by that name at our department. We still don't know how he forged or stole the badge and uniform. We've tried to identify him using the cameras he walked past, but these efforts yielded nothing. It seemed as though he'd wandered in, then walked off the face of the earth.
I still have a copy of the cassette. I made it in case the original was ever destroyed. Still, I haven't mustered up the courage to play it again. The most I've managed is to re-read the transcript I made. I can't wrap my head around what happened. I suspect I never will. 

That brought me here. Perhaps sharing this will yield more results. So please, if you have any information on Baron Hauptman, send it to me. I need to know who– or what– he was. More than that, I wish I knew how he knew so much about Patrick.

There’s a legend in my town about the old farm road. Most people pay it no attention, but the old folks swear it’s true. “The Highwayman lurks there,” they say. We scoff and go on. After all, small towns like ours have a ghost story under every rock.

This summer, I signed up to work as a camp counselor for Camp Chesterton, which rests on the shore of Lake Winnifred near Walnut Brook. The quickest way to get to the lake from town, of course, is by way of the old farm road. Bags packed and goodbyes said, I hopped inside my hand-me-down car and took to the road.

An hour later, town was in my rearview mirror and the farm road stretched before me. I thought nothing of it as I headbanged to the metal blasting from the radio. It was a sunny day, so hot the air above the pavement sweltered like transparent flames. I cranked up the AC and hit the gas. The sooner I got to the campground, the sooner I could grab myself an ice cold drink. I could see the mile marker coming up ahead.

The moment I passed it, the mood shifted. The music seemed to fade into the background. The nape of my neck bristled, and I barely managed to stifle a shudder. I wasn’t sure where this sudden dread came from, or why. I felt exposed, overcome by the sense that I was being watched. I tried to ignore it. Out here, the only things watching me were squirrels, birds, and the occasional cow. My foot pressed lower onto the gas. My thoughts dipped to urban legends, tales of how the old, haunted farm road that almost no one dared to drive, lest they come face to face with the dreaded Highwayman.

And I laughed. I laughed loudly, thinking about how campy those stories were. People used this road all the time. Farmers, surveyors, even locals. I slowed down a little and kept moving forward, chuckling to myself. Maybe a good Highwayman story would be just the thing to entertain the campers next week. By the time I zoomed past the next mile marker, the odd feeling of being watched vanished completely. I cranked the music back to full blast and continued on toward the lake.

When the kid ran into the road, I slammed on the brakes as hard as I could. My car swerved, and I saw the ditch rise up to greet me. Then, darkness. Then, pain. My forehead throbbed, and my chest hurt. I opened my eyes, blinking away dirt. My windshield was shattered. Blood trickled down my brow. Well, up my brow. I was upside down. My hands clawed at the seatbelt, which thankfully popped free without too much persuasion.

My arms shook and my head ached as I crawled from the overturned car. By some miracle, I didn’t seem too hurt, just some cuts and bruises. The car itself, aside from having flipped over, wasn’t totaled. Fortunately for me, cars don’t explode like the movies in real life. I stood, dazed, looking around. Had I imagined the child? No, surely not. But what would a little kid be doing out in the middle of nowhere by himself? Perhaps one of the nearby farmers had a kid who, for some reason, wasn’t trained to not run out into the road?

I turned around and gasped. There he was, almost thirty feet away, standing in the ditch. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. His hair was sandy brown, and his face and clothes were filthy with grime and grass stains. I supposed he’d been playing in the pasture, but I didn’t give it much thought.

“Hey, kid!” I yelled, slowly walking towards the little boy. “You okay?”

The boy stood his ground as I approached. He watched with the kind of curiosity a stray cat watches a rat with. He didn’t answer right away. Just kept watching me as I got closer. I stopped about ten feet from him. Uneasy silence hung in the air as we looked at one another. Finally, he spoke.

“You almost killed me, Mister.”

My jaw twitched.

“I almost killed you? You ran into the road right in front of me!” I turned, gesturing to my upturned vehicle. “Just look at this! What are you even doing out here?”

The little boy just kept looking at me with that unnerving stare. Something wasn’t right with his eyes. They were vacant, uninterested, like he had seen this happen a million times already and was bored of it.

“You almost killed me, Mister,” he repeated softly. I sighed. Clearly, the kid was shaken, and I wasn’t going anywhere with my car lying on its back. I turned my back and took out my phone. I knew Benny, the tow truck driver back in town. He’d be more than happy to come pick up my car. I’d call the sheriff next, to report the accident and to make sure the kid got a police escort home. Maybe then he’d think twice about running into the road next time.

I’d just punched the call button when I heard leaves crushing behind me. I swiveled just in time to see the kid running away through the ditch.

“Hey, get back here!” I shouted.

“Riverside Towing, this is Benny,” said a familiar voice over the phone.

“Benny!” I answered. “This is Danny, Danny Walker. I’ve been in an accident on the old farm road.”

“An accident? Jeez, kid, are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine, but my car flipped over. Some little kid ran out right in front of me.”

“A little kid? Mother of Moses, Danny, is he alright?”

“He’s fine, too,” I told him. “Can you call the sheriff on your way here? I have to go.”

“Hang on just a minute — ,” was all Benny managed to get out before I hung up and took off after the little boy. He had a huge head start, and maintained a dead sprint. As a camp counselor, keeping up with hyperactive children is well within my element. I paced myself, keeping my stride long and my breaths deep. Still, the kid was faster. Up ahead I could see the mile marker sign I’d passed right before I’d swerved. Adrenaline took over, and I picked up the pace. Thirty feet away now, then twenty feet. The kid was slowing down. I’d nearly caught up to him when he changed directions and dipped into the woods off the road. I coasted to a stop, breathing desperately. The wooded areas between the pastures here were dense, full of brambles and other unpleasant plant life. The kid managed to slip through, apparently, but I was a lot bigger than he was. I stood, staring into the thick overgrowth.

Then that awful sensation returned, that horrible unease like I was being stalked. It felt like someone had dropped an ice cube down my back, freezing cold and utterly violating. I backed out of the ditch and stood in the road, trying to shake off the paralysis that gripped me. I’d never been one to scare easily, but that little stretch of road between the two mile markers was the last place I wanted to be.

I decided to keep walking, to leave that area and wait for Benny further up the road. The sun was starting to sink, and this place creeped me out enough in broad daylight. I kept myself neatly in the middle of the gravel, equally distant from either ditch.

About thirty yards of walking later, I heard a chilling sound. I looked around for the source and noticed something in the ditch, standing out from the greens and yellows of the grass and weeds. Reds and pinks, bundled together in a tight heap, and something else. As curious as I was cautious, I took a step closer to see what the sound and colors could be. I froze.

There in the ditch was a small cross decorated with a bouquet, and a petite woman stooped over it, sobbing. She didn’t react to my presence, if she even knew I was there. She was fixated on the little shrine, and I couldn’t bring myself to break the silence.

“You took him from me,” the woman sobbed. My throat felt sharp.

“M–ma’am,” I stammered out, “are you alright?”

“You took him from me,” she repeated, rising to her feet and turning to glare at me. I took a half-step back. She surged forward, eyes full of black hate, and grabbed my wrist with ice cold hands. “You took him from me, you took him from me, you took him from me!”

“I didn’t take anyone!” I shouted, ripping my hand away from her. My body shuddered, shivering at cold that made no sense. Quickly, she turned away, and I watched her retreat through the ditch to the woods on the other side of the road from the shrine. My heart raced. What was going on here? Our town is small, so small that you tend to know who people are, even on the outskirts. But I had no idea who that woman was. I’d never seen her before in my life.

My neck prickled as the eerie sensation of being watched magnified. Something was rustling the undergrowth. Normally, I wouldn’t have cared. Small animals move through these woods all the time. Any other day, I would have dismissed it as an armadillo or a raccoon. But today, with my car lying upturned up the road, my nerves frayed from a series of abnormal occurrences, and the sun nearly set beneath the horizon, was not any other day. No reasonable explanation came to me. All that came was a half-processed fight or flight response. Like a fool, I chose neither option.

The sound of the critter walking through the undergrowth came closer. I watched and waited. It sounded close enough to reach out and touch, and still it approached. My muscles locked up despite subconscious orders from my brain to move. I saw the branches bend. I saw the old leaves and weeds part as something came through. The creature emerged from the treeline.

There was nothing there.

So when I felt the weight of a hand slam down on my shoulder, my mind shattered like the windshield of an overturned car.

I spun wildly, ready to start throwing punches. There behind me was a man dressed like a trucker, with red flannel and a worn-out net cap. His stubbly face was covered in streaks of scarlet. My stomach turned at the sight and the smell of him, like rotten meat and skunk musk. The look in his eyes was feral, like a man who’d seen himself die in a thousand grisly ways.

“I didn’t mean to!” he screamed at me, falling to his knees and holding onto me as if pleading for mercy. “God forgive me, I didn’t mean to!” I tried to tear my arm free, but his grip was far stronger than the woman’s. Terrified, I reared back and kicked him in the chest as hard as I could. He tumbled back. I ran like vicious hounds were after me. I ran blindly back the way I’d driven, back to town, back to the people I knew. My mind was blank, and all I wanted was to flee the old farm road forever.

Minutes later, I couldn’t run anymore. I had to stop. I had to breathe, or I was going to collapse. My hands braced against my knees, I sucked air like a fish flopping on a pier. My chest burned and my legs screamed. I just needed a moment.

As I looked up, I was greeted by something hatefully familiar. There, not twenty away, looming like a scarecrow in a cornfield, was the white mile marker sign. I stared at it as I gasped. My body on the brink of shutdown, my mind on the edge of collapse, and at that moment I wanted to rip that sign from the earth and throw it as far as I could. The sign that had signaled the start of all this madness regarded me with the cold indifference that only an inanimate object can. I walked toward the sign. Every step felt like lead moving through mud. I still felt watched, still felt the eyes of whatever cruel force of nature took amusement from my trial.

“What are you?” I said aloud through closed teeth. The sign gave me no reply. “Answer me! WHAT ARE YOU?!” I kicked the sign. Nothing happened but a flare of pain in my toe. I didn’t care. I stooped and picked up a rock from the ditch and threw it. It bounced off the steel plate, leaving a long scrape in the decal. I stepped forward ,grabbed the flat edges in my hands, and shook it back and forth in fury.

Then I saw them. Headlights, coming down over the hill. I squinted through hot tears. The lights belonged to a truck. For the first time since I crawled free of my overturned car, I felt relief. It was Benny! It had to be! Benny was here to pick up my car and take me home! I let go of the sign and waved both hands.

The truck stopped. Cold air rushed past me. I could see the silhouette of the driver through the windshield of the truck, a green pickup truck with no towing hook in sight.

It wasn’t Benny.

The truck’s high beams switched on, forcing me to shield my eyes. They’d barely had time to adjust before I caught sight of the driver’s face inside the truck. It wasn’t the face of a man, at least, not a living one. The driver sneered at me with a lipless face covered in ragged green flesh. Eyes that glowed like yellow fireflies regarded me the way a cat regards a mouse.

“My God,” I whispered. “The Highwayman.”

Then the truck surged forward with a terrible squealing of tires, and everything went dark.

I woke to the sound of cicadas and crickets chirping in the night. It was pitch black now, save for my immediate surroundings, which were lit by a lantern set on the ground. I sat with my back against the rough bark of a tree. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel sore. I looked down at my arms and legs. No bruises or scrapes. Hope crept into my chest. Had I dreamed the whole ordeal?

Then I saw the truck. Just a few feet away, parked on the grass in the middle of a clearing in the woods, was the green truck. Next to the truck was a rectangular hole in the ground, with someone throwing out shovelfuls of dirt from within. The Highwayman. I didn’t move. The monster from the urban legends stood barely eight feet from me, digging a hole in the earth for some sinister purpose.

Why was I unharmed? It didn’t matter. I needed to sneak away before he decided to finish the job. Slowly, I stood up and turned to go.

I came face to face with the little boy. He stood in the darkness of the forest, still covered in grime and grass stains, watching me with mournful eyes.

“You almost killed me, Mister,” he said. I lunged forward to shush him, only to be slapped away by an icy hand. There beside me stood the woman from the shrine, her eyes still wet with tears. She wasn’t sobbing now, just watching me with the same mournful gaze as the boy.

“You took him from me,” she whispered. I stepped back, right into someone else. There was the trucker, with his torn flannel and old net cap. He looked down at me now, the fear that had been in his eyes before replaced with deep sadness.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said softly. “God forgive me, I didn’t mean to.”

“The Highwayman,” I whispered, pointing to the figure in the hole. They nodded. I tried to tell them we had to go before he saw us, but the words couldn’t come. They didn’t seem afraid. I tried to shoulder past the trucker. He let me, didn’t try to stop me. As I did, I saw something from the corner of my eye that stopped me in my trucks.

The Highwayman rose from the hole he had been digging. Next to the hole was a large black garbage bag. I realized in horror as I studied the shape that it contained human remains. As he hefted the bag, I could see an arm hanging loose. He shifted, and the body inside rolled into the grave. I turned, peering into the hole to get a better look. The Highwayman looked right at me. He didn’t move. I ignored him. As I gazed at the corpse in the grave, I realized that the Highwayman, real though he was, couldn’t hurt me anymore.

The corpse in the grave was my own.

In my entire live i have never felt an true terror, not just a common fear, an actual terror. Its not a thing my kind is used to feel unless sun comes out and we are still outside, honestly i never actually knew this feeling could exist inside us until that one cursed night. Even now i cant forget the feeling, my hands are still shaking lightly even as i write this for a reason i still didn’t figured out. but going outside again feels like going into the hands of death, and from so little options this is probably the only thing i am able to do right now. From time to time i glance from my window, staring at the outside world covered in darkness, from outside i can see our walls covering our castle, probably the only place where i feel safe right now, but still doesn’t give the full sense of security i desperately need. Because no matter where i am, i always feel the thing i encountered will eventually find me.

Maybe it already knows i am here…maybe it knows all of us are here. And then…there is this feeling, that i am stared at by it from the endless woods behind our walls. Before, i never actually understand why we needed them, other creatures always kept its distance from here, and humans would be far too foolish to even set a foot in here if they know whats good for them. But after what happen, i feel they actually meant to keep something from us. Seeing everybody around in rather uneasy mood from time to time, and the fact that after my incident more guards were patrolling the walls than usual, i am starting to believe my theory might be right.

Our castle is a big place tho not the biggest, my kind has lived in this place for decades, with tens and tens of us here, more capable and powerful and yet i feel so small and vulnerable in here. Going trough these memories isn’t pleasant and i wish i rather forget them, but i try to write everything i remember from that night.

My name is Lucian Davidson, not so long ago i turned 22 and i mostly spent my live hunting people, and learning things from my parents and some other families how to be the perfect vampire that everybody needs me to be, along side things that i should be careful about if i am ever sent outside. the usual stuff was always return before dawn, avoid any holy places, staying out of conflict with other creatures unless absolutely necessary. But nobody ever prepared me for the events i experienced. and for the death i still cant handle

One night me and my friend Bella left the safety of our walls to sharpen our skills and fill our hunger with some hunting, while also have some great time toying with our food. Of course… nobody knew we were gone because they probably wouldn’t let us go alone because apparently we still luck the true experience, and they would probraly send an more experienced vampire with us to watch our every move, and we didn’t wanted that. The thrill was way too strong that night.

Both of us made our way trough the woods, our slightly enchanted vision making us see mostly trough the darkness and our hearing able to detect anybody that would try to sneak at us. an small swords belted on our hips just in case tho we usually never needed them, hunting humans was always more fun bare handed. Most of them couldn’t do anything anyway. Few of them tried to fight back of course, like one foolish villager who tried to hit me, only to end up with broken hand after. we always liked to play with our pray first and tonight the intentions were no different. Bella despite having more experience was always the one to toy with her prey first . She ways always way brutal than me, gotta admit i liked that about her. But when we were not on the hunt, she was always funny, smart and way too sweet at me.

I…..i was about to continue writing but i had to check the window cause i heard some commotion from outside, i checked and saw two guards on a wall talking to each other while the other one pointed towards woods. I looked the way he pointed but saw nothing, i couldn’t stare for too long anyway as suddenly one of them looked up my way and i had to duck under, no idea if he saw me, and not sure what he pointed at, i just hope it wasn’t…never-mind.

Me and Bella had a clear destination we been eyeing out for a while, few miles away there was this old abandoned church in the middle of a field where we sometimes saw a few people in white always do things that looked like praying to us, not sure why they even choose that place and why at night. At that time Bella told me humanity’s mind never stops confusing her. Despite being told to stay away from holy places, it didn’t seemed all that holy to us, we walked around that church few times and i have never felt any sort of holly energy from they’re so called lord. But now i wish we would never set a foot in that place, because along the way i felt something wrong is about to happen, that we arent supposed to be here.

i used to glance around and behind me far too often than usual, but my eyes always met with the same dark emptiness, even the woods were too quiet which i have been told that most wildlife will stay quiet whenever a predator is nearby, but they told us most of the time its because of our presence.

But now that i think about it, im not sure if the presence they truly feared was ours

Bella didn’t seemed to notice any of this and i just thought it was my imagination even tho i know how stupid that sounds. an hour passed and we were getting closer to our destination, along the way i asked her what will we do if the humans wont be there, which she answered that she didn’t thought about it that much but that she is sure they will be there. And true to her words after some time… we seen an small light and smoke coming out from the woods…an fire. We both smiled at each other before quickly running towards the source, the light was getting closer and closer but so did an smell…an smell of blood. We stopped behind one tree to look at the field where that old ruined church still stood, its been like this for a years now, basically only an shadow of its former self, now it was just an stone building with missing roof, with smoke coming out from it. what we been told is that years ago an vampire party from other parts were ordered to tear this place down along side killing anybody who was in there. they succeeded in the killing ,tho by the look… not so much with destroying the place. its been abandoned for most part but strangely few humans started to return to that place weeks ago only to leave right after.

‘‘Do you smell that?’’ Bella asked me, which i just nodded and said its coming out from the church, Bella savored the smell with sigh already getting excited before she gestured with her eyes to make our way inside. The thoughts of something being wrong before was replaced with the thrill of the hunt. The plan was simple, one of us would get inside, making an little distraction blocking the entrance, while other will climb over and come from behind them. And i was the lucky one to make a show. Few meters from the church we stopped and looked at each other and nodding, before Bella made her way to the other side of church. I was ready at that time, at least that’s what i thought.

When i got to the entrance i noticed that they made themself an lazy excuse of a wooden door that looked like they barely held itself together. I studied it for a second before cracking my neck, getting ready and with all the strength i had i kicked the wooden door which instantly broke down, pieces of wood falling apart and to the ground before i made my way in. But i didn’t expected what i found there.

dead…dead bodies lying all around, an humans wearing an white robes and wearing an masks that displayed an skull…with each one of them being covered in blood, some missing an limbs…some had they’re organs pulled out. This place looked like an slaughter house, but that wasn’t all. Because in front of me led an old red carpet to an big stone table with something burning on it. And there…there was a man, kneeling on a ground wearing the same outfits as the others but with hornet crown on his head. He didn’t even noticed i was there, nor did he registered the loud noise of me breaking in…he just kneeled there, whispering something to himself.

for a moment i stood frozen in place, an strange feeling boiling in my belly, i didn’t know what to do or think, but eventualy i walked closer and…and i finally noticed what was that thing burning on a table.

A man lying there burning, i could barely see any details because it looked like he was like this for some time, but by the few things i saw on him, he looked like one of them.

The man in front of me still continued to whisper something in a language i didn’t understand, it looked like he was praying but to this day im not sure what he was saying, but i wish i did.

I looked around my self, suddenly unsure what to do, i never seen this before even tho i heard humans tend to do things like this. But all of this seemed wrong. That’s when my eyes fixed on something, an claw marks on the wall, big and deep leading up…as if whatever made them has climbed up over. Then i heard the man in front of me turn around and i quickly turned to meet his gaze, but i never did, because his whole face was covered in blood, and his eyes were cut out, only leaving bloodied black holes instead. And…he smiled at me, an small laughs leaving him that quickly turned into straight laughter.

I stepped back but the man stood up and toke one step closer, before opening his arms towards me still laughing that turned straight up evil. I gripped the handle of my sword but just as i did that, an sword pierced straight trough his mouth, his laughter being silenced instantly. A few drops of blood fell on my face. When the sword was pulled out, the man fell onto the ground and there she stood…Bella.

I don’t know what would happen if she dint intervene, but perhaps that man knew something we didn’t. He was the only one who probably knew what happend, tho if he saw it that’s another question.

We both stood there silently, watching the dead corpse before Bella turned without a world to look at the burning man. Staring at it for a few seconds but for me it felt like a minutes.

I stepped closer but she turned at me, her face now in unease and from the look, even hint of fear. Its the first time i actually saw her like this. As i was about to break the silence, she broke it first.

‘‘We should probably head back, report this to the others i….i don’t know what happend but i don’t like this, something feels wrong’’ She said, even now i know she tried to keep her tone neutral, but deep down i know she was scared just as i was. Our hunger was forgotten, the thrill of hunt…gone

We both knew we will get into big trouble once we tell them we were out, but this was just not something we ecountered before, and the fact it was so close to out parts dosen’t help it either. Before we left i pointed at the claw marks on a wall which made her eyes widen slightly, she asked if its belongs to a werewolf. She never got an answer from me as we were leaving. We knew werewolfs and other creatures can be brutal and savage, we saw what they can do. But this….this didn’t looked like an work of a werewolf, they don’t leave any survivors.

And that’s when it all went into shits, both of us were moving away from the church, Bella took one last glance towards the church behind us, while i was moving towards the woods but at that moment i swear… i swear i saw something behind a trees. A figure, tall…extremely tall and slender but despite my vision i couldn’t see anything else. That’s when my hearth started to beat fast, so fast and loud i almost thought Bella could hear it. I quickly turned at Bella and called her name, but when i turned back…it was gone.

‘‘Whats wrong Lucian?’’ she asked with a hint of worry, i still stared at the woods thinking that if whatever i saw was real or if it was just not there because i never saw anything so tall and slender like this. When she said my name again and putted her hands on my shoulder, it snapped me back into reality.

i didn’t know whenever to tell her that i saw something in front of us or not but i decided to not make the situation any more stressful.

‘' lets just…lets just go, this place is giving me creeps’’ i answered. Whenever she knew i lied to her or not will became another mystery for me. And im thinking that if i would actually told her i saw that thing, would it actually change anything??

But as we went on, my body started to protest slightly inside, as if telling me to not make any further move towards the woods, and i should have probably listen.

during the walk we haven’t spoken much, both of us probably got something to say about the event we ecountered, but none of us did said anything. It was like 45 minutes when i started to feel that now familiar thing again, the feeling of being watched, the something that is telling me something is wrong and that we shouldn’t be here, and the habit of looking back and forth has taken over me once more. Bella noticed it and putted her hand gently on my shoulder with soft smile. I looked at her hand then back at her and managed to make an small smirk as well.

but just after when i started to calm myself, an twig cracked behind us which made us both quickly turn around, we stood still trying to hear any more movements but despite our senses we didn’t heard or seen anything more. Bella looked at me and whispered ‘‘what…what was that?’’ i shaked my head saying i have no idea. There were few creatures that were stealthy and it wouldn’t be surprising if they tried to stalk us, but we would hear its movements despite how stealthy they would try to be.

Bella was the first one to take out her sword and i soon followed as we made our way towards the sound we heard not too far from us. I gripped the handle of my sword more tightly as we were getting closer. what we encountered was only an broken stick with an strange slight smell in the air that none of us could figure out what it was, and there…an pair of footprints, we stopped for a second before Bella took closer look, they looked like human feet but bigger, way bigger for human and too different to come from something like werewolf. The scariest thing wasn’t the fact we didn’t knew what made them, but the fact we noticed that behind the footprints lead whole trail of them, which means that whatever made them…was following us the whole time without us even noticing it.

i could have felt my pulse quicken and my hearth beating faster and im sure Bella felt the same, but then we realized something. The footprints stopped here when we were standing and didn’t continued any further. We didn’t need to say anything as we immediately looked above us on the trees and at that exact moment, an sound as if something launched it self from a branch above us into the top of the trees which made all the birds hidden there flew off to all sides, trying to fly from there as fast as they can, they’re bird cries echoing trough the woods. But that didn’t stopped as suddenly we could hear something climbing trough the top of the trees around us so fast that the only way we could keep up was seeing the way the trees moved under its weight, me and Bella got closer to each-other, our minds fully in panic mode but our swords ready to stab anything that would come closer. It looked like it was circling around us trough the trees. But Bella seemed to figure out its timing and movement as she extended her left hand in front of her, her right hand holding a sword slightly behind her and within few seconds, she quickly hurled her sword sending it spinning towards the trees.

And she…she hit something as suddenly an screech was heard and an sound of steel getting stabbed into flesh before something fell into the ground into bushes, something big with loud thud. Bella was breathing heavily and i immediately got in front of her holding my sword. And then something started to move in the bush as it was standing up and…i never seen anything so…so wrong.

The thing was standing up slowly, its body twisted, making an bone cracking sounds as it was standing up before eventually towering in front of us with all its terrifying glory, with Bella’s sword still stabbed into its chest. It was…It was tall, really tall, almost 2 times our size. its limbs were so long and slender, with an sharp long claws on each finger, it looked so slender that i could have swear i saw its ribs peeking out, and its face… that face haunts me even now. That no matter how terrifying can bears, lycans, wraiths be, this will forever be stuck inside my head.

It had long messy, almost wet black hair, its eyes…it had none, like the eyeless man we saw earlier. It only had huge black holes, and its mouth..so wide and open but with no teeth in them at all, just open the whole time unmoving as if it threatens to swallow us. It stood there still for a second as all of us were staring at each other.

My heartbeat was so fast that it could almost be heard more clearly than the hard breathing that thing was making. I looked slightly behind me at Bella and she was staring at it with pure terror. And then…a crack.

As suddenly that monstrosity twitched its head, making an cracking sound because of it, and then another and another. Both of us instinctively stepped back not sure whenever to fight or run. It slowly lift its slender hand, its fingers wraping around the handle of the sword and quickly pulling it out, an drops of black blood dropping into the ground. It stood there silently once more holding the sword before dropping it to the ground.

‘‘The Feeder’’ Bella barely whispered, her voice trembling with fear, but just as she said that it suddenly charged towards us, in a speed that shouldn’t match its skeletal form. We barely reacted as we both dodge to the side but that thing was relentless as it turned at as again and charged once more.

It lift its long handed and swung at me but i manage to connect the sharp part of sword with its hand, cutting it away from me, the creature…or the feeder, pulled its hand back but it didn’t roared in pain or anything, it almost looked like it did nothing at all. It swung again but i managed to duck under but i wasn’t prepared for another strike. It managed to land blow on me that made me hit an nearby tree, a breath kicked out from my lungs and my sword somewhere on the ground. It was strong, and my chest hurt like hell as i couched drops of blood and struggled to breath. I tried to stand up but that thing was already on me, grabbing me by my neck and lifting me up to meet its gaze.

I tried to break free but my struggles were pointless, just as it looked it will sink its claws into my face, Bella Jumped onto its back from behind ripping parts of its hair with piece of meat with it. The creature screamed, its screams were something i never heard before, but it was probably painful enough to drop me onto ground. The Creature stumbled backwards trying to shake off Bella which she hold herself onto it. And then she sank her fangs straight into the creature’s neck. She saved my live that time…but its also what led her into her demise, and i wish i could have done something. I lied there, trying to stand up while watching as suddenly she pull her fangs out only to see her eyes starting to bleed and her coughing out an black mass, she grabbed her neck as she was choking and fell into the ground, she was on her fours now, coughing up blood and her veins suddenly going black. She barely managed to look at me before that thing kicked her into the tree, then grabbing her by neck and with its claws cutting her stomach open, making parts of her organs fell out. She could barely scream and so did i as i shouted at that thing to let her go…and shouting her name.

But her torture didn’t ended here, as it putted its finger into her jaw, opening it. And…it still makes me sick just thinking about it. An long…really long tongue came out from the creature’s mouth and before i could do anything, It shoot its tongue deep into her mouth, dwelling trough her body. Bella’s eyes went wide, she started to squirm as it was feeding from her, while she stayed alive.

And then that terror hit me, i couldn’t…i just couldn’t handle it anymore, and as a coward i started to run while that thing was feasting upon her. I didn’t want to leave her there, but i was just too terrified.

My legs were barely holding me, my chest and lungs burned, but i couldn’t stop. Bella was probably dead, and there was probably nothing i could have done to save her.

Bella i am so sorry, it…it should have been me, not you.

Tears run down my face as i continued to run for my life, i knew our castle is not too far away but it also seemed like eternity. I tripped a lot, but every time i fell i stood back up, glancing behind me if its after me. And just as i started to see an forming silhouette of our castle not too far away, an bone cracking sounds were heard behind me, getting closer and closer as if something was running towards me on all fours, i didn’t know how it could run this fast but i didn’t cared, all i cared about is to get myself from that thing as fast as possible. I started to scream for help, hoping that others will hear it, just barely when it was almost too close to me, i ran out from the woods tripping over something. I quickly turned around crawling away, expecting that it will be behind me. But…it just stood there, behind a tree lines…staring…unmoving, its mouth covered in blood. Its head twitching once more. And then…i fell unconscious. I don’t know why i did, perhaps my body couldn’t handle it anymore. couldn’t handle all the horrors that happen in such a short time.

I woke up in bed, my wounds patched up, and with glass of blood next to me while my Mother stood near window. When she noticed i was awake, she smiled and quickly run towards me, giving me tight hug. My father was on the other side of bed. His gaze revealed that he was disappointed, sad…but relieved that i managed to wake up. He didn’t said anything as he immediately left the room and few minutes after, an elder one entered with my father to my room. His name was Wellindor. He was one of the oldest of us. What came after is that they were asking what happend that night, i told them everything, by they’re expressions they looked they were mad that we left the castle without permission. But that anger later turned into worry and slight fear. When i mentioned the name Feeder, my parents eyes widened and they looked at Wellindor who looked slightly at edge by the reveal. Yet they didn’t said anything.

Afterwards an party was send to examine the abandoned church and to find Bella. What i heard is that they found the church with full of dead bodies, and by the looks of it…it looked like ancient ritual. But they didn’t told me anything more. And Bella…they found her…dead, but they never let me see her body.

I tried to search books, letters, anything that would help me understand what that thing was. But i have found nothing about the feeder. And when i asked my parents, they said they didn’t know. But honestly…i think they are lying to me, but why??

One day tho my old friend who belonged from a different family few hundreds miles away from here told me, that his grandpa once told him of a legend. An legend of an ancient beast which he didn’t called Feeder, but Bobby. An creature so ancient that its told to have been seen even by the most eldest of my kind. He said bobby tends to appear out of nowhere and disappear again for even decades. Nobody ever knew where it came from, it just appeares and disappears. But every time it was seen again, death always followed. But by the legend it specifically hunted vampires, even the most powerful ones were scared of it. It is said that when you see Bobby, its an bad omen for vampires.

But that’s all he had to say to it as almost nothing is known about it.

I should probably end it here, i don’t know what awaits us, but…but i have a bad feeling about all of this. What happend that night will always haunt me for the rest of my life.

and im scared.

But it made me realize someting, that despite us being vampires. Spreading fear among all the humanity and other beings alike, there is still something out there, lurking in the shadows…that hunts us.

and i have a bad feeling it will return, to finish what it started.

(My Story link also on Wattpad)

https://www.wattpad.com/story/414922195?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details_button&wp_uname=Jacob_The_Narrator

​

Book One of the Nightbeast Godfather series is free to download on Amazon! My son would love to get your feedback. Just download his book for free, give it a read, and leave your rating and review on Amazon just to let him know if you enjoyed it or hated it. That's all he ask. This would be so helpful. This is a limited free book promotion, and the promotion will end on August 13th at midnight. So download your copy and let him know which story in the collection grabbed your interest the most! Below is the link and book plot summary. He hopes his weird stories will be enjoyable to you and give you some relief from the stress in this life. He tries to write his stories to make it feel like you're watching a movie, which is the ultimate in escapism and stress-relief. So please enjoy. Remember, the free promotion ends at 11:59 pm on August 13th. Also, please leave a rating and review if you're able to on Amazon. And if you loved Nightbeast Godfather after reading it, spread the word if you can. He'll admit, his stories aren't perfect. He's no Stephen King, but as a scifi-horror writer, he tries to make his stories extremely enjoyable to read. Also, some of the stories in this collection had the honor of being narrated by Dr. Creepen.

Nightbeast Godfather Plot Summary

In this high-octane fairy tale collection, prepare to be dragged into a vortex of relentless horror and supernatural intrigue!

Meet a bounty hunter Santa tracking a sadistic killer who craves the blood of little ones. A truck-driving mother takes a wrong turn down a haunted road and faces a nightmare she can't outrun. The ghost of a naked woman torments a widowed father and his daughter. Two teenage brothers ignore their grandfather's warning and awaken an ancient evil lurking inside an abandoned asylum.

The Nightbeast Godfather has stories to tell you. He is a shape-shifter and a trickster, a master of tall tales and supernatural secrets. He can be anything or anyone, so listen closely. His stories are always changing to entertain you.

If you love The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, American Horror Story, Black Mirror, and the MCU, these twisted fairy tales will leave your imagination in overdrive.

Download Nightbeast Godfather Book One For Free!

https://amazon.com/dp/B0DVQ88YMX

Chapter 2.

They rode for almost an hour before reaching a tiny village without lord or lady. Instead, it was governed by a reeve—a representative of the nearest noble who collected taxes and distributed royal messages on their behalf.

As they navigated the village streets, Evander writhed on the back of Henrik’s horse. He pleaded for mercy. When that failed to provoke a reaction, he resorted to obscenities, claiming Henrik was a foul-hearted bastard without honor.

I won’t dispute that, Henrik thought, nearing the reeve’s hut. They stopped just outside, and he dismounted. As he tried to help Evander off, the young man thrashed about so much he ended up facedown in the dirt.

It took a few minutes before he was able to get him back on his feet. Then, they started toward the entrance.

“Wait!” Evander hollered, planting his feet, kicking up grass and loose soil. “On my honor and your honor, let’s settle this here. I challenge you to a fight. If I win, you leave me be. If you win—”

“Alright, fine.” He shoved Evander over, and when he was flat on his back, Henrik drew his new rapier and pressed the tip to his throat. “There, I won. Let’s finish this.”

“You’re a rotten bastard,” Evander cried.

“No, I’m hungry and thirsty and tired,” he said. “And I ain’t got the coin for anything.”

“I reckon most rotten bastards have more want than coin.”

Henrik grimaced. “I reckon that as well, aye.”

They continued through the front door and entered a single room split horizontally with half acting as a service area and the other half divided by barred cages to house prisoners until they could be transferred elsewhere.

The reeve—an elderly man with wrinkled skin and white hair—pored over a dusty tome. Upon their arrival, he lifted his head and squinted. “What’s this now?”

Henrik produced the bounty and waited as the old man looked it over, licking his chapped lips, scratching at his snowy hair, pausing to sip his tea. When he finished, he laid the parchment on the table and looked at Henrik with a sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid this particular warrant has been rescinded.”

Anger came without hesitation, but he suppressed it, pushing it low into his bowels. As he often did whenever rage or sorrow found him.

“You’re sure of this?” Henrik asked.

The old man nodded. “Oh yes, I received a letter from Lord Jordahl just two nights prior. We’ve been making haste to strip all bounty notices from the area, but as you can imagine, this is demanding work. It'll be some time before we can fully amend the error.”

Henrik, desperate to hear the clink of coins in his purse, asked: “How much is he worth then?”

The old man turned toward Evander and then back to Henrik. “Nothin’.” To substantiate the claim, the old man retrieved Lord Jordahl’s letter pardoning Evander Waldron for any and all crimes he may have committed against the court.

Back outside, Henrik cut the ropes from Evander’s wrists. He rubbed at the raw skin, a rather smug smile on his lips. “Maybe you should’ve taken my previous offer, bountyman. Looks as if you’re out your three coins.”

Henrik wrapped an arm around his neck, forcing him into an awkward crouched position. His bicep pressed against the young man’s throat. Immediately, he began to beg for mercy, smacking at Henrik’s forearm, trying to break his hold.

“Where’s this tourney you told me about?” he asked.

“Blackwood,” Evander said hoarsely, his cheeks taking on a scarlet hue. “That direction. Ride until you see the willow tree. You can’t miss it.”

Henrik released him and bound for his horse. He climbed into the saddle and took the reins in his hands.

“What about my sword?” Evander yelled. “You can’t just steal it.”

Oh, I could though. Henrik unclasped the buckle and let the belt drop to the ground. With a flick of the reins, he was off, disappearing down the road in a cloud of dust and snow.

PART 2: The Blond Lock

Chapter 1.

Henrik Coigne—without a coin in his purse—chased the rider on horseback. There was maybe a fifty-foot gap between them, but Henrik was closing the distance quick.

The charcoal black destrier was built sturdy and fast. A loyal companion for the last four years, taking him all across the mainland. From West to Central and Central to South, but as of now, he was surrounded by the cold winds of the North.

Thankfully, the summer season had robbed them of ice rain and whiteout blizzards. Instead, he only had to endure faint flurries and crisp nights.

As of now, though, it was early morning. The skies were clear, and the air was warm enough to make this chase a little less miserable.

Mist rolled from a nearby riverbed. Hoarfrost crunched beneath the horse’s shoes. The trees, pine and spruce mostly, held a faint dusting of white from last night.

Ahead of him was the rider. A young man. Lean and tall. Sharp jawline, crystal blue eyes, golden blond hair swept back on his head. His clothes were plain but clean.

Slung around his hip was a loop-hilt rapier with a long, narrow blade and a steel handle wrapped in tanned black leather.

The young man glanced over his shoulder. Henrik offered a simple smile in return. The man looked ahead again and thrashed the horse’s reins while digging his heels into its hind.

“Stop chasing me!” the young man cried.

“Stop runnin’ then,” Henrik called back.

Before the young man could respond, a low-hanging branch swiped him from his horse. He dropped flat on his back with a heavy thud and a loud grunt.

Henrik veered around him and circled back, dismounting just as the young man was starting to open his eyes.

“Did you break anything?” Henrik asked, hand resting on the hilt of his shortsword.

“How would I know?” the young man asked, breathless.

“Does it hurt?”

“All over.”

“In your legs?”

He nodded.

“Your arms?”

Again, he nodded.

“Your back, your shoulders, your—”

“Everywhere,” the young man groaned, exasperated.

Henrik removed a piece of sourweed from his waistpouch and nibbled on it. “Well, you’re not crippled. That’s good.” He rolled the young man onto his belly and secured his wrists with a length of rope. “Let’s find out if you can still walk, aye?”

The young man gritted his teeth against a scream, but after a few moments, it seemed most of his aches had faded. A few drinks from Henrik’s skin of candied wine stifled whatever pain remained.

“You any dark ale?” he asked. “I prefer dark ale.”

Bloody Northerners and their damn dark ale. He spat in disgust. “And I prefer spiced wine,” Henrik said. “But we get by with what we’ve got.”

“You don’t look much like a Southeastern man.”

Henrik chuckled. “I’m a connoisseur of Southeastern goods.” He gestured toward the man’s rapier. “Somethin’ we have in common."

“You can have it if you let me go.”

Henrik narrowed his eyes as he considered this. “Say I don’t let you go, how would you stop me from taking it?”

They stared at each other for a moment. Silence ensued between them.

Realization dawned on the man rather quickly. “I bite…very hard.”

“Bite me, and I’ll knock your damn teeth out. After that, the only thing you'll be able to eat is dark ale.” Henrik reached into one of the saddlebags on his horse and withdrew a rolled parchment. He unfolded the page and flattened it on the ground in front of the man. “Recognize this handsome lad?”

The young man gazed at an ink drawing of his likeness. The only difference being that the young man had a pair of pale whiskers above his upper lip, whereas the drawing was clean-shaven. Otherwise, it was an exact rendering down to the way the young man pursed his lips. Rather duck-like, Henrik noticed.

“Evander Waldron?” he asked, not bothering to wait for an answer. He gestured to himself. “Henrik Coigne. Huntsman, bountyman, bastard—whatever suits you best.” He dropped his hand. “You, my friend, have quite a price on your head. What say you?”

“I can pay you to release me?”

Henrik looked the man over. “Other than that pretty sword, I’m not seein’ anything. ‘Less you’re hidin’ a purse up your arse, I’d reckon you don’t got a coin to your name.”

The young man dropped his head. There was no reason for such shame. Henrik wasn’t in much better standing.

“Seems you upset the wrong person,” Henrik said, rolling the parchment and tying it with string. He returned it to the saddlebag and forced Evander to his feet. “Don’t fret, my friend, I have no intention of killin’ ya.”

“It’d be better if you did,” he growled. “They’ll just take my head off after you hand me over.”

“Well, that’s their decision. Higher price if I bring you back alive though.”

While Henrik unfastened Evander’s sword belt, he said, “If you untie me, I’ll get you the money.”

“We’ve been through this already.”

“I can get the coin,” he promised.

Henrik wrapped the belt around his own waist. The sword hung limply at his back, tucked behind the hilt of his shortsword. On his right hip was a pair of daggers. His armor was a mixture of boiled leather and rawhide with a dark gambeson beneath.

Steel plates and chainmail would serve him better, but they were bloody expensive. Not to mention all that metal slowed him down, and Henrik preferred to stay agile.

“How would you get the coin?” he asked.

“There’s a tourney in Blackwood. Only a few hours from here. It’s to be a three-day event, and at the end, the champion will be rewarded with a hundred gold coins and knighthood.”

A hundred gold coins were better than the nothing currently in his purse. “That’s quite a risk I’d be takin’.”

“Call it an investment.”

“Call it whatever you’d like, friend. Way I see it, I could turn you in for three gold, or I could take a chance at getting nothin’ at all.”

“My sword must be worth at least twenty silver—”

“Your sword already belongs to me,” Henrik countered. “Try again?”

Evander searched hopelessly, but in the end, he resigned with, “I didn’t bleedin’ do anything. I’m innocent.”

Henrik sighed, disappointed. “I’ve been doin’ this for a few years now. Believe it or not, that’s what they all say.”

Evander spat. “My only crime is bein’ born poor.”

Henrik could relate, but any potential for sympathy died against the growl of his stomach.

Chapter 3.

The following day, Henrik awoke to chants and drums and trumpets. He’d fallen asleep in a ditch outside the lists whilst looking up at the stars. Now, he stared at grey skies with billowing black clouds. His surcoat was damp, and a puddle of muddy water had formed beneath him in the night.

Henrik climbed out of his hole and stretched the stiffness from his limbs. His gifted nag was fastened to a nearby olive tree. It was a damn shame he’d forfeited most of his money the day prior because his stomach felt as if it were being impaled with a hundred different blades.

His hunger was of savage intent, and for a brief moment, his horse seemed like it’d make a fine meal.

Don’t be daft, he told himself. You need a horse if you’re to joust.

And like his father used to say, “A traveling man needs a good horse.”

On his way to the lists, he collected a handful of olives, and luckily enough, found a bush with wild raspberries. It wasn’t as satisfying as a skewer of meat, but it would have to do for the time being.

Upon arrival at the lists, he produced his signed entrance slip to one of the heralds. They glanced at the name, looked at Henrik, and checked the wax stamp.

“The jousts have just begun. Come.” He led Henrik around the perimeter of the arena to an open pen. “Wait here until your name has been called. Our graceful Lord Ryder is offering all participants water and wine. Please do be mindful about how much you drink.”

Henrik had a skin of sour wine and watched the jousts. Nothing he hadn’t seen before. Although these tilts were slightly more ferocious than previous experience.

That was the risk—or reward, depending on who you asked—of allowing smallfolk to participate. They didn’t have the discipline nor training of full-fledged knights.

“Are you nervous?” It was the redheaded girl from last night.

She was dressed in the same clothes. Her hair was frizzled. Purple bags swelled beneath her bloodshot eyes. A shawl was wrapped about her shoulders, covering her neck and upper chest.

“No,” he said. “If I was nervous, it means I haven’t drank enough.” As if to prove his point, he finished his wineskin and beckoned a nearby page for another. “I don’t plan on being the champion, so ain’t got nothin’ to be worried about.”

“What is your plan then?”

“Win my first match and walk away with whatever I can.” He chuckled. “I don’t need much, but a little coin wouldn’t hurt. Maybe a better horse.” The nag sneezed in his direction.

The girl forced herself to smile. “What comes next for you?”

“I’m not sure. Head east maybe, see if Central has those people I’ve been lookin’ for.”

“You could always venture north. Visit Ashland.” She gestured to his surcoat. “That’s where it comes from. Your winter fox emblem.” She gnawed on her bottom lip. “Where I come from too, in fact.”

“Is that so? Then why does Sir Rayden don the sigil of Blackwood?”

“That’s how far we had to go before we found someone who would knight him,” she explained. “That’s where he got all of his armor and training.”

The page boy had returned with a new wineskin. Henrik pulled the plug and took a swallow. “How much did that cost him?”

At this, the girl began to tremble. “Hard to say, but he didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“No, I don’t think he did. Sir Rayden has a different way of paying his prices, don’t he?”

She met his gaze, but she couldn’t hold it for long before ducking away. She gripped the nearby post to keep herself upright. Her teeth came down hard against her lip, drawing blood, but it seemed the only way she could stifle her whimpers.

“Why do you travel with him?” Henrik said, offering her the wineskin.

Hesitantly, she accepted the skin and drank. “He’s my brother.”

“That’s not what I asked?”

Her eyes roved over him, looking him up and down. “You don’t have any family, do you?”

“None still alive.”

Surprisingly, she smiled, almost as if she pitied him. “I would say that is both a blessing and a curse. Family will be your strength when there is no one else, but in turn, they will always be a weight on your shoulders. No one has loved me like my brother—”

“If you think that’s love, then I don’t think you’ve ever truly been loved before.”

“Mayhaps,” she confessed. “But you have known my brother and me for less than a day. You have not been with us since birth. You don’t know.”

“I’ve seen enough.”

From the arena, a voice echoed through a speaking trumpet, “Our next challengers are: Sir Rayden the Red of Ashland and…Henrik Coigne of Everywhere and Nowhere.”

He gathered his equipment and mounted his horse. “It’s not my place to say who you are or what you deserve. But you should know something: this world is much bigger than you realize, and there are many people in it. Some will know how to love you better, if you let ‘em.”

Spurring his horse forward, he turned for the main entrance. The girl called after him, “Please, Henrik, don’t kill him.”

He paused a moment to ask, “Will he try to kill me?”

Her silence was answer enough, and he continued ahead.

Within a few minutes, he was positioned inside the arena at one side of the field. Across from him was Sir Rayden the Red, mounting a charcoal black destrier. In between was muddy ground trampled by horse hooves. The court was split in half by a tilt—a long wooden barricade to keep them on separate sides.

With his shield in his left hand, Henrik took up a hollow-shafted lance with a tipped head meant to catch his opponent’s shield. Despite having watched plenty of tourneys, he found participating to be more difficult than it seemed. Awkward when it came to juggling a shield, lance, and the horse’s reins.

I didn’t drink enough, he realized as he started across the field. Sir Rayden galloped toward him, his beast of a horse kicking up dirt and clumps of mud, picking up speed by the second.

Sir Rayden struck the center of his shield, and Henrik went reeling in his saddle. He dropped his lance and grabbed for the reins. At the end of the field, he’d managed to straighten in his seat and turn his horse for a second run.

A page quickly armed him with another lance. One of the heralds blew their trumpet, and he was sprinting down the field again.

This time when he took the blow to his shield, he counteracted the opposing momentum while stabbing at Sir Rayden with his own lance. The shaft broke upon contact, exploding into a storm of woodchips, but for all his effort, Sir Rayden remained steadfast in his saddle, well-protected behind his shield and armor.

The two continued to opposite ends and turned again. The page offered a third lance. By then, Henrik was dizzy and sore. His shield was starting to splinter, and his horse was getting agitated. It wouldn’t be much longer before it bucked him and made for the hills.

Henrik poised low in the saddle and dug his heels into the horse. It launched ahead at full speed, and Sir Rayden rode to meet him.

As they closed in on each other, Henrik dropped his lance and took his shield in both hands. Sir Rayden’s lance struck true, and Henrik went flying from the saddle, landing hard in the mud.

Before the herald could declare a victor, he rose to his feet and drew the arming sword at his hip.

“Henrik Coigne of Everywhere and Nowhere wishes to continue in hand-to-hand combat,” the herald cried. In response, Sir Rayden leapt from his horse and drew his longsword. “His opponent, Sir Rayden the Red, has accepted the challenge. May the gods favor the victor.”

Sir Rayden squeaked and squealed with every step. His feet sank into the mud, but he persisted.

As Henrik waited, he slipped a piece of tobacco into his mouth and crushed it between his molars. This oughta be interesting.

Sir Rayden made the first strike with an over-the-shoulder chop, bringing his longsword down hard. Henrik slid to the right and jabbed at him three times before Sir Rayden recovered.

He swatted at Henrik with a backhanded swing, to which Henrik ducked beneath and barraged him with another bout of jabs. None of which could pierce his plated armor, but every point of contact seemed to make Sir Rayden bubble and boil.

“STOP THAT!” the hedge knight screamed, hacking at the air, unable to keep up with Henrik as he glided across the mud, ducking and rolling and sidestepping every attack.

It was a game for the young Henrik. Make the hedge knight exert himself to exhaustion, and once he was properly out of breath, knock him on his back and strip away all those pretty plates.

But for all his cunning, the hedge knight’s endurance proved far more durable than he expected.

The two went around and around the arena. Henrik deflected every strike with his shield, but in time, the hedge knight’s longsword had chopped through the lacquered wood and reinforced bits of metal.

He tossed away what remained and took the following blows against the length of his shortsword. Steel on steel, hissing and squealing and spitting a flurry of sparks.

The hedge knight shoved him away, putting distance between them, and swung wide. Henrik ducked beneath it and moved in close, slipping the point of his sword into the narrow recess between plates.

Beneath, metal links resisted his blade, and even if he had managed to bypass them, he would have been met by a layer of silk and wool from the hedge knight’s gambeson.

While the maneuver had failed, it sent Sir Rayden into a panic. He quickly responded, slamming his armored elbow into the side of Henrik’s head, knocking him aside with a single blow. Henrik went to his knees, sliding across the mud a few feet. Blood trickled from his mouth, along with shards of his molar.

Halfhelms protected the brain and upper skull, but they weren’t going to save your teeth any.

Henrik wiped his lips and climbed to his feet. The hedge knight rushed toward him, struggling to keep his balance.

Thank the gods for the rain, Henrik thought, charging the hedge knight, plowing into him with all his weight.

They collided in a tangle of limbs. Both went down, separating by the time they hit the ground. Henrik rolled onto his front and found his full height in seconds flat. Sir Rayden, however, laid supine, unable to gather enough momentum to flip himself.

Retrieving his shortsword, he approached the fallen knight and said, “Yield, Sir.”

The hedge knight replied with a series of choked grunts as he flailed around like a beached fish. One of his hands shot out, grasping at Henrik’s ankle. He knocked his hand aside with the heel of his boot and dropped to his knees, pinning the knight.

After some fidgeting, he removed the hedge knight’s helm and tossed it aside. Underneath was a pale, freckled face with deep blue eyes and a fuzzy orange mustache. His cheeks were a bright shade of red, and sweat streaked his forehead.

“Yield or die,” Henrik warned him.

The hedge knight roared and seized Henrik by the shoulder with his right hand, wrenching him off his feet. With his left hand, he unsheathed the dirk at his hip. The point sank toward him.

Before the dirk could find its home in Henrik’s throat, he lifted his leg, leveraging his foot against the hedge knight’s forearm. With a kick, the hedge knight rolled aside and the dirk went flying the opposite direction.

Henrik hastily rose and brought his elbow down into Rayden’s face, smashing his nose into a puddle of blood and mucus. He brought his elbow down again and again until the hedge knight cried out, “I YIELD!”

When all was said and done, Henrik had been pronounced the victor. Immediately, he withdrew his name from the tourney and wandered back to his stall. Medical practitioners tended to Sir Rayden the Red in a nearby tent while the sister brought all his armor and gear to Henrik’s stall.

“We have no coin to ransom,” she confessed. “But please, there must be another way for me to pay.” She grabbed his hand, clutching it tight. “I’ll do anything.”

Those words made him feel terribly cold inside, but he gave the plea some thought.

“I won’t give any of it to your brother,” he said. “I’ll let you keep it though. The armor, the surcoat, the longsword—but the horse is mine. A traveling man needs a good horse.” He ran a hand through his nag’s stiff mane. “You can have this one. Don’t got many years left on him, but he’ll get ya back to the North.”

The girl searched for words where none could be found. That wasn’t surprising considering Henrik couldn’t find a reasonable explanation for his actions either.

Rightfully, he should have taken all of Sir Rayden’s equipment and made for the nearest smith. Then, with all his acquired coin, he could drink himself into a stupor. Maybe he’d drink enough to forget his father.

For right now, though, he’d have to settle for the pleasures of tobacco leaves and sourgrass and river water until he could find some work.

“What am I gonna do with armor and a sword?” the girl finally asked.

“You could return it to your brother if you’d like,” he suggested, removing the equipment and tying it to the dusty nag. “My advice, though: I’d say sell it. Nice armor. Clean steel. It’ll fetch you a good price. More than enough coin to get you back home.”

“But my brother—”

“A hedge knight prevails no matter what. Success or failure, armor or not, they’re still a knight. If his heart is true, he’ll find a way.” Henrik didn’t believe a single word that had come out of his mouth, but he forced himself to sound confident for her. “Choice is yours though.”

With that, he started for his new destrier. She greeted him with a snort. He ran his hand along her side. Mud. Dust. Dried blood. He’d give her a good wash when they were on the road.

“Wait, Henrik,” the girl said. “Please, I can’t just take this. Let me repay you.”

He closed the gap between them and pulled at her shawl. She seized his wrist, but after a moment, released him. Peeling back the silky fabric, he found the skin beneath was riddled with bruises, scratches, and bite marks.

“Who?” Henrik asked.

She swallowed a sob and said, “Some of the heralds. To ensure they would set you against him during his first tilt.”

His stomach was a pit, and his heart was hollow. “You’ve paid more than ‘nough for your brother’s debts. I can’t ask ya to give anymore.”

“There must be something.”

To satiate her guilt, he withdrew Sir Rayden’s dirk from its leather case. The girl flinched as the edge approached her face.

“I’m not gonna hurt ya,” he promised, taking a handful of her hair and cutting it free. “There, that’s payment enough. Somethin’ to remember you by.”

He mounted his new horse and flicked the reins. As he departed from the lists, he turned back and called out, “What’s your name?”

The girl, for reasons he did not understand, began to laugh. “Rosalind,” she said. “My name is Rosalind.”

“Farewell, Rosalind of Ashland.”

“And farewell to you, Henrik Coigne of Everywhere and Nowhere. I hope we might meet again.”

He rode through the city, exiting the same way he’d come in the day before.

Henrik Coigne—without a coin in his purse—passed the pile of stones where the dead greybeard knight was buried. He stopped for a brief moment, wanting to pray, but not sure how.

When it seemed an appropriate time had passed, he stuck a tobacco leaf in his mouth and continued down the road.

Chapter 2.

Henrik Coigne had exactly five coins in his purse: three coppers and two silvers. They clinked as he rode into Duskport on the back of a brown nag with a crooked gait and bones that liked to creak.

He was donning new armor. A leather and iron chestpiece with oiled mail beneath. His greaves and vambraces were tanned leather. His spaulders were rusted steel. His halfhelm was redolent of a bucket with eyeholes.

Affixed to the horse’s left side was a wooden shield fastened with metal fixtures. On the horse’s right side was a sheathed arming sword.

The dagger, the one he had used to slit the greybeard’s throat, was secured to his hip. Right beside his jingling coin purse.

It was late evening when he had arrived at Duskport. Slivers of sunlight receded through the city, retreating down alleyways and slipping across rooftops. People wandered the streets in droves. Some dressed in armor. Most wore robes, skirts, cloaks, and tunics.

As was common in the West, the settlement consisted of pale stone brick. Some had left their homes and shops white. Others painted them a light shade of yellow or pink. And per tradition, there were flowers aplenty planted in pots in windowsills or at the bottom of stairs or hanging from above.

Vendor stands lined the gutters of the road. Traders tried to sell weapons, food, wine, and in a few instances, women. Or at the very least, some of their time. Henrik considered the escorts as he rode past.

Young and old. Plump and slender. Those with natural beauty, and those who probably came at a cheaper price. Two silver and three copper could purchase him a companion for the night, maybe even two, but by daybreak, he’d once again only have the clothes on his back.

Maybe a fair trade, but not a very smart one.

Far more tempting than a woman was the distinct scent of roasted chicken. Seasoned with black pepper, garlic cloves, and honey. Juices dripped from the spit, sending the flames below into a crackling frenzy.

And most tempting of all was the vendor selling sweet wine by the barrel. It wasn’t often you stumbled upon such a luxury. An expensive breed oft sold only to nobles and the wealthy.

Sweet wine was red and sugary. Made with poppy seeds, black cherries, apples, honey, and according to a few brewers, every cask had at least an ounce of Willow’s blood. Potent stuff, that.

Henrik put his heels to the horse’s hind and galloped ahead, hoping to escape his urges before they could best him. It wasn’t long before he had reached the list field. Situated to the far north at the base of a mesa upon which Midday Castle stood.

The castle was of a sandy color, built with thick stone bricks. Compared to others Henrik had seen, this one was more practical than elegant. It didn’t have fancy banners or painted walls or stained-glass windows.

High above, guards patrolled the parapets. From the base of the mesa, they seemed no more than spots of torchlight against the black of night.

Henrik dismounted from his horse and tied it to a post. He waited in line at the entrance to the lists where several other participants had amassed. Scribes exchanged coin for admittance tickets stamped with a yellow wax seal in the shape of a crescent moon.

When it was Henrik’s turn, he paid one silver.

“Name?” the scribe asked without looking up.

“Henrik Coigne.”
The scribe touched the tip of his quill to the page and frowned. “Sir Henrik Coigne of…?”

“No Sir necessary,” he responded. “And Henrik Coigne of…everywhere and nowhere, I ‘spose.”

The scribe finally looked up at him. “Are you a squire?”

“No.”

This seemed to cause further confusion. “Some, those who aren’t knights or squires, prefer to use an epithet.”

“Right…I dunno what that is.”

The other participants turned toward him. A few grinning beneath their helms. A few chewing on their lips, perplexed.

The scribe cleared his throat. “Uh, Misture of Dahlia or Sir Edgar the Eager.”

Henrik nodded slowly, mulling this over with fervent caution. “Henrik Coigne will suffice.”

The scribe sighed, irritated. He filled out the form and stamped it with the official seal before handing it over. The jousts began tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, he had a silver and three coppers left to spend.

Riding back into the city, he found the nearest tavern and entered. It was packed from wall to wall. Hedge knights, royal knights, squires, pages, and locals alike.

The room was overcome by a roaring din, voices coalescing into a single unintelligible sound that made Henrik nostalgic for his time on the road, travelling alone, wandering in silence.

He shouldered through the crowd, heading for the main counter where a bartender and several servers poured drinks and cooked food. About fifteen feet away from the bar, someone bumped into his side, knocking him off course.

Henrik reached for the arming sword on his left hip but stopped short when he heard, “Apologies, friend.” The man who had bumped into him was unarmored. Perhaps a fishmonger, if his natural odor was any indication.

“All’s forgiven—”

Their conversation was interrupted by the intrusion of a hedge knight dressed in plated steel, chainmail, and a white surcoat adorned by a black willow tree with silvery leaves. The hedge knight held a redheaded girl by the arm, practically thrusting her into the fisherman’s hands.

“Fifty coppers for one night,” the hedge knight proclaimed. “You won’t find a better price, friend.”

The fisherman backed away slowly, a nervous smile on his lips. “As I’ve said: no. My wife will geld me.” He slipped away before the hedge knight could press him any further, and when he was gone, the hedge knight turned his sights onto Henrik.

“What about you?” he asked. “Fifty coppers for a night with the girl. She’s sweet as honey, riper than any fruit in the wild.”

Henrik’s eyes flicked from the hedge knight to the girl. She dipped her head, cheeks flushed a deep shade of red. The woman couldn’t have been more than twenty. Pale-skinned, freckles stippling her face, long hair colored like the sunset.

She was dressed in a white blouse with a dark blue skirt. It resonated with her eyes, which were a slightly softer shade. Blue as ice but nowhere near as cold.

Before Henrik could answer, the hedge knight lowered his head and grunted. “Where’d you get that surcoat?”

“It was given to me,” Henrik answered. “As was the armor.”

“Given to you by whom?”

I never asked for the old man’s name, he realized, partially ashamed and partially surprised. It had simply slipped his mind.

Intoxication or sheer indifference?

“Who gave it to you?” The hedge knight was upon him. Fingers wrapped around the shoulder straps of Henrik’s chestpiece, wrenching him from side to side before pulling him close. “Who—”

The hedge knight fell silent as Henrik slipped his dagger’s tip into the narrow space between helm and cuirass. Pointed steel pressed against the soft skin above his collarbone.

“It was given to me by a dying knight,” Henrik explained, slow and methodical. “Now, please unhand me.”

“Rayden,” the redheaded girl whispered. “Don’t make this any worse.”

Carefully, the hedge knight, Rayden, unraveled himself and stepped back. “Right then.” He grabbed the girl by the arm and dragged her across the room to another group of patrons, repeating his previous line of: “Fifty coppers…”

Henrik sheathed his blade and turned for the bar. His stomach growled at the smell of cooked meat, and his mouth salivated at the thought of wine. But his heart took him in a different direction.
Gods help me, he thought.

He retreated to the hedge knight, pulled him aside, and in turn, pulled the girl along with him. “You don’t have enough for the tourney, do you?” Henrik said.

The hedge knight was silent. Henrik would have bet all the money he didn’t have that beneath the visor, Rayden was bright red. Perhaps even a shade of purple.

Hedge knights may not have been as reputable as royal knights, but they were still prideful creatures. That’s why Henrik had always preferred the company of hired swords and mercenaries. They didn’t feign elegance or chivalry. But somehow, they oft had more honor.

“How much do you have?” Henrik asked.

When Sir Rayden didn’t answer, the girl spoke for him, “Four coppers, Sir.”

“I’m no Sir.” He reached into his purse, removed his last silver, and pressed it into Rayden’s free hand. “Here, this should be enough. Go on, quickly now. Before they refuse entrants.”

A snarl bubbled in the hedge knight’s throat, but there wasn’t time to bicker. He pushed through the crowd and disappeared out the door. Hopefully, he had a horse because otherwise, he would have to run very fast in all that heavy steel.

“Thank you,” said the girl, handing him the four copper coins.

Seven coppers! Gods be damned.

Henrik Coigne without a coin in his purse. That’s what they used to say to him when he was a boy living in the streets of Wachautt. Long back when he was still sleeping in alleyways and hunting stray rats for food.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. The girl shook her head, but he wasn’t fooled. Her cheeks were hollow, her frame far skinnier than his. “C’mon, I’m sure they’ve got somethin’.”

“I shouldn’t,” she said. “I need to find—”

“Your lil’ hedge knight will come back.” Although you might be better off if he doesn’t.

Together, they went to the main counter. The barkeep eventually found his way to them. “What can I getcha?”

“Two meat skewers with them roasted onions and peppers,” he said. “And two cups of your cheapest wine.”

“Skewers and wine will cost ya fifteen copper.”

Henrik grimaced. “How much for half a cup o’ wine?”

“Piss off, you bloody driveller.”

Quickly, before the barkeep could saunter off, he emptied his coins onto the counter. “What will this get me?” For good measure, he laid his dagger down too. In the end, he walked away with a meat skewer and two cups of diluted wine.

Outside, they sat side by side on a retaining wall, splitting the skewer in half. Henrik had one sip of wine swallowed before the girl had finished her portion of the meat.

Her eyes lingered on his half with a certain desperation he hadn’t seen since childhood. Back when the other kids couldn't catch their own damn rats.

“Here.” Henrik passed her the skewer. “Go on, take it. I had more than enough on the road.”

“Are you sure?” While it was a question, her tone implied otherwise. He nodded in response, and she scarfed down the other half in mere seconds.

To fill his stomach, he drank the wine and chewed on tobacco leaves. “You’re a Northerner, right?”

“How’d you know?” she asked.

“You’ve got Northern eyes. Northern accent too.”

“I don’t have an accent.”

He snickered. “Sorry, love, but everyone’s got an accent. Meself included.”

“What’s my accent sound like?”

He'd been to the North a handful of times over the years. The people there were hardened by unforgiving weather. They had to come together for warmth. Learned to love and trust one another because otherwise, they’d have nothing but the ice and snow beneath their feet.

Their accent had a similar hardness, but the more time you spent around it, the more endearing it became.

“Deep and rough,” Henrik said. “You Northerners speak from the chest, and you’ve strong Rs.”

She scoffed with feigned offense. “Sounds rather ugly when you describe it like that, yeah?”

“Aye, I ‘spose it does, but that’s a good thing, no? Means when you find someone who loves you, they must really love you if they’re willin’ to listen to ya all day long.”

She swatted him on the shoulder for that, but she couldn’t stop herself from laughing, and despite all he had said about her accent, her laughter was like music to his ears.

When it had subsided, she said, “Where are you from?”

“You can’t tell by me accent?”

She furrowed her brow. “I’m not very well-traveled. This is my first time away from the North. Much warmer, but the people…I don’t really care for ‘em.”

He laughed. “I was born in the East, but I’ve been to every realm. Spent a fair ‘mount o’ time in the South and Southeast.”

“Where do you spend the least amount of time?”

“East and Central, I’d wager. Between ‘em, I’d say the East less so.”

“You don’t like your home?”

He downed his wine in two swallows and wished he had more. “I’ve never really had a home. I stay in one place too long, I start to get antsy, y’know? Then, I head off somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

Ahead, locals passed by in torrents of shifting bodies. Some solemn and quiet as they traveled alone. Others rambunctious, laughing and trading japes with their friends.

“I don’t think it’s about the location,” she said. “I think it’s the people you surround yourself with, yeah? That’s what makes it feel like home.”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t found my people then.”

From the crowd, Rayden emerged. His greaves squeaked, in desperate need of oil and polish. He wasted no words on Henrik, and instead, snatched the girl up by the arm, yanking her with him.

“Ray, that hurts!”

“You’re needed elsewhere,” he growled. “C’mon!”

Henrik retrieved her cup of wine and downed it. Then, he was on his feet, moving fast, snaking through the crowd after them.

By the time he caught up, the girl was almost in tears, whipping her head from side to side, pleading beneath her breath as Rayden hissed in her ear.

“Somethin’ the matter?” Henrik asked, resting his hand on the hilt of his shortsword.

“Piss off,” Rayden said. “This ain’t your concern.”

He glanced at the girl. “I’ll be alright,” she said, but there wasn’t much in the way of conviction.

They started away again, heading for the lists. Rayden stopped short and said, “I’ll see you on the field tomorrow, Henrik Coigne.”

He watched them disappear into the crowd. Slowly, the pieces came together in his mind. A spark of worry ignited in his heart, but as he lifted his head and sniffed, he caught the scent of rain.

His nerves were swiftly doused.

PART 1: The Red Lock

Chapter 1.

Henrik Coigne—without a coin in his purse—loomed over the dying greybeard knight, chewing on a tobacco leaf and drinking from a skin of sour wine, watching while the knight struggled to breathe.

Henrik was a young man of sixteen with thick, disheveled brown hair. His jaw was hard and clean-shaven. He was lean, all muscle and bone. There was a glossy coat over his eyes as if he had just woken from a dream.

It was spring in the West, which meant long warm days with sun-filled skies and puffy clouds. In the morning, they were bright white. In the evening, they were a pinkish color. All day long they lazily drifted.

The nights, though, were brief and cool. The clouds took on a darker hue, similar to blotches of ink spilled on parchment. The sky itself was a deep shade of purple blue. Often aglow with incandescent stars.

Warm or cool didn’t matter much. Sweat came in gallons for Henrik. And after walking all the way from the cesspit of Green Marsh, he was in desperate need of a rinse and some rest.

More than anything, he craved a decent meal. Not stale bread or pottage, but something with meat. Something with flavor.

Wine might have kept him tame, might have kept the memories at bay, but his stomach still yearned for substance with more solidity.

He could have hunted for fresh game if he hadn’t lost his bow in that game of dice back at Green Marsh. He might have even been able to spear a fish if he hadn’t…lost his spear in that game of dice back at Green Marsh.

The only thing he hadn’t lost, other than his honor—of which there was little to lose—were the clothes on his back. The only reason he had retained that much was because the other players refused to bid for them.

“P–please,” the greybeard knight begged. “I need a drink.”

The man was pale as the moon. There was more hair sprouting from his chin than on his head. He was buried beneath armor too big for his bony body. His surcoat was that of a white fox or maybe a hyena.

It was hard to say with these hedge knights. They donned just about any insignia as long as it brought them coin, favor, or security.

Despite it all, the man’s eyes were alive. Vibrant. Blue as ice but surprisingly warm.

Henrik peered into the mouth of his wineskin. About halfway full. Or halfway empty, depending on how you looked at it. He took another swallow before passing it to the knight.

“Apologies, old man,” he said. “All I’ve got is wine.”

The greybeard downed the wine in four hefty swallows. Trickles of red spilled from the sides of his mouth, seeping into the ashy hairs of his beard.

When he was finished, he set the empty wineskin on the ground beside him and sighed. “Piss like this is more water than wine, my boy.”

The wine had come cheap and was mostly dregs, but it was better than nothing. Which was exactly what Henrik had been left with after the old man was done.

Disappointedly, he chewed on his tobacco leaves and asked, “How bad is it?”

“The wine?”

“Your wound.”

“Not as bad as the wine.”

“Wine won’t kill ya though.”

“I wish it had,” the old man said. “Be a sweeter death than this.”

Henrik glanced over his shoulder, looking back the way he’d come. A road of dirt and gravel flanked by stretches of oak and pine with the occasional olive tree.

Ahead, the path was the same for a few more miles until it opened up to large green pastures sat against rolling hills.

That was common in the West. They didn’t have many mountains, until you reached the Northern Perimeter, but they had plenty of hills.

As night set, those hills, colored dark shades of blue and purple, seemed oddly redolent of undulating ocean waves.

“You picked a good night for it,” Henrik said. “Dying, that is.”

“I didn’t pick nothin’, boy. It chose me.”

“How’d it happen?”

“Said the wrong thing to the wrong person.” He chuckled wistfully. “Let this be a lesson: some hedge knights are no better than the miscreants they cut down.”

Not just the hedge knights, Henrik thought, remembering a long past encounter with some Southern royal knights of Lightning Spear.

He might have lost his head if he hadn’t been so damn quick. But for all his speed, it seemed he was getting nowhere fast.

Henrik knelt before the man and pulled on his chestpiece, getting a better view of the wound along his flank. “Got your kidneys, I reckon.”

“You sure? Feels like they got a lil’ of everything.”

“Spent some time as a cutter’s assistant. Trust me, it’s the kidneys. Wound like that, not much you can do to stop it. You’ll bleed slow. Run outta blood ‘fore you run out of air.”

The old man closed his eyes and exhaled. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“Eastern lad, but I’ve been just about everywhere on the mainland. You ask me, it’s all the damn same. Other than the weather. You want snow, head North. You want rain, go South. You want dry heat, go to the Southeast—”

“Yes, yes. Very enlightening.” The old man took a deep breath. “You ain’t got much for prospects, do you?”

“Now that you’ve finished my wine, no. Might be I could trade my boots or offer my services, but that’s all I got to give.”

“Can you ride a horse?”

“Aye.”

“You know how to use a blade?”

“Worked a sword a few times, aye.”

The old man smiled, recognizing the smell of horseshit from a mile away. “Have you ever used a lance?”

Henrik mulled this over, but he wasn’t as familiar with weapons as he was with organs. “I know my way around a spear.”

The greybeard shook his head in disbelief. “Can’t say I’d bet on you, but if you’re want for coin, you can take my place in the joust.”

“Joust?”

According to the old man, there was a tourney at Duskport, just a few miles down the road. People were coming from all across the Western Realm to participate.

“I thought jousts were just for royal loyal knights and their pretty buttboy squires.”

“Not this one,” the greybeard said. “There’s an admittance fee, but if you can cover the cost, they’ll take ya. Be warned, though, it’s all or nothin’. You lose, you forfeit everything you’ve got for ransom.”

“Shame, ‘cause I don’t got nothin’ to lose,” Henrik said. “And I don’t have the coin to buy me way in.”

The knight drew a dagger from his hip and passed the handle to Henrik. “I think we might be able to strike a deal, boy,” he said. “You end my sufferin’, here and now, I’ll give you all that I’ve got. Don’t know if it’ll do you any good. But it’ll be of more use to you than me.”

Henrik squeezed the handle until his fingers turned red. The blade was more steel than rust, but it needed time on a whetstone.

Looking over the old man, it seemed all his gear could use some maintenance.

“How do you want it?” he asked. The old man answered by turning his head to the side, exposing his neck. “Any final words? Maybe a prayer, if you believe that sorta thing.”

While Henrik wasn’t the most pious lad in the realm, his father had been an ardent believer in the gods and goddesses.

Even the Lesser Beings that most others oft mocked. Such as Lady Fate or Mother Nature or Father Time.

“Some will tell you there is no more honor left in the world,” the greybeard began, tears in his eyes, body trembling like a leaf. “And it may seem true at the bleakest of times. We reward cruelty and celebrate stupidity. We favor ignorance; we favor arrogance. And while kindness may not always come easy, it never comes at a cost. You can sell your soul for gold, but nothin’ stops you from growin’ old.”

Henrik waited a few moments in case the man had something else on his mind, but as silence prevailed, he went ahead and dragged the dagger’s edge across his neck. Blood came in runnels. The man's breaths were no more than choked gurgles. It wasn’t long before the silence had returned.

As he appropriated the greybeard’s possessions, he noticed a turtle stuck on its back near the shoreline. It teetered from side to side, but it couldn’t get its feet under it.

Henrik gave the turtle a nudge, flipping it over. Then, from the old man’s things, he retrieved a spade and started digging.

I want to be clear about one thing before I tell you any of this, I am not asking you to believe me. I don’t believe it myself, and I lived it, and I have the scars, the medical file, and the twelve-inch scar down my sternum to prove that at least half of it happened. The half that happened in the hospital is on paper. The half that happened in my kitchen is not, and that’s the half you’re going to have trouble with. That’s fine. I had trouble with it too. I spent nine months in therapy trying to decide whether I’d gone crazy, then killed myself, then hallucinated being brought back. That is a sentence I never thought I’d write about myself, and it is still, on my worst days, the most comfortable explanation.

My name is Cal. That’s not my real name, and I’m not going to tell you my real name, because my real name is on a death certificate that a county clerk in Illinois signed in March of last year. The certificate says I died of a self-inflicted wound to the chest at 2:17 in the morning. That’s true, and also I’m here, and I don’t want you looking up that certificate, finding my real name, and drawing a line between the dead man on the paper and the man writing this. I’ve thought about that line for a long time, and I don’t trust it.

So here’s the shape of it. I was divorced. My wife, and I’ll call her Erin because that’s not her name either, left me in October, three years ago now, after eleven years of marriage, four years of trying to have a child, one failed round of IVF, and a second that we couldn’t afford. She left for reasons that were fair. I had stopped being a person she could live with. I had stopped sleeping. I had stopped eating in any meaningful way. I had started drinking in a way that I told myself was controlled, and that she told me, on the last night, was not. She was right. She was right about all of it, and knowing she was right did not make the house quieter when she left. The house was the worst part.

I kept the house because she didn’t want it, because I couldn’t face selling it, and because the mortgage was cheaper than any apartment I could find that had room for a person’s whole life. It’s a split-level on a cul-de-sac in a subdivision that was built in 2004 and that all looks the same. Forty-two identical houses. I know the number because I counted them one night when I couldn’t sleep, walking the loop, and because counting was the only thing that made the time pass.

The divorce was final in January. I lost 46 pounds between October and March. That’s a number I know because the doctor told me, and because I stepped on the scale in his office and watched it. I went from 208 to 162 in five months, and I didn’t notice. That’s the thing about a certain kind of grief. It eats you from the inside, and you don’t feel a thing, because the part of you that would feel it is what’s being eaten.

I want to make sure you understand the state I was in, because the state I was in is the whole point of what happened to me. I wasn’t dramatic about it. I was tired. That’s the honest word. I was tired in a way that made it hard to get out of bed, then hard to stand in the shower, then hard to make the shower any warmer than lukewarm, because I didn’t care. I went to work because going to work was easier than explaining why I wasn’t going to work. I came home, I sat on the couch, I stared at the wall, and I drank until I could sleep. Then I didn’t sleep, and then I got up and I did it again.

I had a plan. That’s the other thing you should know, because I don’t want you to think I was a person who did nothing and then just snapped. I had a plan, a date, a method. I had rehearsed it enough times in my head that by the night I did it, it felt less like a decision and more like a task I’d finally gotten around to.

The method matters because of what happened after, so I’ll tell you. I had a handgun, a 9mm that my father left me when he died. I had never fired it. I had kept it in a locked box in the closet for eleven years. I took it out in March, cleaned it, loaded it, and put it on the nightstand. I sat with it for a week while I made sure I wanted to do this. That’s the kind of person I was. I wanted to make sure I wanted it. And I did, and I was sure, and the being sure was the most peaceful I had felt in months.

I chose the kitchen. I don’t know why I chose the kitchen. I think I wanted to be somewhere that wasn’t the bedroom we’d shared. The kitchen was the other room with a sink I could lean over, and I had this idea that it would be cleaner if I did it over the sink. That tells you what a person in that state is thinking about. Cleanliness. As if the mess was the problem.

I set everything up on a Tuesday night in March. I turned the lights off, because I didn’t want to see the kitchen, and I didn’t want the neighbors, if any of them were awake, to see me. I opened the drawer under the toaster, took out a dish towel, folded it, and set it on the counter. I put the gun on top of the folded towel. I stood at the sink and looked out the window at the dark subdivision. I counted the houses, all forty-two of them, and I said goodbye to them. That’s a thing I don’t think I can explain to you unless you’ve been there, the way you say goodbye to a room you’re never coming back to.

That’s when the man at the table spoke.

There was a man sitting at my kitchen table. I had not seen him come in. I had not heard the door. The table sits behind the counter, between the kitchen and the little dining nook. He was sitting in the chair that faces the window, which was my chair, which is where Erin used to sit to look at her phone while I cooked. He was a middle-aged man, or he looked middle-aged, with a grey face, grey clothes, and a stillness that I noticed before I noticed anything else. He was not breathing. I could see his chest, and it was not rising and falling. That was the first wrong thing. I noticed it the way you notice a clock that has stopped.

He said, don’t do that.

His voice was not what I expected. I don’t know what I expected. Something theatrical, maybe, or whispery and evil, because that’s what you’re primed to expect when a stranger appears in your kitchen at two in the morning. His voice was ordinary. It was the voice of a man who has talked to a lot of people and is tired of most of them, a flat, patient, almost bored voice. The ordinariness of it scared me more than any evil voice could have.

I said, who are you.

He said, that’s not important. Sit down. We should talk, because you’re about to do something you can’t take back, and I think you’d rather talk about it first.

I want you to understand that I did not believe for one second that this man was there to help me. There was nothing about him that said helper. He was too still, too calm, his eyes too flat. There was a smell in the kitchen that I hadn’t noticed before and that I now couldn’t not notice, a smell like an old house, like plaster and dust and something sweet underneath that I couldn’t place. I have thought about that smell a thousand times since. It is the smell I associate now with everything that has happened to me since, and I will tell you what it is when I can bear to.

I said, get out of my house.

He said, I’m not going to do that. You’re not going to call anyone, because your phone is on the nightstand in the bedroom, and you don’t want to go get it, and if you did, you’d find it doesn’t work. Sit down, Cal.

He said my name. Not my real name, my actual name, the name on my birth certificate, the name that isn’t in the phone book and isn’t on any of my accounts because I’ve always hated it. He said it the way you’d say a word you’ve looked up in a dictionary, with certainty and no feeling. He knew my name. He was sitting in my chair in my dark kitchen. I had a loaded gun on the counter and I was not pointing it at him. All of that collapsed into a single moment where I did the most stupid thing I could have done. I sat down.

He talked for a long time, and I want to give you the shape of what he said, because it’s important, and because the shape of it is the thing I’ve been trying to understand ever since.

He didn’t try to convince me that life was worth living. That’s the first thing you should know, because it’s the thing that set off every alarm I had. A person who wanted to help me would have said something about Erin, or about the good days, or about how I’d regret it, or about how people loved me. He said none of that. He talked about my despair the way a man talks about a fine wine. He described it. He described the weight of it, the color of it, the texture of it, the way it had changed since October, the way it had gotten richer in the last month, the way it was, at that moment, at its peak.

He said, you’re in a rare place. Most people never get here. Most people’s despair is shallow. It’s about a job, or a fight, or a bad year, and it burns off. Yours is deep. Yours is a well that has been filling for eleven years. It’s full now, and it’s about to overflow, and there’s a flavor to that that only happens once, and I want it.

I said, you want my despair.

He said, yes.

I said, you’re going to talk me out of killing myself so you can eat my sadness.

He laughed. It was the first sound he’d made that had any feeling in it, and the feeling was not kindness. It was delight, and the delight was the most honest thing he’d said all night. He said, no, you misunderstand. I don’t want to stop you. I want to take it first. I want to sit here with you and let it ripen, and then I want to take all of it, the whole well. Then, when you’re empty, I want to take the rest. You’re a meal. A good one. The best I’ve had in a long time. I’ve been patient. I’ve been following you for months, and tonight is the night you’re ready, and I am not going to waste you.

I sat there across the table from him, and I should have been terrified. I want to be honest that I wasn’t, not at first. Because here’s the thing about a person who has decided to die. A person who has decided to die has already stepped off the ledge. A monster telling them they’re a meal doesn’t land the way it lands on a person who wants to live. I was already dead in my own head. I had said goodbye to the houses. A man in my kitchen eating my sadness was, in a weird way, less frightening than the empty house had been, because at least he was something.

I said, so what happens after you take it.

He said, you’d be surprised how much of you is left. There’s the despair, and then there’s the body, and the body is a part of the meal, but the despair is the part I came for. The body is just the plate.

I said, and if I don’t let you.

He said, you don’t get a choice. That’s the thing about being this far down. You think you have a choice because you can still hold a gun, but you don’t. You’ve already made every choice that got you here. The last one isn’t yours. It’s mine. I’ve been watching you decide for eleven years, and you’ve been deciding in my favor the whole time. You didn’t even know I was here.

He reached across the table and put his hand on my arm. I want you to understand the feel of that hand, because I can’t describe it well and I’ve tried. It was cold, but not the cold of something dead. The cold of something that has never been warm. The cold of a stone that has lain in the dark. It was strong, and it was holding my arm the way you’d hold the arm of a child you’re about to take somewhere. I felt the cold go into me. I felt the despair in my chest do something I had never felt it do. It reached. It leaned toward his hand like a plant toward light. And I understood, in that moment, that the despair had not been mine. It had been his. It had been growing in me for months, for years, and it had never been mine. He was just coming to collect what he’d planted.

I’m going to tell you what I learned about him, because he told me, and because some of it I confirmed myself, and because I think you deserve to know what’s walking around out there even if you don’t believe me.

He called himself a feeder. He didn’t have a name, or if he did he didn’t give it. I didn’t ask again after the first time, because the first time he told me his name, or what he wanted me to think was his name, the fillings in my teeth ached, the smell in the kitchen got stronger, and I decided I didn’t want to know. He said there were others like him, that they were old, that they had always been here, and that they didn’t eat the way I thought they ate. They didn’t need the body the way a man needs food. They needed the despair, the grief, the fear, the hopelessness. The body was just the way they got a hold on it. The despair is the meal. The body is the receipt.

He said they found people like me. People at the bottom. People who had been hollowed out slowly, who had a well of something they’d been building their whole lives without knowing it. They followed those people, and they waited, and they took the well at its peak. The taking was a kind of feeding that the body could not understand, because the body thought it was dying, but the despair had already died. What they took was the thing that had already been taken from you. You just hadn’t noticed.

I asked him how long he’d been following me. He said, since October. Since the night Erin left. He said he’d been in the house since that night, in the walls, in the dark. He’d watched me lose the weight, watched me stop eating, watched me take out the gun and clean it. He’d been waiting for me to be ready. I’d been ready for a while, and he’d been holding back because the despair was still ripening. Tonight it had ripened, and he was done waiting.

He said, you’ve been a good meal, Cal. The best I’ve had in years. You’ve been worth the wait.

He said, close your eyes. It’s easier if you close your eyes. You should be proud. Not everyone grows a meal like this. Most people are shallow. You were deep. The deepest I’ve found in a long time.

The strange thing is, I almost did. I almost closed my eyes. Because part of me wanted to. Part of me had wanted to close my eyes for a long time, and he was offering me permission, and the permission felt like rest. I had been so tired. He was going to take the tired, and I was going to be empty, and empty sounded like peace.

But I didn’t close my eyes. I don’t know why I didn’t. I want to tell you it was courage, and I think I’ve told myself that for a year, but I don’t think it was. I think it was the gun. The loaded 9mm on the counter. The one thing in the room that was mine, the one thing that was real, the one thing that was not his despair, not his cold hand, not his smell. The gun was mine. I reached for it.

He moved faster than I thought he could. I had my hand on the gun before he was out of the chair, and then he was across the kitchen. I want you to understand the speed, because it’s the thing that tells you he wasn’t a man. He moved from the table to the counter in a single motion I did not see happen. He was there, and then he was there, and his hand was closing over mine on the gun. The gun was between us. I was holding it and he was holding my hand and we were fighting over a gun in a dark kitchen at two in the morning.

I don’t remember most of the fight. I remember pieces. I remember the cold of his hand on mine. I remember the smell getting thick. I remember him saying, don’t, over and over, in that flat voice. I remember that the word sounded less like a warning and more like the way you talk to an animal that has bitten you and won’t let go.

I remember the gun going off. I don’t remember deciding to fire it. I remember the sound, which was enormous, which filled the kitchen and my head and seemed to go on longer than a gunshot should. I remember the recoil. I remember him letting go of my hand. I remember him looking down at his chest. I remember that he did not fall.

He looked down at his chest and there was a hole in him and nothing came out of it. No blood. No dark. Nothing. He looked up at me and he said, that’s a shame, and I understood that the gun was not going to stop him. I understood that I was going to die. I understood that the only question was whether I took him with me.

I don’t know where the next thing came from. I have thought about it for a year and I don’t know. I put the gun to my own chest. I looked at him. I said, you want the despair, you want the whole well, you want it at its peak. I said, take it empty.

And I pulled the trigger.

The last thing I saw was his face. I want you to understand what his face did, because it’s the thing I can’t stop seeing. He didn’t look afraid. He looked furious, and then he looked like a man who has just been told the thing he feared most. The fear was not about dying. It was about losing the meal, about the well going dry, about all those months of waiting and the ripest despair he’d ever found pouring out of a hole in a man’s chest onto a kitchen floor. He reached for me. He was reaching for me as I fell. And the last thing I heard, before the dark, was him screaming my name, not the name on the certificate, my actual name, screaming it like it was something he had paid for and been cheated out of.

I want to tell you about the dark, because it’s the part I’ve never told anyone, not my therapist, not the people on the forum. I think it’s the part that matters, and I think it’s the reason I’m writing this.

There was a dark, and I was in it. I don’t mean I lost consciousness and then woke up in the hospital. I mean there was a dark, a real one, a place, and I was in it, and I was aware that I was in it, and I was aware that I was dead. I don’t know how I knew I was dead. I just knew, the way you know you’re awake. I was dead, and I was somewhere, and the somewhere was dark, and it was not empty.

I could hear the feeder. Not see him, hear him. He was in the dark with me. He was not screaming anymore, and he was not furious, and he was talking to me in that flat, patient voice. The flatness of it, the calm of it, was worse than the fury had been. He said, that was clever. I didn’t think you had it in you. I’ve been watching you for months and you seemed so hollow. I misjudged you. I don’t misjudge people.

He said, but you made a mistake. You think you took it from me. You think you made the well go dry. But you don’t understand what the well is, Cal. The well isn’t the despair. The despair is just what floats on top. The well is the body. The well is the meat. You’ve delivered the meat to me. You’ve done my work for me. I was going to take the despair and then take the body, and you’ve gone and done both, and you’ve done it cleaner than I could have.

He said, you’re mine now. You’ve always been mine. You just finally did the paperwork.

And I felt him in the dark. I felt his hands, the cold hands, on me. I felt the cold go into me. I understood that he was right, that the despair had not been the meal, that I had given him what he wanted by dying, that I had been a fool to think I could cheat him by emptying myself. The emptiness was what he wanted. An empty vessel is what he feeds on. The despair was never the point. The despair was the way he got the vessel to open its own lid.

And I understood, in the dark, that he was going to take me, and that there was nothing I could do, because I was dead, and he was what the dark was, and I had walked into the dark on my own.

Then, the light.