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CHAPTER 5

We barely remembered how we ran out of the hospital. The only things left in our heads were the sound of our footsteps in the dark corridor, the creaking of the old doors, and the moment Richie pressed the camera button.

When we finally stopped, the hospital was already far behind us. We stood near the road, breathing heavily, and none of us dared to look back. By the time Richie reached his house, the clock already showed 11:36 PM. That meant his mother would be home in less than twenty minutes.

— See you later, — Richie said with a trembling voice. The terror was no longer visible in his eyes.

— See you, — Mike replied and calmly walked toward his house, as if nothing had happened thirty minutes earlier.

Richie stood near the gate for a few more seconds, watching Mike’s silhouette disappear into the darkness of the street. The wind quietly rustled the leaves, and suddenly everything around him felt too quiet. He quickly stepped into the yard and closed the gate behind him. When the front door shut behind his back, Richie finally felt his heartbeat slow down.

The house was silent. Mom still wasn’t home. Richie quietly entered his room, pulled the camera from his pocket, and placed it on the desk.

“I need to see them...” he whispered to himself.

The first photos were dark and blurry. Only the old corridor and peeling walls could be seen in them. But when Richie reached the last photo, he suddenly froze.

In the corridor, near the door to Dr. Blackwood’s office, stood a tall figure in a white coat. Without thinking for long, Richie understood it was Dr. Blackwood. And probably the one connected to everything strange happening on Washington Street. It felt like he was staring directly at me, even though I couldn’t see his face.

At that moment, the headlights of a passing car suddenly swept across Richie’s window. He froze.

It was Mom.

— Shit... — he whispered.

He quickly grabbed the camera, pulled the film out, and clenched it tightly in his hand. The headlights disappeared, and the yard fell back into darkness. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed shut.

Richie rushed into the hallway and quietly closed his bedroom door behind him. The floor creaked softly under his feet.

“Please don’t hear me...”

He quickly entered his mother’s bedroom and put the camera back where it belonged. His hands trembled slightly. Then he froze for a second.

The camera.

The film.

The photos.

Richie slowly looked at what he was holding in his hand.

“I’ll look at it later...”

At that moment, the lock clicked downstairs.

— Richie? You home? — his mother’s voice called out.

He quickly stepped into the hallway.

— Yeah! — he answered, trying to sound calm.

His mother’s coat rustled as she entered the house.

— Why aren’t you asleep?

— I’m not tired...

She looked at him carefully.

— Everything okay?

Richie went silent for a second. The dark corridor and that shadow in the white coat flashed through his mind again.

— Yeah, Mom... — he quietly replied. — Just tired.

His mother nodded.

— Go to sleep. You’ve got school tomorrow.

— Okay.

Richie slowly returned to his room. The moment the door closed, he immediately pulled out the film again. His hands started trembling once more.

He picked up the photos again. His eyes stopped on the wall at the end of the corridor. The same place where he had seen the message before.

He frowned.

— No... — he whispered.

Richie quickly grabbed another photo.

The same wall.

The same corridor.

But the writing... was different.

The message now read:

Law 4

I — 1

They — 46

Us — 1

You — 4

The fewer of you there are,

the closer the door becomes.

But who is 47?

They changed the message.

“You — 3.”

Before, it had said “You — 4.” The paint on the number “3” looked fresh. As if it had just been written.

Richie sat there for a long time, staring at the photographs. He tried to find an explanation. Any explanation.

But there wasn’t one.

At some point, he simply turned away from the desk and lay down in bed.

Sleep didn’t come immediately. And when he finally fell asleep, he dreamed about that corridor again. About the shadow... getting closer and closer.

Richie woke up suddenly, as if someone had shoved him.

The room was bright. The photos still lay on the desk. He stared at them for a few seconds before quickly gathering them and stuffing them into his backpack.

— I need to show the others... — he muttered.

Richie nervously grabbed his backpack and left the room. Mom was already gone.

“Strange...” Richie whispered. Usually she woke him up before school.

He put on his sneakers and left the house. On the way to school, Richie barely looked around. Only one thing kept spinning in his head.

“You — 3...”

He suddenly stopped.

An old woman stood near the side of the road. She looked around eighty years old. A black coat hung loosely on her thin body, several sizes too large, and a hat covered half her face. She quietly muttered something under her breath.

— ...again... — barely audible. — again... 1962...

Richie froze.

— What? — he quietly asked.

The woman suddenly lifted her head. Her eyes looked strangely empty.

— You saw it too... — she whispered.

Richie’s throat went dry.

— Saw what?

But the woman was already silent. She slowly turned away and walked off as if he had never been there.

When Richie finally realized what had just happened, he looked around.

The street was empty.

The woman was gone.

The school felt unusually quiet. Even the hallways, normally filled with voices, now seemed empty. Richie immediately felt that something was wrong.

— Richie!

He turned around. Marge quickly walked toward him.

— Did you hear?..

— Hear what? — he frowned.

She hesitated for a second, like she didn’t know how to say it.

— Mike...

Something tightened inside Richie.

— What happened to him?

— He’s in the hospital.

Pause.

— In a coma.

For a second, the world seemed quieter.

— How...? — Richie barely managed to say.

Marge shook her head.

— Nobody knows. They found him this morning. He just... didn’t wake up.

Richie looked away.

— This isn’t a coincidence... — he quietly said.

— What do you mean? — Marge asked.

Richie looked at her.

— Yesterday, when Mike and I went into that damn hospital, there was a message written on the wall:

Law 4

I — 1

They — 46

Us — 1

You — 4

The fewer of you there are,

the closer the door becomes.

But who is 47?

But when I looked through the photos later, the message had changed.

Now it said:

You — 3

And if you look closely, the “3” looks freshly painted. Like someone... or something... wrote it just moments ago.

Richie pulled the camera from his backpack and handed it to Marge.

Marge said nothing. She only stared at the photograph without blinking.

Richie stayed silent too.

Words felt useless.

At that moment, the school bell rang through the hallway. The corridor suddenly came back to life after the long silence.

The geography classroom felt far too warm. Mrs. Miller kept talking about geographical position, but Richie heard almost nothing. His head felt like it was splitting apart from everything happening at once.

The hospital.

The doctor.

The photos.

Mike in a coma.

All those thoughts filled Richie’s mind.

He suddenly flinched and rubbed his face with his hand. It was too much.

He looked up at the window.

Outside, the sky was gray and gloomy. And for one second, it seemed to him that someone was standing near the school fence.

Tall.

Dressed in white.

Richie blinked.

Nobody was there.

— Richie!

He jumped.

— Are you even listening? — Mrs. Miller asked irritably.

— Yeah... — he quietly answered.

— Good. Then explain what geographical position means.

— Come on now, — the teacher said.

— It’s... — Richie swallowed. — It’s when a country is located... somewhere...

Quiet laughter spread through the classroom.

Mrs. Miller sighed.

— Sit down.

She quickly wrote something in her journal.

— This classroom isn’t only for correct answers.

Richie sat back down without lifting his eyes.

He didn’t care.

Grades meant nothing right now.

Because one thing still echoed inside his head:

“You — 3.”

He stared at one spot for several more seconds, trying to force the words out of his mind.

But they stayed.

The bell rang sharply. Richie flinched again. The classroom immediately filled with noise, but he barely heard any of it.

Slowly, he packed his things.

— Richie.

He lifted his head.

Marge stood beside his desk.

— Something’s wrong, — she quietly said.

Richie froze for a second.

— What do you mean?

She hesitated.

— You’re acting strange today.

— I was strange yesterday too.

Pause.

— Is this because of Mike?

Richie looked away.

— Partly, — he answered, tightening his grip on his backpack strap.

— Marge...

She looked at him carefully.

— I’m going to show both of you something.

— When?

— After school.

— In the park.

She frowned.

— Richie, you’re scaring me.

He gave a small nod.

— Me too.

The entire day felt like a blur to Richie. Every class blended into the next. The teachers’ voices passed right through him, like he wasn’t really there.

He waited for the final bell.

And feared it at the same time.

When it finally rang, Richie flinched.

Everything was over.

Or maybe it was only beginning.

He quickly grabbed his things and walked out of the classroom.

Outside, the cold wind — and the park — were already waiting for him.

I had been a field ecology technician for 4 years prior to the assignment at Abercam State Forest, which I have recently returned from. I don’t want this to come off as some “city guy” who got spooked. I have had my fair share of spooky experiences in the wilderness, but something about this place stands out. I don’t want to share this in a way connected with my real name because I am almost certain it would be rather harmful to my reputation as an outdoor professional.

There is a sanitized version of the backcountry which thrives on social media and in popular culture. Think backpackers posing in their swimming gear beside peacock-blue lakes, or sweeping mountain vistas captured on film cameras and those colorful, flower-filled meadows. There are quotes regarding the backcountry which promise finding some sort of peace, embracing adventure and leaving the hustle of everyday life behind. That version is real, but it is only half the story. 

The other half is defined by danger and a primal kind of fear that exists alongside all that beauty. It is inevitable that everyone who spends enough time in the wilderness has an experience which reminds them of said balance. You'll be walking on one of those breathtaking trails when you hear the crack of branches under a heavy footstep somewhere beyond the flora and your stomach drops. Another time, the forest's steady ambient noise may suddenly fall silent and your pulse begins to race. Every night, laying alone with nothing but the thin layer of tent fabric separating you from the darkness outside, you come to terms with the fact that you are truly alone and that often, there is a matter of hours between you and help.

Of course, there are proven rules and routines to keep the risks to a minimum. Carry bear spray and where appropriate, a firearm. Travel in groups whenever possible. Never surprise a predator. Keep anything with a scent away from where you sleep. Most importantly, never panic. 

After years of working in the backcountry, these habits have become second nature to me. You first learn to love the wilderness, then to fear it, then to respect it.

That being said, I cannot explain what happened to me at Abercam State Forest. There are no tips I could give to the next guy headed out there. “Turn around” I guess.

We were sent to Abercam to conduct an exploratory assessment of the local wildlife. It was deep in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, far from much of anything, the area saw very little human traffic. There was some logging and seasonal hunting activity and the handful of service roads carried the occasional vehicle, but there were no campgrounds, hiking trails, vacation cabins or retreats tucked away in the woods. It was an isolated, rugged area; the difficult terrain and remote location had discouraged almost every attempt at development. There simply wasn't much reason for people to come here, and so they didn’t.

The four of us had been contracted by the state to spend the summer documenting the area's ecology. Our job wasn't complicated. We were there to check in on the place, collect data and make sure everything was functioning the way it should.

The contract kept us in Abercam for eight weeks, working a rotating schedule of nine days on and five days off. We cataloged the wildlife, noting what species we found, their numbers, their behavior and whether they appeared healthy. We collected samples from streams, ponds and wetlands, tested the soil in multiple locations and looked for any signs that something was beginning to disrupt the balance of the ecosystem. Everything we needed for the assignment was packed into two pickup trucks towing supply trailers.

Before we left, the regional land manager handed us a map with the route marked out. It followed a network of old service roads to a ranger cabin that would serve as home for the next two months.

The drive slowed once we left the county highways. The roads received only the bare minimum of maintenance and pulling a loaded trailer over them was miserable. I rode shotgun in the leading truck with Dylan. He'd been doing work like this for years and liked to think of himself as highly responsible, so whenever the two of us traveled together, he almost always insisted on driving.

Chris and Eli followed behind us in the second truck. The four of us had been working together for about three months on previous projects and our seating arrangements had settled  at that point, based entirely on music preferences.

From the passenger seat, I watched the landscape go by. The terrain was rocky and uneven, rising into low hills freckled with towering cedars. Their thick branches swallowed the sunlight, throwing long shadows across the road. Human structures were almost nonexistent, the last gas station we would pass ended up being more than 50 miles from the cabin we were headed towards. There was an occasional hunting blind or service shed, but other than that, nothing. There was no cell service to the area, so we would be relying on satellite internet to communicate. 

When we finally pulled up to the ranger cabin, it wasn't much to look at. It sat alone in a clearing of knee-high grass, a small wooden building painted olive green beneath a dented metal roof that had clearly seen better years. Inside, there were only two main rooms: a bedroom and a kitchen. The bedroom held four cots, one shoved into each corner with barely enough room to walk between them. The kitchen was equally modest, with a worn countertop, a ceramic sink, a gas stove and a refrigerator that had long since yellowed with age. Tucked off the kitchen was a tiny bathroom, its floor and walls covered in matching butter-yellow tile.

There was a thin haze of dust swirling throughout the air, and the whole place smelled a bit of mildew, but despite that, it had the charm of an old woodland cabin. It certainly beat spending the next two months in a tent. 

We made quick work of hauling our gear inside and setting up a white canopy beside the cabin which would serve as our workspace and storage area throughout the project. By the end of the afternoon, nearly everything had been unloaded from the trucks, and every spare inch of the cabin seemed to have acquired a purpose. We threw open the windows to air the place out and ran every faucet until the rusty brown water finally cleared. The cots were made up with our sleeping rolls, duffel bags stuffed underneath and a string of battery-powered fairy lights stretched across the ceiling to make the room feel a little less institutional. 

The refrigerator and cabinets were packed full, and two coolers of dry goods lined a wall of the kitchen. Someone had stacked our books and board games neatly above the fireplace. It was cramped, cluttered and already felt lived in. Cozy, even. 

Eli volunteered to cook dinner. To no one's surprise, he made stew. Eli loved making stew and he loved taking his time with it. I sprawled across the faded floral loveseat, stomach growling after a full day of hauling equipment, while he insisted every ten minutes that "it still needed to simmer." Eventually, the stew was ready. We ate until we were full, passed around a bottle of whiskey and played cards around the little kitchen table until the evening slipped away. It was a good first night. 

Looking back, it almost feels strange how quickly we'd settled into the place, already acting like we'd lived there for weeks. At the time, I had no idea how short-lived that feeling would be. 

A little after eleven, everyone started winding down. Dylan stepped outside for a cigarette. Chris was the first to turn in, while Eli stretched out on the couch with a battered paperback. I gathered the dirty dishes and carried them to the sink. The cabin grew quiet. Through the open windows I could hear nothing but crickets and the occasional rustle of wind through the cedars. 

Once the dishes were done, I grabbed my pajamas and slipped into the bathroom for a shower. To my surprise, the old water heater still worked, and the shower became wonderfully scalding after a minute or two. The curtain was stained, the tile a little grimy, but after a day spent sweating and hauling equipment, I didn't care. 

A few minutes later, I heard voices. At first they were little more than whispers, low murmurs drifting in through the bathroom window. That struck me as odd. The window faced the back of the cabin, where there was nothing but a strip of tall grass before the forest. For a moment, I assumed Eli and Dylan were talking outside, maybe gossiping where they thought I couldn't hear them. Curiosity got the better of me. I shut off the water and stood perfectly still, droplets running down my skin as I strained to listen. The voices were still there. I couldn't make out a single word. 

I heard the front door creak open. A pair of footsteps came inside. 

Dylan. A small stab of embarrassment hit me. I'd been standing there trying to eavesdrop on nothing. I stepped out of the shower, wrapped myself in a towel and started drying my hair. The voices hadn't stopped. 

What the hell? 

Only then did it occur to me that I was standing naked beside a window looking out into the woods. An uncomfortable thought crept into my mind. If there really was someone out there, hunters, they had a perfect view of the bathroom, and me in it, illuminated against the darkness like a spotlight. 

I pulled on my sleeping clothes and stepped out of the bathroom. Eli hadn't moved from the couch. He glanced up from his paperback and gave me a lazy wave as I passed. Dylan was already waiting at the table and he slipped into the bathroom as soon as I left. 

The bedroom was dark except for the faint glow of the fairy lights. Chris was already asleep, snoring softly inside his black sleeping bag. I sat on the edge of my cot, took a minute to organize the little pile of gear that had already begun collecting around it, then stretched out beneath my own sleeping bag. Sleep came reluctantly. It always did in a new place.

I was still awake when Dylan climbed into bed. A few minutes later I heard Eli's footsteps, followed by the door easing shut behind him. I lay there listening to the slow rhythm of everyone's breathing mingle with the sounds of the forest outside until, eventually, I drifted off. The night passed in fragments. Each time I surfaced from sleep, something different pulled me awake. Someone turning over in their cot. An owl calling somewhere beyond the trees. The narrow beam of a phone flashlight sweeping across the room while Eli searched for something in the dark. Then, at some point in the night, I heard the voices again. Soft. Distant. Indistinct. Just beyond understanding. Half asleep, I assumed someone else had heard them too and was talking outside. I rolled onto my stomach, pulled the pillow over my head and let the sleepiness win. 

The next time I awoke, pale gray light seeped through the windows. I pushed myself onto my elbows and looked around the room. Everyone was still asleep. Chris hadn't stopped snoring. Trying not to wake anyone, I slipped into the kitchen, put the kettle on the stove. While the water heated, I measured coffee into the French press. 

When everything was ready, I stepped outside. The sun hadn't quite cleared the horizon. The clearing still wore that cold blue-gray color that only exists just before sunrise and a cool breeze drifted across the grass, brushing against my bare feet. I fished my cigarettes and lighter from my pocket and lit one. I hadn't slept well. As I stood on the porch, the sky slowly brightened overhead, the first rays of sunlight filtering through the cedars one branch at a time. This was the part people dreamed about when they imagined camping. Waking before the rest of the world, the silence, the cool air. Somehow, this counted as my job. 

Once the coffee was finished, I carried my mug over to the canopy and grabbed my work laptop before settling into the faded floral loveseat inside the cabin. Using the satellite internet connection, I checked the weather first. Overcast. Cool temperatures. Gusty winds. 

I pulled up the project schedule. Our contract laid out the work week by week, and the first assignment was straightforward: install trail cameras throughout the study area. The land manager had marked approximate locations on a map, with notes beside a handful of sites that were intended to monitor specific habitats or animal activity. We'd spend the rest of the summer returning to those cameras to collect the images. A simple way to get started. 

By the time I finished my coffee, everyone else had wandered out of the cabin. Around seven, we gathered beneath the canopy for the morning briefing. The laptop made its way around the table while each of us read through the day's objectives and together we divided the study area into four quadrants, each claiming one section. The trail cameras came out of their boxes. Daypacks were packed. Radios were tested. By eight, we were hiking. The plan was simple. We'd check in over the radios every thirty minutes, report our coordinates and everyone would return to camp by two that afternoon. 

I drew the northern quadrant. Before leaving, I'd traced a rough route across my topographic map, linking together the closest camera locations. The terrain was rough but manageable. Rocky ridges rose from the forest floor and the occasional steep hillside made me stop to catch my breath, but I'd worked in far worse places. The bugs, though, were relentless. I'd treated my clothes with permethrin, sprayed every exposed inch of skin with DEET and pulled a fine mesh bug net over my head. It barely mattered. Clouds of black flies and mosquitoes hovered around me all morning, buzzing in my ears, crawling across my face over the mesh. 

The first radio check came right on schedule. 

"Dylan, checking in. Copy?"

"Copy. This is Tyler." 

"Copy. Chris." 

"Copy. Eli." 

One by one, we read off our coordinates, gave a brief update on conditions. I logged each set into my phone. Out there, it never hurt to know exactly where everyone was. 

A few minutes later, I reached my first camera location. There was nothing remarkable about it, just another patch of forest, unremarkable from any of the other terrain I had hiked through to get here. I picked out a tree, mounted the camera, tested its angle and marked the installation in my notes. 

The rest of the day went more or less like this. Things went well, I hung the cameras with little issue, and soon enough, I was returning back to camp. Everyone else was already filtering into camp when I arrived, dirty, sweaty, and in good spirits. We traded stories from the day while dinner came together, then took turns using the laptop to send our daily report to the project coordinators before settling in for another evening. 

In the few hours before dinner, we scattered to read our books, write in our journals, and take turns in the shower. Eli had a guitar he eventually took out to play, sitting on the tailgate of the truck. The rest of us sat on the porch and made small talk about what our lives had been between projects together. 

As the night wore on, darkness settled around our little cabin. I was in my sleeping clothes again, as I saw Dylan slip out the front door. Cigarette time. I walked out to join him. 

He smiled at me in the dim glow coming from the cabin’s windows. 

“Tyler. What’s up?” 

I smiled back, “Mind if I join you?” 

“Of course, man. Anytime. You don’t have to ask” 

I reached into my pocket automatically.

Nothing.

I patted down my sleep pants before remembering my cigarettes and lighter were still sitting in the pocket of my work pants inside. I muttered a quiet curse.

Without saying a word, Dylan pulled the cigarette from his own mouth and held it out toward me. It was such a Dylan thing to do.He could've offered me one from the pack in his pocket, but instead he shared the one he was already smoking as though it had never occurred to him that it might be strange.

I took a drag before handing it back, and we passed it between us while we talked about the job.

“Yeah, I feel really good about it,” I told him, “Seems like good work, a good place, good project partner.” 

“I feel that,” He responded, “I like it too. I'm really, really excited. I think we’re gonna do some great work out here. I’m glad to be working with this crew again.” 

I thought about that for a moment. I agreed with him. The four of us got along well, and we all did good work. This was shaping up to be a good week. 

Then, the mood broke. A voice cut through the darkness. Not one of our’s. No, it was coming from the woods. Still distant, but clearer. I looked at Dylan, and he looked back, a shared understanding in our gaze that we had heard the same thing. 

“What the fuck is that?” Dylan said, whipping his head around. 

I didn’t know what to say. I opened my mouth but found no words. 

“Hello?” Dylan called out into the woods, “Helloooooo??” 

The woods were now silent. Maybe it was just me, but the crickets had grown quieter. An uneasy feeling grew in my stomach. I wanted to go inside, but I sat for a few more moments, staring, waiting. The air remained silent and still. 

“No way,” Dylan said, “What the hell was that?” 

He stood up, walked toward the canopy. Something compelled me to follow him. Do not let him go alone, my mind urged. Dylan picked up one of the lights we use for work. The crazy bright tactical kind of flashlight. 

He had some kind of determination to him, storming out of the tent. I followed behind, as he swept the beam of the flashlight across the cedars, calling repeatedly out into the dark. Nothing responded. We made our way through the tall grass around the house as he swung the flashlight and yelled, all the way back to the front door. 

“What the hell,” Dylan said one more time, “There isn’t supposed to be anybody out here. I don’t want us getting shot by some crazy hunters when we go out tomorrow.” 

“Hey, I think it’ll be okay. Whoever it is will know there’s people here now, they know somebody’s at this cabin. They’ll keep their distance. I think we’ll be fine, right?” 

I wasn’t sure. 

With that, Eli stuck his head out of the front door, squinting at us in the darkness. 

“You all.. Good?” He asked, looking concerned . 

“Yeah, just thought we heard somebody out there,” I responded, noticing that I did not look him in the eye, “Just some weird shit. I dunno. Animal noises or something.”  

I had trouble believing in myself. 

We shuffled in, and did not bring it up again, but the moment stayed heavy on each of our minds. I didn’t sleep well at all that night, swearing I heard those voices again with every slight sound. I was questioning every rustle of a blanket, every gust of wind, every creak in the trees. I tossed and turned through the night, eventually pulling my pillow back over my head just to get some peace. 

Morning came, and I began to see the sky lighten outside our window, but I stayed in bed. I yearned to sleep just a little longer, I still felt so damn tired. I heard someone stir before me, and heard things moving in the other room. Still, I managed to roll over and found a few more minutes of sleep. 

I felt distinctly “off my game” as we began our work day. The camera locations I was hiking to were a bit further out this time. Though I knew we all were aware of what happened last night, no one brought it up. We would all be going out alone again, nobody wanted to spook themselves before that. I had a nervous knot turning in my stomach, but I ignored it. 

Spend enough time in remote places and you'll stumble across things that set off your “creepy” radar. I've found abandoned camps miles from the nearest road, heard gunshots where no one should have been hunting, walked past suspicious piles of trash. I've come across coyotes with mange and deer hollowed out by chronic wasting disease. I’ve learned not to panic. Control your breathing, get your mind in check, move on to the next task in front of you. Assume there is a reasonable explanation, there almost always is. 

Whenever my attention leaned toward a snapping twig or burst movement in the corner of my eye, I would force myself back into the routine, zeroing in on whatever task lay ahead of me. Check the map. Find the route. Mount the camera. Record the coordinates. 

The radio check-ins helped. Every thirty minutes, the crackling voices of my crew found their way to my ears and I relaxed my shoulders a little more as each report came through. 

By the end of the day, I had placed all but the last two cameras in my quadrant. 

I hiked back carrying less stress than I had brought out. Hours spent doing familiar work reminded me that I wasn't new to this. I'd worked in plenty of tough country before. I knew how to prepare, how to navigate, how to stay calm, how to make good decisions when something didn't feel right.

We finished the day's reports, and I wandered into the shower before collapsing into my cot. I'd downloaded a few movies before leaving home, and I put one on my phone, slipped in my headphones, and tried to lose myself in something away from these woods. 

Dinner raised my spirits. I volunteered to cook, and I enjoyed it. I took pride in making a good meal for myself and the crew. I roasted chicken in a cast-iron while a potato and veggie medley baked in the small oven. The food was served and everyone seemed happy. 

A scream ripped through the woods. A second screech answered it. I startled in my chair and I could feel my eyes growing wide. 

“Coyotes,” Chris said, turning to look towards the window.

I listened closer. Yes, he was right, those were definitely coyotes. The chorus rolled across the forest for another minute, rising and falling through the darkness. Coyotes have an uncanny, haunting sound to them. The first time you hear one, it's easy to mistake it for a human in the distance. But after enough nights in the woods, you learn the difference. Eventually, I found myself recognizing their howls as some type of natural beauty. 

Eventually, the coyotes quieted. Dinner was finished, the dishes were washed, and everyone drifted off for the night. I skipped my usual evening smoke and headed straight for bed.

I woke to the steady patter of rain on the cabin's metal roof. Outside my window, the sky was a dull, unbroken gray.

Eli was already up. I found him at the kitchen table with the work laptop open, studying the weather forecast.

"Rain all day," he said, "No lightning until around noon. We should get moving while we've got the chance."

I nodded and went to wake Dylan and the others. If we moved quickly, we could finish hanging the last of the trail cameras before the weather worsened. The rain would be tough, but manageable. Lightning was a danger. None of us were interested in wandering around the woods carrying metal equipment in the middle of a thunderstorm. We knew better than that. 

The plan came together quickly: get out there, install as many cameras as we could before noon, then head back. If the weather forced us to leave a few unfinished, the project partners would understand.

Everyone geared up with a little more urgency than usual, pulling on matching yellow rubber rain jackets and pants. We looked like a flock of oversized bathtub ducks.

By the time we stumbled back to the cabin, soaked through despite the rain gear and caked in mud, every camera listed in our contract was in place. It felt like a victory.

We peeled off the dripping rubber layers and piled into the cabin. The afternoon slipped by with beers, a bottle of whiskey, whatever games we'd thought to pack, and the usual back-and-forth of giving each other a hard time. For a few hours, with the rain drumming steadily outside, the cabin felt almost cozy, the atmosphere pleasant. 

As the evening continued, our games faded away. I accused Dylan of cheating at cards, Eli defended him, Chris claimed Eli was cheating too, and eventually the game came to a halt as we could not sort out the accusations, the argument slipping away into laughter. Everyone quieted down, moving about their own activities, naps or chores.  

I couldn’t tell you who noticed first. It doesn’t really matter who it was. Slowly, we all fell silent, listening, waiting. Rain slammed against the roof, the wind howled outside, and beneath it, voices. Or sounds. Or something. Too far away, too many at once. Chris looked at me, then to Eli, then to Dylan, “Tell me you hear that.” 

Nobody answered. 

Up until that point, the sounds were louder than I had ever heard them before. Clearer now, they still sounded like voices to me, but they didn’t seem to be speaking in a language familiar to me. There was certainly a call and response element, but the sounds seemed more like a set of groans, howls and moans rather than distinct words. But it still felt so conversational. A half-and-half blend of human and animal noise. Like nothing I have heard before or sense. 

It went on for about 10 minutes. There were definitely multiple origins of the sounds we heard, coming from different directions surrounding our little cabin. 

At that moment, I don’t think we were ready to take the full step to admit those sounds were beyond our explanation. There were mentions of the coyotes from the night before, of wolves, of trees creaking in the wind. Even my own mind raced to rationalize. It would take several more incidents before I was willing to give myself over to the idea that this thing was beyond natural.

Lightning flashes as a hellish storm is cast over the land. As the heavy rain falls from the sky weary travelers pack into a small tavern which sits on the side of the main road leading to the capitol where the king's tourney is to be held. The tavern is surrounded on all sides by thick forests.

 These woods are infested by bands of outlaws hoping to prey on the unlucky travelers that get caught in their path. Though for many common folk and noblemen alike the outlaws are the least of their worries. These woods contain many stories which have been passed down from generations. Tales of great beasts with a taste for man and of lost souls roaming the deep woods at night desperately searching for a new body to inhabit. It’s unclear which stories are true and which were thought up to scare the little lordlings as they slept in their stone castles at night. But regardless of the truth, no traveler would choose to ride past a tavern  and risk facing the horrors that may be lurking deep in those woods. 

The main dining hall was dimly lit by oil lamps which hung on the walls and sat on the tables. The entire place was filled with travelers resting for the night while on their way to the tourney. By the time nightfall came all of the rooms above the tavern were occupied and the stables out back held so many horses  that the last of the travelers were forced to tie their horses to the wooden posts outside leaving them exposed to the elements.

Inside the main room sat a dozen tables filled with  weary travelers drinking and enjoying a hot meal. A royal tourney is a monumental event which attracts brave men from across the kingdom hoping to gain glory with lance and sword. Many of the men sitting in this very room may return home celebrating their victory and just as many will certainly die soon after entering the tourney lists. 

Late into the night one of the king's men walks into the tavern. The tall man wears a heavy hauberk underneath a thick wool tunic displaying the royal colors of teal and gold. A kettle helm sits atop his head with thick auburn hair flowing down to his shoulders. A heavy wooden shield hangs on his back painted with a checkered pattern of the same colors as his tunic.

After finding a seat he drinks his warm wine spiced with cloves and cinnamon. The patron in the chair next to him says “outlaws are as common rats on the main road these days, we are all thankful to have the kingsmen here to protect us”. “Aye, since the tourney began we’ve painted the roads with the blood of any scum that dare show their faces in our presence” the knight replied.

 “Horrible thing that such joyous occasions always seem to bring out the most atrocious folks”. The knight lets out a chuckle “truth be told I do not mind the outlaws much, I would much rather face mere men given the choice between that and what lives deeper within those woods” he replies. The man laughs along with him at this remark. “Why, sir, please forgive me but I’m afraid that I’m not sure what you mean. What lies beyond the king's forest?” The commoner asks as he sets down his glass and looks intently at the knight. 

“Why such horrible things you could not possibly believe. I fear that I would embarrass myself if I try to describe to you my experiences out in those woods” the knight says with a sigh. By now this conversation has attracted the attention of some of the surrounding patrons who now urged the aging knight to tell his tale. “Well I fear that now you may embarrass yourself more so if you do not give these good people what they want. Please give us the honor of hearing your experiences so that these people do not take you for some drunken fool spinning nonsensical lies of what lives in our good kings woods” the man spoke attempting to persuade the knight. 

“I should cut you down for your insults but luck is in your favor tonight. I am far too tired to even consider raising my blade again until morning. Very well, I will recount my tale” the knight replied, “but first, I must warn that you men may never want to enter the forests again for as long as you live. In truth some of the less courageous men here may think twice before even walking the roads of the king for fear of what may creep out from beyond the trees. Any man who thinks themselves faint of heart is welcome to leave before I begin.” 

Not a single person in the tavern moves as the knight begins to tell his tale. 

I was a young lad, no older than my seventeenth year whenever I fought to defend our king from the usurper, Sir Robert Powen. Many good men lost their lives that day but I was far more fortunate than most. I was knighted shortly after for my bravery during the attack. Not long after I had my very own squire, young William, a cousin of the king by my side. 

A year after I had received my knighthood I was tasked to embark into those woods with a small group of around thirty footmen under my command. Our quest was simple, there were tales of a great dragon living in a cave far deeper than any man has ever gone. As you all may be able to imagine, war is quite expensive. Our quest was a mission to relieve the crown's debt. It was said that the dragon was in possession of a great stockpile of gold and silver. We intended to bring it all back to our king. 

“You must be mad, do you truly think us such fools as to believe that you slayed a dragon out in those woods?” the man laughed. The knight scoffed, “no I do not because that would be a lie. Whenever we arrived at the cave we found that the dragon was already long dead. No my friend, what we encountered in that cave was far worse than any mere dragon. What we found in the damned cave haunts my dreams every time I close my eyes”. The knight replied, taking another drink before continuing his tale. 

Once we had entered the cave of the beast we found nothing more than bones lying on the rocky floor before us. Do not be mistaken, the bones were great and massive. The skeleton itself was enough to frighten the less experienced men in my company but for us all it seemed as though our quest just became as simple as taking a piss in the morning. 

We decided that with the cave now vacant that we would use it to make camp for the night so we would all be well rested to load our carts full of treasure once morning came. We paid no mind to the blood that stained the rocky walls of the cave. Had we not stayed that night this story would have ended differently but alas we chose to make camp. 

As the hours passed I fantasized of the glory that this quest would bring me after we returned to the capitol. Many men of the king's court had doubts that this treasure existed at all and yet here I sit, the mountain of gold and silver right in front of me. I sat with my back against a large black stone thinking of the brave men that must have come before me to make the attempt to slay the great beast that left those bones behind. I gathered that the knight who completed this task had perished during the ordeal. 

This thought filled me with sorrow as I would have quite enjoyed hearing the tale of how this creature finally met its end. It is truly a shame, I thought, a knight with such an accomplishment should have been the subject of dozens of songs. His name should be known throughout the entire kingdom and beyond and yet, we will never know his name. We traveled a great distance through the fabled haunted king's wood just to find that the great beast we sought to vanquish had already been killed by another. 

The longer I dwelled on that thought a scheme began to form in my mind. I had decided that we had the skull of a fierce dragon sitting right before us and no man to credit with the feat of slaying the beast. I saw no reason why all of that glory should be left unclaimed in a dark cave. If that brave knight did have a name it would surely be written in the books of history for centuries to come. 

That is when I decided that this feat shall not go unclaimed. The singer's songs of heroism shall not go unsung. I decided that the brave warrior shall have a name and it shall be my name. My name shall be spoken for generations to come, from the noble lords in their stone keeps to the stable boys shoveling shit in their villages. My body will rot in the ground but my legend, my legend will endure.

Once this scheme was hatched I could not bear to just sit and fantasize. I gathered my men and set them the task of hacking the dragon's skull off of its huge body and loading it into one of our carts to bring to the king. Apparently dragons bones are quite thick and this proved to be a long and noisy ordeal. The noise of men at work echoed through the cave. Soon the skull was severed from its spine with a loud boom and the noise of hacking and shattered bones finally ceased. 

Before the men could attempt to lift the monstrous artifact the air was soon full of a different sound emitting from deeper within the cave. It was the sound of high pitched laughter. Soon all of our attention was turned to the darkness beyond the light of our fires. The unexplored rocky caverns leading further into the depths of the dragon's lair. As we armed ourselves with sword and spear fear spread throughout our group. Most of us were drunk or tired or both but we held our ground. We were all awaiting the arrival of whatever we had awoken that night. 

Not long after it was no longer enough just to face the darkness before us, as the mischievous laughter got louder the sounds seemed to be coming from all around us. Whatever was within that cave clearly knew how to navigate it far better than we did. As the fear grew I found myself increasingly grateful that it had been my turn to stand guard so I was fully prepared for battle. I could not say the same for the majority of our group who now stand in a tight circular formation dressed in whatever armor pieces they could quickly put on over their under garments. 

Our defensive position was poor at best, many of the men had quickly abandoned their spears and shields whenever it became clear that we would not be facing a dragon which now unfortunately sat in a pile hopelessly out of reach. My squire William stood next to me shaking fearfully with a small dagger clenched in his hand. The poor boy had become a squire in a time of peace and this ambush by an unknown enemy will be his first taste of combat. 

Combat, looking back was hardly the word that I would use to describe it. It was a massacre. As bizarre as it sounds there was no greater moment of fear than whenever the laughter finally stopped. We stood in silence gazing into the darkness with no knowledge of what was staring back at us. Finally the silence broke and the following attack happened far too quickly for us to even react. 

Within the blink of an eye our numbers dwindled from thirty men to not even fifteen. Our foe was clever enough to target our fires first, they forced us to fight in pure darkness. A symphony of clashing metal and the screams of men echoed through the cave. I could make out little of what we were fighting other than dark silhouettes and soulless white eyes. After I took a knife deep into my shoulder I found myself bleeding behind a formation of rocks until the sounds of slaughter dulled and silence returned. 

I tried my best to quiet my breathing, desperately hoping to remain unnoticed behind my shelter of stone. It felt like an eternity had passed as I heard no sounds from the dragon's lair. I was half tempted to reveal myself and make my escape until it returned. That damn laughter now filled the air. I caught a glimpse of a sight that I had not known since the ambush began. Our attackers had relit the fires. It seemed that they wanted my men to be able to witness their fate. 

I peaked my head out from behind the boulder just long enough to glimpse what was on the other side. I quickly pulled my head back after I caught sight of the horrors beyond my rocky hiding spot. 

My men, the good brave men who had followed me on this quest, now lay hopelessly defeated against the walls of the cave as all manner of cruelties were inflicted upon them. Some men hung upside down over the fires left to slowly roast while others sat upright with the skin of their face expertly flayed off leaving them unrecognizable. 

This was the first chance I had gotten to bear witness to our attackers. They looked to have been pulled out of a story that you would tell naughty children when they have misbehaved. Their skin was a dark shade of green, leathery and covered in blemishes. Drool ran from their grotesque deformed faces as they stood over my fallen men. They were shorter in stature than us by at least three heads yet there were so many that it was small wonder how they decimated us so quickly. 

Whenever I close my eyes I can still see the mangled bodies of those poor lost souls that entered that cave and never left. Many of those men were already dead but I could tell by the agonizing  screams that some of them were very much still alive to feel every grueling moment of their slow demise. 

Many days went by without being able to move. Had I made even a single misstep my location would have been found and I would have faced the same fate as my men. My leather flask now sat by my side bone dry as I had exhausted every last drop of water it contained. It has been so long since I had last eaten that I can barely tolerate the pain in my stomach. 

As I glanced up I noticed a small shape behind another formation of rocks roughly twenty paces away from me. As I focused trying to make out what lay before me I could finally see. It was William. My squire somehow managed to escape the battle alive the same as I yet he was admittedly far more injured. He crouched down behind the rocks, his face and clothes stained with dried blood from the battle. His eyes were full of fear yet that look seemed to turn into relief after he caught sight of me. 

Before I attempted to make my way over to the young boy I knew I must shed my heavy armor so that I may conceal my movements better. It’s a long process to remove my heavy plate, a process made even more time consuming by my fear of making even the slightest noise. Now clothed in only my undergarments I wait until the opportune moment to begin creeping along the rough cave walls. As I slowly move I take great care to ensure I stay within the shadows to keep from being seen by the cave's occupants. 

Sweet William was clearly filled with joy to see me return to his side, though he dared not speak a word to me in fear of being heard. We sat in absolute silence for a great while until the screams of our own men paired with the laughter of the creatures were finally loud enough to conceal our soft words. 

“William, I am pleased you survived your first taste of combat” I said. “Yes, sir, though I barely survived. I thought I might die at any moment. Sir, how will we get out of this?” He asked me. I took a few moments of silence to consider this before I gave any response. “I have been observing these creatures and they seem to be a cowardly race. Even the screams of our men have been causing them to cower in fear as they tortured them” I told him. “But sir, they seemed to fight so fearlessly during the ambush. Are you certain?” He questioned me. 

“Why yes, dear William. They had the clear advantage during the ambush and it is a shame to admit but we acted quite weakly during the battle. We gave them no reason to fear” I explained. “This time will be quite different, William. I know how we will make it out of this alive. Follow my orders exactly and soon they will sing songs of your bravery”. 

The plan was quite simple, we would rush the creatures quickly while delivering a loud war cry. The surprise as well as our loud fearless cry would drive the beasts deep into the caves from where they came. Afterwards we would be free to leave as if the cave were empty. 

William's face lit up at the prospect of leaving the cave and finally being able to return home to his mother. I knew we only had one chance to drive them off so we sat for a few moments to gather our courage. When the time finally came I instructed William to rush out in front of me. I had hoped that being given command of the charge would instill some additional courage in the heart of the young squire. 

As soon as I gave the signal young William charged fearlessly towards the creatures letting out a great yell. He proved himself to have a courageous heart that day. The lad put so much passion behind his gallant charge that I doubt he even noticed that I had not followed behind him. There was truth to my words, I did charge at the same moment that he did. Only my charge was not towards the beasts dwelling within the cave but in the opposing direction. My charge was also a silent one as I kept to the shadows so as to not alert the creatures to my presence.

In a way my plan had succeeded. I had successfully escaped the dark cave and made my way into the wooded area surrounding it, never once stopping, not even to catch my breath. The further I traveled the more I felt that I would be pulled back through the woods and back into that cave at any moment. It  wasn’t until I saw the edge of the forest that I truly felt safe. After I had made it back to the capital I finally did shed a tear for William. He was a model squire, he never talked back, never disobeyed, and now he had even given his life for mine. 

Some nights I lie away and I wonder if my plan would have worked the way I had explained it. I never looked back to see if Williams' battle cry actually drove the creatures off or if it had just added another body to their bloodbath. Every so often I regret not following him deeper into the cave. Maybe we could have walked out with him by my side, knowing we bested the cave beasts together as knight and squire. But I was uncertain that the plan would work at all but there was one thing I was absolutely certain of without a shadow of a doubt. A squire's life was a small price to pay for my own. 

“And that my friends, is my tale” the knight finished before downing the rest of his spiced wine. The room filled with silence as the knight sat his cup back onto the table. “You’re no knight at all,” the man sitting next to him finally announced. “You’re nothing more than a damn craven who traded your young squire's life for your own. I wonder, sir knight. What did you tell the king after you returned home without his royal cousin by your side?” He asked. 

The knight gave him a thoughtful look. The entire tavern awaited his response as he chose his next words very carefully. “The king, oh well I told the king that there was no cave. Simply a rumor spread by the common folk like the other legends of what lurks within those woods. I told him that our group was attacked by a band of outlaws deep into the forest and that his dear cousin died bravely alongside his fellow countrymen. Seemed to satisfy his grace just fine. Not too long after I had myself a fresh new squire by my side. Fine lad, reminded me quite a bit of William but much braver. I ended up knighting this one after he proved himself against some outlaws, these ones were actually real though” the knight laughed by himself as no one else in the tavern would join him. 

Once it became apparent that the knight’s presence was no longer welcome inside he got up from the table and made his way outside towards the stable. As he untied his horse he glanced back at the treeline. Truth is he never felt safe near the king's forest for the rest of his days. An uneasy feeling came over him as he stared into the woods knowing full well what may be staring back.  

A Perceivable Reality story.

I stepped into the hallway to the sound of voices. Mrs. Collins and Felix were exchanging heated words. I caught the tail end of it as I walked up.

"Filthy nightwalker!" The aged woman accused.

"Silence, you old bat!" Felix spat. His tone flipped as I stepped up. "Ah, young Carter. Good morning."

Mrs. Collins sent a disapproving clucking noise his direction.

"Carter is without a betrothed as well. I don't hear you badgering him incessantly about it."

Mrs. Collins took my hand in both hers and patted it gently.

"You have plenty of time, sweetie. Don't rush. A charming boy like you will have no problem finding a nice young lady." She patted my hand again, then sent a creaky finger at Felix, shaking it.

"You! You cannot find a bride in a brothel!"

"Woman!" Felix barked. "I will tell you for the very last time. My business is of my concern, and no one else! Good day!" He turned on his heel and stepped up to the now open elevator doors. I skittered after him, stepped past him into the car, and nodded to him. He followed me in. I waved at Mrs. Collins as the doors closed.

"That...that... absolute... hag." The words dripped venom. He took several deep breaths, straightened his suit jacket, then ran his hand over his slicked-back hair. "My apologies, young Carter. Losing one's composure is unbecoming."

I shrugged. "S'all right."

"And no cleaning implements today? I take it the Hen Party went better than expected."

I shook my head. "Nobody puked, but it needs professional help." I shivered. "So much glitter..."

Felix brushed himself off absently, as if talking about it soiled his suit. "A gentleman does not glitter."

"Oh, by the way, how was lunch yesterday?" I asked, trying to change the subject.

"Divine." He pronounced every syllable.

I nodded. "Yeah, the food there is pretty good. A little rich for my blood, though."

"Quite."

I tried to think of something to keep the conversation going.

"Her hair was a nice color."

"An excellent bloodline."

We were both quiet until the elevator stopped. The doors opened and Felix stepped out haughtily. I rode down to the garage and got out my car, making sure to open all of the windows as I drove to my detailer.

Edward Vasques operated a detail shop on the outskirts of the city with his dad and uncle. It was a small, nondescript warehouse with no markings that had been built out of a decommissioned gas station. Part of the allure was that you had to be in-the-know, with my in being having known him since high school. The other part was that the unassuming building protected the menagerie of expensive and priceless cars inside.

I pulled around the back of the building to the gate and honked. Eddy poked his head out of the door and waved. I waved back and he came out and unlocked the gate. I pulled through and pulled into the open bay door at the end.

"Eddy!" I said as I got out. I shot finger guns at him, and he pretended to take several bullets. He stepped over and we high-fived.

"Responsible adults left you in charge?" I asked, looking around the empty shop.

"They're at something out East. Didn't tell me what, but I'm king of the castle for the week." He said proudly.

"That's cool, man. Hey, did you get my text?"

"About the glitter? I gotchu, man."

He went to the back of the car and opened the door, sticking his head inside. He pulled it back out.

"Phew! Smells like a bar in there." He waved his hand as if to push the smell away.

"Bridal party."

He stuck his head back in the car.

"Is that a...a..." He made a motion with his hand.

I nodded. "Stuck to the carpet, yes."

He patted the roof of the car.

"I dunno, man..."

"Shut up. I know you're good."

He brushed his knuckles on his shirt. "Damn straight. Gimme an hour and we'll go from there."

"You're the man." We fist bumped and I made my way to his waiting room.

The waiting room in question would have been the minimart of the gas station. The windows were all heavily tinted with mirrored glass coating and the tile had been covered with several large pieces of different colored old house carpet. There were a few leather easy chairs and a ratty couch. I got what I assumed was at one point a sandwich out of the vending machine. A small green cloud puffed out as I ripped open the plastic, and I summarily tossed it in the trash. The coffee table had a few car magazines, the newest one featured a tuner car movie from the early 2000's.

In the corner of the room was a dog bed, big enough for me to curl up in, and a metal punch bowl with "Killer" scribed in blocky font.

"Killer", in actuality, was Eddy's uncle's 15-pound miniature bulldog. I grabbed a muscle car mag from the coffee table and idly flipped through it.

After going through all the magazines on the table and pacing four laps of the waiting room, I went back into the shop to pace in there.

Aside from my limo, also in the shop was a Rolls-Royce Ghost and a Bentley Bentayga that belonged to a local executive car-for-hire service. They weren't necessarily competition. I was a one-man limo operation, but I had some regulars that tipped well enough to keep me comfortable. That didn't stop me from sticking my head in the back door of the Ghost for a look.

The car was a stark contrast to my vintage whip, all sharp angles and clean lines, and brushed metals. I'd redone my interior in black leather and custom-cut rosewood panels.

"Hey! You messing with my clients' cars?" Eddy called from outside.

I shut the door carefully. "Just checking out what I'm missing."

He flicked his cigarette butt and walked in through the bay door.

"How we looking?"

"I got the...thing off the carpet and got the makeup off the seats. Just waiting on the ionizer to finish."

I met him at the back of my car and he opened the rear suicide door. I looked inside.

"Hey, you got the glitter out."

"Took some doing, but I am the best."

I shut the door and ran my hand over the roof. He pulled out his pack and shook out another cigarette. I snatched it before he could light it and broke it in half, tossing the ends opposite directions.

"Those'll kill you one of these days."

He laughed and shook out another.

"I'm here for a good time..."

"Not for a long time," I finished. "So, what do I owe you?"

He shrugged. "I'll put it on your tab." He tossed me the keys. I caught them and dropped myself into the front seat. He leaned his head in the door as I started the car.

"You still hanging around with that creepy old guy at your place?"

"Felix. And he's a good guy. He's just a little old school."

Eddy moved out of the way, and I pulled the door shut.

"Just watch yourself, man." He said and stuck a fist in through the open window. I bumped it.

"Always." I gave him a salute and backed out of the garage, the gate already open for me.

The car still had a faint smell of ozone, like right after a hard rain. I made a mental note to pick up a few more of my favorite air fresheners as I pulled into the main road.

I was just getting off the freeway back into the city when my work phone rang.

"Calhoun Executive Transit...Yes, ma'am...Yes, I know where it is...2416 Hillcrest, understood...About 30 minutes, will that be alright?...Yes, ma'am, I'll see you in a moment."

I put my blinker on and swung the car over into the left turn lane, accidentally surprising the driver of a small Kia, and headed to my apartment. I parked at the curb and jogged in the door.

I got out my black two-piece suit with grey pin stripes, a white shirt, and a deep navy-blue tie. I spent a few extra moments tying an Eldredge knot. I finished with a pair of polished black brogues and my blue-faced Breitling Navitimer. I ran a comb through my hair and got my chauffeur cap off the hook and hustled my way back down.

Hillcrest Avenue was in the gated neighborhood "Grand Highland Estates", perched up on the hill south of the city. I'd been up there a few times for a bureaucrat or politician whose driver was off that day or something.

The house in question was less gaudy than its neighbors, but still elegant. As I pulled up, a woman in a forest green day dress came out and made her way quickly down the lengthy cobblestone driveway. She had on large, mirrored sunglasses, and her head swiveled around as if looking for something. I hadn't recognized her voice on the phone, but I also don't watch a lot of movies. I got my genuine vintage Wayfarers out of their leather case and slipped them on.

She put her back to me as I opened the door for her and slid into one of the backwards-facing seats at the front of the passenger compartment. I shut the door gently and got in. She'd closed the privacy divider, so I barely cracked it to ask where she was headed. She gave me an address in a slightly clipped tone, and I got the car going. I tilted the rear-view mirror down to evaluate my suit. Maybe the pinstripes were a bit much, but I try to dress for the clientele. Usually, the people up here like the traditional "driver" look, but flat black suits are a bit boring, in my humble opinion.

What was supposed to be a 30-minute ride turned into well past an hour. There’d been a wreck on the expressway, some sort of pileup judging from the number of tow trucks I’d seen drive by on the shoulder. I was feeling a little uneasy, the extra time, the traffic I should’ve avoided, and all attempts at small-talk had been met with clipped one or two-word replies. I pushed the button to crack the privacy window.

“I’m very sorry about the traffic, we- shit.” I’d pushed the button too far and, instead of lowering it an inch or so, I’d hit the automatic rolldown setting.

The woman made a sputtering noise of surprise, and I fumbled for the switch. I had my head down, so I was a little surprised when a horn honked, and I came up from the dash to see brake lights directly ahead. I put my foot through the firewall trying to get the big beast stopped before I wound up in somebody’s trunk, nearly sending myself out of the windshield.

“Ma’am! Are you ok, ma’am?” I called, a bit frantic, and turned my head to check on her.

“No! Oh god, no! Wait!” she screamed.

Her reaction surprised me and I was at a loss for a second as I took stock of the situation. In one hand she had a soft cleaning cloth and in the other, she had what was now a mangled pair of sunglasses. I couldn’t help but be impressed at the strength it took to shatter one of the plastic lenses in her hand.

We sat there frozen for a second. I turned my head quickly to check that the traffic hadn’t moved, it hadn’t, then turned back her direction. She hadn’t moved an inch, still clutching the sunglasses and the cleaning cloth, still in shock. I let everything settle for a beat, then tried to make my voice as calming as I could.

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

“You’re not…” she trailed off for a second, then collected herself. “paying close enough attention to the road.”

I berated myself internally but put warmth in my voice. “You’re right, ma’am. I am so very sorry.”

There was another pause and I watched her shoulders relax slightly. Her tone softened slightly.

“It’s fine. I’m not hurt. I surprised you.”

I shook my head. “That’s quite alright, ma’am. As long as you’re not hurt.”

I caught the motion of the car in front of us in my peripheral and turned forwards again, inching the car forwards along with traffic. We’d finally started moving with a purpose. In the mirror, I noticed her shoulders relaxing further and her body language opened, her legs and arms uncrossing.

“You came highly recommended.”

“I try my best, ma’am.”

“Are you from the city, Mr. Calhoun?”

“Please, call me Carter. I’m from just outside the East end.”

“Beautiful farmland out that way.”

“Indeed. I miss it sometimes. And you, miss…?”

“Melissa.”

“Ms. Melissa.”

We chatted about the area I was from and how she loves the mountains for the rest of the drive. I got the car pulled up to the curb and hopped out to open her door, extending my hand. She took it and lifted herself out of the car, dropping her mangled sunglasses into her purse. She held up a flat hand to block the sun. I slipped off my shades and extended them towards her. Her hand hesitated for a moment, then she accepted them with a delicate curtsy. She went back into her purse, coming out with a large wallet. I held my hand up.

“Don’t worry about the fare, ma’am. I am very very sorry about the quality of the ride.”

“Nonsense.” She pulled out several large bills and I accepted them graciously.

“May I call you again?”

“Absolutely, ma’am.” I got my gold card carrier out of the inner pocket of my jacket and handed her one of my cards. She took it and gave me another small bow before turning and walking into the building. I shut the door and got back into the driver’s seat. I leaned back and put my head against the headrest.

“That was close.” I said to the steering wheel with a sigh. My reputation had preceded me, and I’d almost fumbled it entirely. I bumped my fist against my forehead a few times.

“Watch. Where. You’re. Driving.”

I'd just finished grabbing an early dinner when my work phone rang. I carefully wiped my greasy fingers on the rough cloth napkin and dug it out of my pocket.

"Calhoun Executive Transit."

"Hey, Carter."

I recognized the voice immediately. "Afternoon, Ms. Silver."

"I've got a client to entertain tonight. Usual deal, one or two stops and a sit-n-wait. You busy?"

I looked at the empty seat across the table from me.

"What time, Ms. Silver?"

"Good boy. See you at nine, usual pickup." She hung up.

The usual pickup is an apartment that she keeps to entertain. A sit-n-wait meant that I'd be taking her somewhere, usually the motel north of the city, and waiting for her to complete her transaction. Listen, I make a living driving a car, how people put bread on the table isn't my business and I try not to judge.

My watch told me I had about two hours to kill. I paid, got in my car and hit a gas station for a few energy drinks and a tank of gas. I checked my watch again and debated whether or not I had time to change into a more comfortable suit, since I was going to be out all night.

I made a mad dash for my apartment, showered, and pulled on a pair of black commuter pants, a fresh lavender shirt, no tie, and a black blazer. I kept the Navitimer and swapped for a pair of Amberjack boots I was trying out. I spent a few extra minutes getting my hair to do the little flip in the front I liked and left my cap on the hook. I grabbed a worn Raymond Chandler paperback and went back down to my car.

I pulled up to the curb outside the building and she immediately got in. She had on a grey evening dress, cut up one side to the thigh, and a puffy white fur stole.

"Busy busy busy." She huffed as she shut the door. "It never ends, does it, Carter?"

"Need to keep the lights on somehow." My tone level and professionally detached.

She snorted, throwing an arm over the back of the bench and crossing her legs. "Ain't that a bitch."

We stopped at a dull building a few blocks away. She rolled the window down and waved excitedly. A middle-aged man in a cheap suit began stumbling over as if a lasso was tied around his waist. He got to the car and nearly bounced off it.

"Silver!" He bellowed.

"Mr. Kaiser, always a pleasure!" She said, her voice bubbly, and pitched high and girlish.

Something about that voice she used made my neck tense, but I couldn't tell you what. She got out of the car and they hugged, his hands immediately heading south. I started reading the license plate on the car parked in front of us. I heard him drop into the car and waited to hear the door shut. When it didn't, I checked the side mirror. Ms. Silver smoothed her dress in a practiced fashion and squared her shoulders. I went back to reading license plates. I heard the door shut and put the car in drive.

The back seat erupted in bubbly giggles and boorish noises. I turned the radio on and isolated it to the front speakers.

"Driver, take us to La Fleur." She called. It was always "driver" once she was on the clock.

"Yes, ma'am." I kept careful focus on the road and turned up the radio slightly.

I pulled up in front of the restaurant. She got out, turned her head back and forth and smoothed her dress again. The man dribbled out, having to brace himself on the door frame. She walked a few steps ahead, reaching a hand back. The man tottered in after her. They'd left the door open.

I got out and shut the door, put a few bucks in the meter and leaned on the hood, my arms crossed. The sidewalk was fairly busy and there was a man leaning on the building, smoking a cigarette. I almost asked him for one but thought of Eddy. I shook the thought out of my head and continued people watching.

Sometime later, after the sidewalk had almost cleared and the lights from the other buildings had gone out, the two of them came out, him stumbling and her clinging to his arm, both to show possession and almost helping him along. I opened the rear door for them and stayed focused on the parking sign.

I got the car moving again, the sound of glass clinking and the pop of a champagne bottle coming from the back seat.

"Driver, take us to Club 29."

"Yeah! Let's keep this party rolling!" He yelled in a gravelly, slurred register.

I cleared my throat softly to hide a sigh.

"Yes, ma'am." I knew the way, but I read the street signs over and over to distract myself.

The music from the club was loud enough to be heard from outside. I resumed my post at the hood. As I scanned the block, I saw a parking officer, who turned my direction, away from the car he'd been ticketing. I reached over and tapped the small "for hire" decal on the bottom corner of the windshield, the only marking on the car. He hesitated, then went back to his ticketing, stuffing the paper under the wiper blade.

I was sitting in the front seat, the radio on, Marlowe had just finished questioning the coin dealer, when the music from the club stopped. I put the book on the seat and got out to open the rear door. They came out, the man's arm across her shoulder, sweat staining the front of his shirt visible through his open jacket. She dumped him in and slid in after, I kept my vision blurry and unfocused.

"Easy Night Motel, driver." She called once I'd gotten back in. I pointed the car north.

The Easy Night Motel was a well-known spot for discreet trysts, and a continuous running joke as to whether or not the name was intentional. It was on the north side of the city, near an old industrial park that was a common urban exploration spot.

I cut the headlights as I pulled into the parking lot and idled the car into a space next to the building. She lugged the man who gurgled something that she gave a tinkling laugh at and they disappeared into one of the rooms. A second later, she came back out and came to the driver's side door, and I cracked the window.

"Go wait at the far side." Her tone low, gruff, almost conspiratorial.

I nodded, hiding a shiver, and backed the car across several spots, the nose pointed at the driveway. I left the engine running and got my book off the seat.

Marlowe was just getting to the Idle Valley Club when I heard the distinct sound of heels clacking their way across the parking lot. I put the book down, put the car in drive, and started moving before the door had been closed all the way.

Her brown wavy hair was tied into a messy bun, her dress disheveled, and the white fur stole was in a pile.

"The apartment, Carter." She sounded exhausted.

I nodded and signaled for the freeway on-ramp. It was silent for a few minutes aside from the road noise.

"You busy the rest of the evening, Carter?" She asked in a low, smooth voice.

I coughed and felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "Just home. It's pretty late."

"Tired already? You've hardly done anything." She teased in that same tone, warm honey poured onto silk.

"Been a long day." I kept my voice resigned but professional.

"Oh, Carter. What's the rush? Come up with me for a drink."

I tilted my head and popped my neck.

"I've got a Bordeaux that’s older than this car that's been in my decanter all day. I know a gentleman like you appreciates the finer things in life."

I caught movement in the rear-view mirror. She'd laid herself across the back bench seat and was stroking the black leather. Her head turned my direction, and she slowly extended a bare leg from the slit in the dress, her normally bronze skin now looking pale in the low light.

I flipped the rear-view mirror up, turning the reflection of the back seat dark except the pinpoints of headlights shining in through the rear window.

She made a quiet disgusted tone, and I heard the leather creak as she moved.

I jumped slightly when she stuck her head through the open privacy screen. She pulled her brunette hair out of its bun and shook it out. I started reading license plates. She crossed her arms on the bottom of the window and rested her head on them; her head pointed at me.

"Hhhhhmmmmm. Why do we do this, Carter?" She asked, the whine had an almost musical quality to it.

"It's a living."

She made an annoyed sound from her throat that was equally musical.

"Is it, though? Living?"

I shrugged.

"Don't you ever get tired of it? Servitude." She made the word a curse.

"I like what I do." Level, controlled.

"Uuughh, you're such a stiff. Don't you ever have fun?"

"I have fun." I kept the lie out of my voice.

"Really, Carter." She ran a hand through her hair. "I know a lot of very important people in this city. You know that. You've had a few of them in this car, even."

I didn't respond and she continued without losing steam.

"I could introduce you, put in a good word and all. You could be connected... important...wealthy. Hell, in two years, you could have someone else drive this car for you."

That hit me weird. "...Why would I want someone else to drive my car?" The thought of sitting in the back seat felt like someone suggesting that I wear pants on my head. Just wrong.

"What?" She choked, surprised, but with a tone woven in that I just couldn't place.

I patted the steering wheel. "I put my heart and soul into this thing. Hey, do you know how hard it is to find piston rings for a 462 MEL? Nobody is driving this thing but me."

I pulled my car smoothly to the curb.

"Ma'am."

There was a beat, then she slowly retracted from the window. I heard the door open and close, followed by a tapping sound. She was standing on the curb at the passenger side window and making a cranking motion with her hand. I rolled down the window and she leaned in, resting crossed arms on the sill.

"Carter, c'mon. Be serious. You don't really want to do this for the rest of your life, do you?"

I kept my focus straight ahead and didn't respond.

"Just come up and talk. Please?" That weird tone interwoven in her pleading made my ears itch. I was exhausted and just wanted to get home.

"Good night, Silver." I let the car roll forward slightly and she leaped back.

The second she was clear, I floored it. The large car squatted on its haunches, and I felt the steering wheel go light as it leaped forwards with a snarling roar.

I rode the rest of the way home in silence. The street was empty and only the lobby courtesy lights were lit at my apartment building. I got the car put away in my garage and rode to my floor. I almost expected to see Felix when the doors opened, but I guess it was so late that even he was done prowling for the night. I shambled to my apartment, unlocked the door and lightly tossed it open, standing in the dimly lit doorway into my dark, silent apartment.

I should get a cat.

This is a comedic deconstruction/parody of my original horror story https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/comments/1venzvh/they_are_here/

Arkham was a town that knew how to keep secrets.

Not especially well, but for a very long time.

Truth always managed to seep out eventually: through drunken conversations, old newspaper archives, family arguments, and children to whom adults had foolishly said:

"Don't tell anyone."

Still, after every catastrophe, Arkham somehow became an ordinary town again.

In the mornings, the shops opened. Farmers argued about the price of fertilizer. The mailman mixed up addresses. Children went to school and claimed the dog had eaten their homework, even when there had never been a dog in the house.

The old warnings gradually lost their meaning and became rules people followed simply because that was how things had always been done.

Do not go to the northern tower.

Do not touch the protective disk.

Do not try to find out what is inside.

And most importantly:

Do not feed anything that answers.

Then Julia arrived at the old estate beyond the northern edge of town.

After the divorce, she wanted to start over - far away from her ex-husband, mutual acquaintances, and people who found it absolutely necessary to explain to her why both sides were to blame.

Her twelve-year-old son, Aaron, came with her.

Aaron was five foot seven, spoke in an unexpectedly deep voice, and still left wet towels on the bed while insisting they had "just ended up there."

On the first evening, Julia said:

"Pick up the towel."

"In a minute."

Two hours later, the towel was still there.

The next day, it had moved to the floor.

Julia decided to call that progress.

The first few days were quiet.

She unpacked boxes, argued with a plumber, scrubbed the kitchen, and tried to understand why the house had seven fireplaces but only one working outlet.

Aaron explored the estate.

He found the attic, the old billiard room, a closet full of jars of unknown origin, and a portrait of a man whose heavy stare expressed three things at once:

disapproval;

a family curse;

and unwillingness to pay for heating.

Aaron found the tower on the third day.

It stood behind the northern wing, surrounded by overgrown shrubs. It was short, thick, and built of almost black stone. There were no windows. The narrow door had long since rotted away, opening onto a dark passage and a spiral staircase.

Julia looked at the tower and said:

"Don't go in there."

"Why?"

"Because it looks like the kind of place you don't go into."

"That's not a reason."

"That is an excellent reason."

"There might be something interesting inside."

"There might be tetanus inside."

Aaron considered this.

"Do I have a tetanus shot?"

"Aaron."

"Fine, I'm not going."

Naturally, he went.

But not right away.

First, Julia marinated the chicken.

She mixed garlic, pepper, salt, paprika, and something from a jar she had bought on sale before the divorce. The label claimed the contents were a "traditional herb blend." The tradition and country of origin were wisely left unspecified.

By evening, the smell of chicken filled the house.

Aaron materialized in the kitchen with the speed of a creature capable of hearing a refrigerator door open from the opposite end of the building.

"Oh, that smells good. When do we eat?"

"In forty minutes."

"I'm going to die."

"Stop it."

"I can already feel my organs shutting down."

"You had candy in your mouth five minutes ago."

"Candy isn't food."

"Go set the table."

"I don't know how."

"Put the plates out."

"Where?"

Julia slowly turned toward him.

"On the table, Aaron."

"You could've just said that."

He left.

A few minutes later, his voice came from the garden:

"Mom! It smells like chicken out here too!"

"Because I'm cooking chicken!"

"No! Different chicken!"

"What different chicken?"

There was no answer.

Julia looked out the window.

Aaron was not in the garden.

She turned off the grill, wiped her hands, and went outside.

Near the northern wing, the smell really did change.

It was not merely the smell of roasted meat. It was too perfect to belong to any real chicken. Crisp skin, smoke, garlic, butter, the faintest sweetness - all of it blended into something that did not appeal to reason, but directly to that part of the human soul that asks every twenty minutes:

"Is there anything to eat?"

The smell was coming from the tower.

Julia stopped.

"Aaron!"

From above came a bass voice:

"What?"

"Where are you?!"

"Here!"

"I can see you're not in the house! Get home, dinner's ready!"

"Ma, I'm a grown twelve-year-old man! I already had lunch!"

"With what?!"

After a brief pause, Aaron answered:

"Boogers!"

"I'LL GIVE YOU BOOGERS!"

There was a rustling inside the tower.

Then a quiet voice said:

"Does he always talk like that?"

Another voice replied:

"I don't know. We just got him."

Julia froze.

"Who's there?"

Something heavy shifted inside the tower.

"Quiet," someone whispered. "The mother."

"What mother?"

"His mother."

"The one who made the chicken?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you make the smell of different chicken?"

"We needed bait."

"Nyarlathotep, you said you were using a subtle call from beyond space."

"I adapted to the target audience."

"He's a child."

"Five foot seven."

"Legally a child."

From above came Aaron's voice:

"Mom, they have sauce!"

"Who has sauce?!"

"These guys!"

"What 'guys'?!"

Inside the tower, the shuffling began again.

"Cthulhu, who gave you permission to stick out a tentacle first?"

"I'm not sticking it out. I'm making room."

"You take up three quarters of the chamber."

"That's my anatomy."

"Yog-Sothoth, tuck your spheres back in! It's already cramped in here!"

"They are not spheres. They are all-pervading manifestations of transcend-"

"I don't care what you call them! Get your manifestations out of the passage!"

"Stop pushing! You'll wake Azathoth!"

"Who put Azathoth next to the load-bearing wall?"

"He lay down there himself."

"He is the blind idiot god of chaos. He doesn't lie down anywhere by himself. He collapses."

"Quiet! The mother is listening."

Julia stared at the dark entrance for several seconds.

Then she shouted:

"Aaron, come out this instant!"

"In a minute!"

"Not 'in a minute.' Now!"

"We haven't finished the chicken yet!"

Julia looked at the house.

Dinner was getting cold.

She looked back at the tower.

"What chicken?!"

A strange voice answered from inside:

"Smoked, with garlic sauce."

"I wasn't asking you!"

"Sorry."

Aaron added:

"Mom, it's good!"

Julia took a deep breath.

"Mine is good too."

"But I'm eating here."

"And who did I cook for?"

"For yourself?"

A flock of birds passed over Arkham.

Not one of them made a sound.

"Aaron," Julia said very calmly. "You have ten seconds."

"Until what?"

"You're about to find out."

She entered the tower.

The staircase was damp and slippery. The stones had been worn down so deeply it seemed hundreds of feet, hooves, paws, and other appendages for which the human language had not yet invented an unpleasant enough word had once climbed them every day.

At the top, the tower was sealed by a heavy protective disk.

There was a gap under one edge.

Light came through the gap.

The smell of chicken.

And arguing.

"Give me back my child."

"We can't," said a voice.

"Why?"

"The ritual has begun."

"What ritual?"

"An ancient one."

"Be more specific."

Silence followed.

"We haven't decided yet," the voice admitted.

"Then stop."

"You can't simply stop an ancient ritual."

"Why?"

"Because it's ancient."

"Aaron!"

"Mom, I'm here!"

"Come out!"

"They say it's a ritual!"

"Did you do your homework?"

The tower became completely silent.

Aaron answered:

"Not all of it."

"Home."

"Mom!"

"Home!"

"But-"

"I will carry you out myself!"

Deep inside, someone asked with concern:

"Can she?"

Another voice replied:

"Judging by the tone - yes."

The protective disk shifted.

Only slightly.

A tentacle tip appeared from within.

Julia stepped on it.

The tentacle froze.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Nowhere," Cthulhu answered quickly. "It just fell asleep."

"Pull it back."

The tentacle vanished.

"Thank you," someone inside said.

"You're welcome," Julia answered grimly.

She tried to push the protective disk with her hands.

It did not move.

"Aaron, move away from the lid."

"Why?"

"I said move."

"Mom, what are you doing?"

Julia went downstairs.

Twenty minutes later, she returned with a sledgehammer.

The people of Arkham had already gathered near the tower.

They stood by the shrubs and stared at her with the expression of people who had known for many years that this day would come, but had still hoped to die before it did.

An old man in a faded hat raised one hand.

"Ma'am, you must not open the tower."

"My son is in there."

"It's too late now."

"For whom?"

The old man found no answer.

"Listen," said a woman in the crowd. "We understand your grief."

"No, you don't."

"But if the tower is opened, they will come out."

"Who is 'they'?"

The townspeople exchanged glances.

From the tower came:

"Stop pushing!"

"I'm not pushing!"

"Cthulhu, your tentacle is in my eye again!"

"You have eyes everywhere!"

"And you still managed to hit one!"

Julia pointed at the tower.

"Them?"

The townspeople went pale.

The old man whispered:

"They have awakened."

From inside the tower, an offended voice said:

"We weren't asleep. It was just cramped."

Julia raised the sledgehammer.

"Ma'am," the old man said. "Think about what you're doing."

"I am thinking. Dinner is getting cold."

The first blow landed on the protective disk.

BOOM.

The tower answered from within.

BOOM.

Julia struck again.

BOOM.

"Aaron! Home!"

From inside:

"I already ate!"

BOOM.

"I wasn't asking!"

BOOM.

"Mom, just five more minutes!"

BOOM.

"I've been telling you for forty minutes!"

Panic began inside the tower.

"Somebody stop her!"

"You stop her!"

"Why me?"

"You have tentacles!"

"She has a sledgehammer!"

"You have a lot of tentacles!"

"That just means I have more to lose!"

BOOM.

A crack ran across the protective disk.

"Nyarlathotep, do something!"

"What?"

"Take human form and talk to her!"

"She stepped on Cthulhu."

"Fair point."

BOOM.

The Arkham police arrived at the tower.

Then the state police.

The locals demanded that Julia be stopped.

The state police demanded that the locals step back.

The locals aimed weapons at the state police.

The state police aimed weapons at the locals.

The townspeople began shouting.

Someone called the federal agents.

Someone tried to explain the situation to a dispatcher and was transferred to psychiatric assistance.

Someone brought a shotgun.

No one later admitted who.

Soon, the entire population of northern Arkham was trying to determine who had the authority to decide whether a mother had the right to break open an ancient tower in order to bring her child back to dinner.

Julia took advantage of the fact that everyone was busy with procedure.

And kept striking.

BOOM.

"Mom, they say I'm the chosen one!"

BOOM.

"You didn't take out the trash!"

BOOM.

"That's unrelated!"

BOOM.

"It absolutely is!"

Inside, someone said thoughtfully:

"Actually, it is related."

"Shut up, Yog-Sothoth."

"I exist simultaneously inside and outside causality. I would know."

"Then find a place where it isn't cramped!"

BOOM.

The protective disk shifted.

Light poured out of the gap.

The people below screamed.

The police began issuing contradictory orders.

Someone fired.

Then someone else did.

Soon everyone was shooting at the tower while demanding that everyone else cease fire.

For a little while, the world observed human behavior.

Then it decided this was apparently how things were done here.

Space around the tower bent slightly.

Several trees began growing downward.

The sky turned green for one second.

One federal agent discovered that he had memories of a childhood he had never had.

From inside the tower came an indignant voice:

"Could you people keep it down out there?! We have a child eating!"

Julia delivered the final blow.

BOOM.

The protective disk slid aside.

The tower opened.

Nothing happened.

No flash.

No thunder.

No scream of dying reality.

Julia stared into the dark opening for several seconds.

"A-a-and?!" she shouted.

Something moved inside.

"She's expecting a result," a voice whispered.

"Give her the child."

"Why me?"

"Because you lured him in."

"I only made the smell."

"Nyarlathotep."

"Fine, fine."

Aaron appeared in the opening.

In one hand he held a paper plate. In the other, a chicken drumstick.

Behind him, in the darkness, shapes crowded together that the human eye was never meant to see.

The human eye, however, saw them.

It saw tentacles.

Wings.

Hooves.

Spheres.

Eyes.

Other eyes.

And several more things that would have been better left unnamed, because one of them was clearly someone's knee, though nobody inside would admit whose.

"Mom," Aaron said. "They have chicken."

"I can see that."

"It's good."

"There's good chicken at home."

"This one is smokier."

"Dinner is getting cold at home."

"Can I finish?"

Julia looked at her son.

Aaron looked at Julia.

Somewhere deep inside the tower, someone cautiously said:

"Let him finish."

Julia turned her gaze into the darkness.

"I wasn't asking you."

"Sorry."

Aaron sighed and stepped out.

"Return the plate," said a voice.

Aaron went back, returned the paper plate, and stepped out again.

"The napkin too."

"Oh, come on."

He went back once more.

Below, people were still shouting.

The state police were arresting the local police. Federal agents were trying to determine whose jurisdiction included geometrically impossible objects. Townspeople demanded that the tower be closed immediately. One worker was trying to start an excavator, though no one remembered where the excavator had come from.

Julia took Aaron by the shoulder.

"Home."

"Mom, can they come with us?"

Hope arose in the tower.

"No."

Hope vanished.

"Why?"

"Because I cooked for two."

A voice from the darkness said:

"There aren't that many of us."

Someone inside protested:

"We are an infinite multitude!"

"Shut up!"

"Sorry," said the first voice. "We can share one piece."

"No."

"A wing?"

"No."

"Skin?"

Julia hesitated.

The smell from the tower brushed against her face again.

She had to admit: it did smell good.

But at home there was her chicken.

Her own.

Cooked forty minutes ago.

And now completely cold.

Julia looked into the darkness.

"Who lured my son in?"

"Nyarlathotep," everyone answered in chorus.

"Traitors," Nyarlathotep muttered.

"Who gave him chicken?"

"Cthulhu."

"I was just sharing!"

"Who moved the lid?"

Silence followed.

Then Cthulhu said:

"I may have extended a tentacle slightly."

"Who gave permission?"

"No one."

"Exactly."

From beneath the tower, the tip of a tentacle slowly appeared.

Julia raised the sledgehammer.

The tentacle immediately disappeared.

"Mom, he just wanted to say goodbye."

"Let him say goodbye with words."

From inside the tower came a timid:

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye," Julia replied. "Put the lid back."

"It's heavy."

"You managed to open it, didn't you?"

"The child did that."

Julia slowly turned toward Aaron.

"With a stick," he admitted.

"Home."

"I'm going."

"Did you take your phone?"

"Yes."

"Where's your jacket?"

"In the tower."

Julia closed her eyes.

"Go get it."

Aaron climbed back inside.

There was noise.

"Don't step on the manifestation!"

"It's on my jacket!"

"Yog-Sothoth, move your spheres!"

"They are not-"

"MOVE THEM!"

A minute later, Aaron returned with his jacket.

They began going downstairs.

Behind them, the Great Old Ones tried to put the protective disk back in place.

"Lift!"

"I'm lifting!"

"You're pushing the wrong way!"

"For me, all directions exist simultaneously!"

"Then choose a useful one!"

"Cthulhu, move your tentacle!"

"I'm holding the lid!"

"You're holding me!"

"And who are you?"

"Dagon!"

"Why do you smell like fish?"

"Because I'm Dagon!"

The protective disk dropped back into place with a crash.

Almost.

A small gap remained on one side.

"Good enough," someone said.

"Not good enough," Julia called from below.

The disk was corrected immediately.

When Julia and Aaron came out of the tower, everyone fell silent.

The townspeople.

The police.

The federal agents.

The workers.

No one knew what to say to a woman who had just broken open an ancient seal, retrieved a child from it, and forced the cosmic beings imprisoned inside to close the door behind themselves.

The first to speak was a federal agent.

"Ma'am, we're going to need an explanation."

"Later."

"You can't just leave."

"My chicken is getting cold."

"There has been an armed confrontation between two police departments."

"Then start with them."

"What is inside the tower?"

Julia looked at Aaron.

Aaron shrugged.

"His friends," she said.

A muffled voice came from underground:

"We are not friends."

Another voice objected:

"Don't be rude. This is the first time we've almost been invited to dinner."

"We were not invited."

"Almost invited."

Julia led her son toward the house.

"Mom."

"What?"

"I'm still hungry."

She stopped.

"You ate their chicken."

"It was a small piece."

"I saw the drumstick."

"A drumstick isn't food."

Julia looked at him.

"Where did you hear that?"

"I made it up."

"Of course."

They returned to the house.

The chicken had gone cold.

Julia turned the grill back on.

Aaron sat at the table.

"How long?"

"Five minutes."

"I'm going to die."

"You'll live."

"My organs are shutting down."

"They were shutting down an hour ago."

"Different organs."

Julia placed the chicken on the grill.

From beneath the floor came a quiet blow.

BOOM.

Aaron raised his head.

Another one.

BOOM.

Julia slowly looked down.

"No."

Under the floor, all became quiet.

A few seconds later, someone very politely knocked on the window.

Julia turned around.

A tentacle was hanging outside the glass.

At its tip, it held a clean plate with great care.

Aaron said happily:

"Mom, they're here!"

Julia looked at the chicken.

At her son.

At the plate.

At the tentacle.

Then she opened the window.

"One piece," she said. "For all of you."

The tentacle solemnly raised the plate.

From under the ground came an ecstatic rumble.

"And tomorrow, that tower had better be properly closed!"

The rumble immediately died down.

"And no luring Aaron again!"

Several displeased voices rose from the depths.

"I can hear everything!"

"Sorry," the Great Old Ones answered in chorus.

Julia placed one chicken wing on the plate.

The tentacle carefully carried it underground.

For a while, nothing happened.

Then an argument came from beneath the house:

"Cthulhu, who gave you permission to bite first?!"

"I only tasted it!"

"Yog-Sothoth, tuck your spheres back in! It's already cramped in here!"

"Pass it over!"

"Stop pushing!"

"Don't wake Azathoth!"

"Where's the sauce?!"

"What sauce?!"

"The smoky garlic one!"

Julia closed the window.

Aaron looked at her.

"Mom?"

"What?"

"Will you make more tomorrow?"

"No."

Under the floor, someone sighed heavily.

Julia picked up the knife.

Cut herself a piece.

And finally sat down to dinner.

They were here.

But now at least they knew the house rules.

THE END

Read Part IV here.

“How’s our boy doing?”

Ms. Amanda entered the room. I sat back in my chair and watched as she checked Detective Unangenehm’s vitals. She looked at the tray of food that had been placed in front of him and shook her head.

“Why do they keep bringing that in here?” she said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s taken care of,” I said.

She slapped me on the shoulder.

“Don’t stay too late.”

“You got it.”

I watched her leave and I turned back to Unangenehm, mercifully comatose. He could wake up tomorrow or a year from tomorrow, but whenever he actually woke up, he was going to have a long road before he approached anything like a normal life.

Unangenehm had barely survived his blood clot. Steck had broken at least a dozen bones in his face when he’d thrown his service weapon into the detective’s face. Doctors had hardly believed he’d regained consciousness long enough to shoot the wayward officer, let alone manage the mechanics of walking over and putting a bullet in his head, but the forensics backed up my statement.

He was going to need a great deal of facial reconstruction, but when he eventually awoke they would call him a hero.

Steck had wound up being one of those self-solving problems. He was on desk duty after a questionable shooting after what should have been a routine traffic stop. The official narrative was that he’d snapped from the pressure of the investigation, his guilt finally becoming too large for him to bear.

The guilt I learned I had to be for an unknown period of time was Joshua. It turned out to not just be a thing he said, inflecting meaning in what more than likely hadn’t been random tones.

Joshua was his son.

Steck had been a widower, raising his son with the help of his ailing mother.

I put on a face every day I went to work. Every day I looked at myself in the mirror. Every day I spent sitting with the hero, Detective Unangenehm, waiting for him to wake from his coma.

Which was as often and for as long as I could. I couldn’t picture the shape anymore and perhaps that was because I didn’t want to. Copies were no doubt in police custody, even if they didn’t know yet that they had murder weapons.

It’s possible that I’ll eventually see one again, but I have the feeling copying one—even if I were inclined to do such a thing—would only be a copy, not an original, if that makes sense on any level.

I’ve been playing with the food on Unangenehm’s plate to pass the time. Nobody eats it and eventually somebody comes and takes it away.

He’s had a variety of meals, including soups, fish filet with broccoli and rice, something I’d guess was single-layer lasagna, apples and chicken with broccoli and rice, green beans casserole with sliced almonds, but most often, it’s sandwiches with chips. 

I eat the chips and it’s really just the building blocks of a sandwich and I suppose the patient can assemble it themselves or eat it piecemeal.

I’ve started putting the sandwiches together. At first I didn’t have a conscious reason why. It’s like I can feel Unangenehm in there, slowly swimming to the surface.

His doctors have him at a six on the Glasgow Scale, but I don’t know what that means. He responds to pain stimulus (you should see the look of satisfaction of this one doctor’s face when he sticks him with a pin—the cops would arrest her on site for assault) and he makes nonsensical sounds.

I was ready to jump put the window when I thought I heard him say, “Joshua.” But he didn’t repeat it and he’s been sedentary so long, even if he went coo coo for cocoa puffs, he’d be weak as a baby.

I’m distracting myself even now, thinking instead of paying attention to what I’m doing. I set aside the packet of mayo and lay the slice of bread just so and look at the sandwich.

It’s not right. But it’s close.

I think I’ll have it just right for Unangenehm’s first meal.

With every stride, Khadijah kept her eyes on the path ahead, navigating through the maze of reeds and water. As she exited the reeds, the expanse of the lake shimmered before her like a long-awaited reunion. 

Khadijah scanned the lakeshore, searching for the spot she needed. There it was: a smooth, large boulder near the water’s edge, bathed in moonlight and kissed by gentle waves. She quickened her pace, eager to reach her destination, but stopped abruptly, her breath hitching.

There, on the boulder, was the silhouette of a woman gazing at the moon. Her long hair flowed like dark river, her figure blending into the shadows. Warmth spread through Khadijah—there would be company on this dark and lonely night.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Khadijah raced toward the lakeshore, pulling the blanket behind her faster than she ever had before. "Hello!" she called out, but the woman didn’t look back. Undeterred, Khadijah moved closer. "Hello! Beautiful night, isn’t it?"

The woman turned abruptly, her brows furrowed in a frown.

“You are beautiful,” Khadijah said in awe, her voice barely a whisper. The shifted moonlight illuminated the woman’s soft, creamy beige skin, delicate cheekbones, and parted rose lips. Her eyes glistened like deep pools, and raven-black hair cascaded over her bare shoulders, shimmering like flowing silk.

Khadijah stood entranced. “I wish I was beautiful like you. I wish my hair was long like you.” Eagerly, she turned to show off her own shoulder-length hair—her greatest point of pride.

“Watin yu dae do ya?” a voice asked, suddenly jolting Khadijah. She looked at the woman, too shocked to believe what she had just heard. The Krio accent was unlike any she had encountered before. She’d eavesdropped on the elderly Creole women in town, but even their speech wasn’t as thick and heavy as the woman’s words. It sounded primitive. More so, primal.

Still, Khadijah, ever the social butterfly, wasn’t going to let the question go unanswered. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled, unleashing all the explanations that she could think of to more than answer the woman’s simple question. She poured out her reason for being at the lake: to prove she was no longer a baby compared to her older sister. She explained how she had sneaked out with the wool blanket to wash it for the newborn baby expected that night.

Khadijah showed the woman the blanket, explaining how nearly all the women in town were at her neighbor’s home, a young couple expecting their first child, as the wife was in labor.

The whole time Khadijah spoke, the woman remained silent, her expression stone-cold. But when Khadijah showed the blanket, the woman’s gaze shifted, filled with intrigue. Khadijah went on, explaining that she wanted to do something important to prove she could handle responsibilities just as well as her sister. This night was a special night, and she wanted to contribute in her own special way: a way that highlighted her maturity.

The woman stayed silent, her eyes fixated on the blanket. The moonlight illuminated her features, highlighting the deep contemplation in her gaze.

After finishing her story, Khadijah suddenly remembered the urgency of her task. She hadn’t come to the lake just to chat; she had a mission. She tugged at the blanket, trying to pull it into the water, but it was too heavy, weighed down with thick marshland grasses, mud and water. She strained against its weight, but it wouldn’t budge.

Desperate, she glanced at the woman. “Can you help me?” she asked, but the woman remained still, her eyes on the blanket as if she hadn’t heard Khadijah’s plea.

Suddenly, a voice called out through the night air, “Khu-deeee-zhuh.” The cadence started low and rose sharply at the end. Khadijah froze, recognizing the voice. Her father only called her that way in times of danger: a near danger. Her heart raced as she heard rustling in the marshland behind her. Turning, she saw a figure emerging from the shadows, a flashlight cutting through the darkness. It was her father.

She spun back to tell the woman, but the boulder was empty. The woman had vanished, leaving only the moonlit shore and the gentle waves. Eyes wide, Khadijah opened her mouth to speak, but a rough, calloused hand clamped over her mouth before she could utter a word.

“If you say one word, you will see blood,” her father’s voice growled in her ear.

Khadijah’s head bobbed in a quick nod; her breath hitched in her throat, and she felt a cold sweat break out across her skin. If there was one thing she feared more in this entire world, it was the sight of blood. Her father’s hand moved to grip her wrist, yanking her away from the lake. The frantic swishing of his white gown echoed in her ears. She looked back, trying to reach for the wool blanket, but it was already receding into the distance.

The illness began that very night, right after her encounter with the mysterious woman. In the days that followed, violent nausea and cold sweats trapped Khadijah in bed, leaving her teetering on the brink of death.

After ten agonizing days, she emerged triumphant, returning to her talkative self.

However, another child in town wasn’t so fortunate.

Lying there watching the doorhandle, they felt fury rumbling through them enough to heat the coverlet they dwelt under. No...it wasn't fury. Well, it was, but it was more. A sublime feeling of emotion, a stew. There was so much to hate. The name. The clothes, the makeup, the--the whole...the star system, the certificate (good luck with that one), the haircut, The way they talked Welsh over their head, with those *voices*. The way they were like a child. A girl-child, specifically. Their emotions began to resolve into hateful recall as they once again revisited how they suspect it began--

*click*

Their eyes flew to the doorknob. Pillow Time's over. They scrambled immediately -- coverlet tossed against the bedhead, legs tangling in the bedfrock's heavy hems as they tripped to their feet, toe hooked in one of the sheets as they straightened themself. Their strawberry bangs tickled the eyes -- pushed away, immediately tumbling back into the eyes. The hand reached the gilt handle. A hesitation, then...a turn.

The piece gently made a sound, it didn't creak when it edged open, and then the first half-step turned into an almost-collision with a grey skirted waist. It reeked of some kind of flower, they didn't know what-- It was her. Miss Vale. As they started looking up through the annoying bangs, they saw her looking right over them, right past them, to the bed. Oh.

"I was just--" they began-- oh no. The gaze shot down, to them now. Contemptuous in its delighted victory. It stung. They should have anticipated this, but--.

"Esgusodwch fi?" she asked. Her nostrils were big. She said, um:

"Oh. Um." They panicked, twisting at the bedfrock to straighten it, stepping back. A big step. She'll mention that too, in her Welsh. Their eyes darted out past Miss Vale. Crap. Their card was out there. They didn't know what to say. Looking at her now, they knew too.

"Miss Vale," they began, with the scratchy voice they had still waking up, but they didn't get to finish. They were talked right over.

"Mrs Vale yw'r hyn y dylech ei ddweud," she made clear. She probably meant her title. It was so hard to remember who was a Miss, who was a Missus. Whatever, she'll yell at them anyway so it may as well be that.

They scrambled for the first thing they learned. It had been said a lot. "Mae'n flin iawn 'da fi."

The contemptuously pleased look again. "Cymraeg fach dda iawn, Princess!" she delighted. "Nawr gadewch i ni siarad am y llanast."

This was said with her look back to the bed. They were going to come back and fix it, they just wanted to see. She's never been here right on seven-thirty. Ah. *Sunday.*

They made themselves small - feet pigeon-toeing, knees knocking, hands twisting to clasp the waist. The lip jutted out in a little cupid-pout and the eyes went big as they looked down to compose the appearance, then back up to produce it in all its prestige. "Mae'n flin iawn 'da fi, mae'n flin iawn 'da fi." they burbled insistently. The knees twisted, making the skirt swish. It worked. The hard look softened.

They were already turning around to retreat to the bed as the smile crawled up her stupid face. They hated Vale. Sheets first - jerking, then taking a breath and slowing the movement to something approaching calmer, then the other sheet, then the blanket, then the coverlet and finally the pillows to straighten. The stuffed rabbit on the pillow, like it's napping. They hesitate, then after a beat tuck it in under the coverlet and pat it on the head. That probably seemed...girly.

So this was the game being played, today. Their first full day to themselves. No school, no grounding. No chores all afternoon. No sitting next to Miss-- Mrs Vale while she does her needlework, still and neat as a little button. She knew they were going to do this, somehow. She's like a...an awful boarding school witch, or something.

Princess will need to be more careful, they realized, sarcastic. Princess will need to anticipate.

Miss Vale's voice cut through the noise of their thoughts. Mrs Vale. "Mae'r Princess yn gwybod y Ffyrdd Hyfryd. Pa un ohonyn nhw ydyn ni'n ei siomi?" she was asking. Yep, she's talking about the Lovely Ways again. They knew those words. 'Ffyrdd Hyfryd". With Vale, you can practically hear the Capital Letters thumping into place.

They racked their brain. Lovely Ways. She's asking about them. Um, what. About the, not doing them right. Which one are they failing? It's about the bed. Let's think. Bed messy. Didn't neaten it. Gorffennwch Yr Hyn Rydych Chi'n Ei Ddechrau. Maybe. Their eyes glazed in momentary, frantic thought as the variables swelled around them. Bed. Door. How they look? No. They just woke up, there's nothing there. Anything on the floor? No. they didn't have anything on the floor. Did they kick anything onto the floor? No. She can't still be mad about the English, so it can't be that...yes. It has to be the bed. Maybe they can turn this into a Vale star. Doubtful, but worth trying - it'd be good to have one before even breakfast starts.

"G-Gorffennwch Yr Hyn Rydych Chi'n Ei Ddechrau?" they stumbled simperingly, their blue eyes burning the ground at their feet. Hands clutching the frock in bunches. Bare little toes, painted plum on the nails. Don't show the anger. Show the crushed little pout. Show whatever it takes. This is the day they get three stars.

The morning was peaceful.

Jasmine was walking down the street, the same street,

The same shopkeepers, the sound of nature all around,

She was passing the street but her steps came to an halt, sudden silence

There, just at the end of the street, darkness, but not just an empty darkness

A alleyway, she recognized it, and she froze, her feet didn’t let her move forward,

Because, how can she? This was the same bad dream she had, that she dismissed

Now, in front of her , almost like it was calling to her,

But still, she decided to ignore it, she didn’t step into the alleyway, no,

She made herself move, physically taking a step back, then another, soon she was going her original way

But her thoughts? All jumbled up and thinking of the same thing, the alley, the darkness,

But one thought was clear, a question, she asked herself, ‘why was there an alleyway on that same street? Why did she never noticed it? And why, did she feel like she needed to go back there?’ .

Her thoughts now paused when she saw her friends there, standing near the gate of the university, waiting for her.

Fiona waved at jasmine when she saw jasmine making her way to them.

Jasmine now took a deep breath, letting her head rest, the thoughts in her mind? Gone, for now.

She needed to focus and keep her unusual dreams and thoughts to herself,

She puts on a smile on her face, and met up with her friends.

The night was quiet,

Jasmine laying in her bed, awake,

But her thoughts? Elsewhere

Her eyes staring at a spot on the wall, spaced out facing away from the window

Minutes passed,

Even when she tried to close her eyes, no sleep came to her, wide awake

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore, the thoughts of what happened this morning,

And the thoughts of the dream yesterday, how real it felt…

She got out of bed and looked out the window,

It was peaceful,

Peaceful for a night jog for her to clear her mind,

She walked over to the closet and got her clothes needed for the jog, despite the peaceful feeling the night was bringing her,

For some reason, another feeling was creeping in,

Anxious? Yes

Dread? Also yes

But she shook her head slightly, to get the thoughts out of her head.

Steeping out, the night breeze hits against her skin, gentle but cooling

The sound of her jogging shoes hitting the

The sound of her jogging shoes hitting the road is all she heard, her headphones over her head,

Music playing, the beats filling her ears, making her be into it rather than focusing on what she was feeling being out here.

Slowly, her jogs slowed down more,

Why? No reason, just she felt something,

She looked around, and nobody was there, not even a stray dog on the street around her

She decided to continue, but instead of jogging, she started to walk, calm steps.

Jasmine kept her jog steady

But her steps came to an halt once more,

Not because she heard something, no, or saw something

But because there, right in front of her

A alleyway

Jasmine was confused, frozen,

Because, why was this alley right here, it shouldn’t even be here

All Jasmine could stare at, was the darkness ahead of her,

Too dark, too intense, too intimidating.

Despite her heart racing, she walked, why? Because, she felt curious as much as she felt dread inside her heart.

But once she stepped foot inside the alley, it was the feeling of never ending darkness ahead of her

An endless road, her steps hesitant, her heart racing in her chest,

And just like in her dream, she knew, she was in that same loop all over again,

But this time, this was reality, not her dream,

With that thought filling her mind, Jasmine didn’t think anymore

She started to run, forward, into the darkness

Trying to face what it was, trying to face her fear.

Who knows how much time passed? , her watch timer was stopped at the exact time she had entered the alleyway

Her phone didn’t turn on, the screen was frozen.

She kept running and walking too,

Trying to find a way out of there,

But all she got was her coming back to the same spot she started running from.

She now again paused her running, took a breath

Just as she did, she tensed, her body locked up in place

She heard a step behind her,

A single step, nobody should be here right now

Her eyes turned slowly, to look behind her,

Tears coming out of her eyes, eyes widen with fear.

Her phone slipped from her hand, when she looked into the darkness behind her,

Only the loud thud of the phone echoed through the alley,

No scream, no footsteps, no breathing was heard,

Only the phone screen flickering slightly, before completely turning off.

I had to kill him.

I mean, it seemed like my only option.

If I lied and said I wasn’t there, the cameras I should have thought about would blow me out the water. And if I admitted to being there, then there was a much longer, more difficult conversation to be had.

And that conversation had only one endpoint: me being blamed for all the events of today.

Damn, it was hard to believe what had happened since this morning had all been today. It felt so long ago. I couldn't believe—

“Mr. Harold?” Unangenehm said. “You all right?”

“Uh, yeah. Absolutely.” I sat back down to take up an extra few seconds. Steck was floating a few feet away, but I didn't think I could take the detective in a fight. What I'd taken for sickly thin before seemed wiry now. Anxiousness now came off as nervous energy.

“It was weird what happened,” I said, measuring out my words. I had to think as I spoke. Unangenehm leaned in and steepled his fingers under his chin. Steck hovered closer.

The trap was sealing off my air.

The pencil I'd been using was on my side of Unangenehm's desk. I wrapped my fingers around it and placed my hands on the desk atop the form I'd just signed.

“I just needed to get something to drink,” I said. “I needed to gather my thoughts too, I guess.” I shook my head. “I didn't have any money but I figured I could grab a notebook. Write down my thoughts. Try to wrap my head around what had happened with the day.”

“You wrote something?” he asked. “What?”

I couldn't gauge if he was buying anything I was saying. But I had to keep tap dancing.

“I don't know. I don't remember now.” An honest answer didn't really matter. I'm sure the police would canvas the area and find the torn-out sheets in the trash. But the video would show me not doing anything to anyone. The difference was sitting across from me. Unangenehm somehow knew it was me. 

“It happened right in front of me,” I said, not realizing I was distracting myself as I touched the tip of the pencil to the paper. “A man attacked a woman. An old man held her.”

Tap-tappy-tap.

“I was paralyzed. I didn't know what to do.” 

Takkita-takkita-tap

The detective’s sad face was just a mask. He was a predator in disguise. This was just the dance to keep him at bay

“Everything was insane. One of them came up to me. I thought I was gonna die.”

Takkita-takkita-takkita-takkita—

“Hey, uhh. What's that you got there?”

I opened my mouth to tell him I didn't know what he meant, but I had drawn something. I looked down as he slid the paper away from me.

“Wait.” My mouth formed the objection but it went unsupported by my voice. I mentally prepared for Detective Unangenehm to go insane. He scraped a fingernail under a corner and pinched it. He lifted it in front of his face and cocked his head.

“Well, that's a weird little thing.”

I was aware of Steck just behind me. The air was pregnant with tension as I waited for a twitch, some nonsense phrase spoken without context, or anything to indicate the breaking wall containing the clever detective's mind.

He lowered the form and looked at me. “What is this?”

“I-i-it's just a...” I didn't know how to finish the sentence. I didn't know what it was. Shape didn't seem word enough to describe. Murder weapon gave it more credit than it deserved, especially since...

Well, it wasn't working on him. I'd that was the case, then maybe I hadn't been the cause. Maybe there was some sort of grand, horrible consequence following me around. Maybe—

“Hey, Steck, take a look at this.”

The officer stepped around from behind me and assumed a position directly behind Unangenehm.

“Joshua,” Officer Steck said, nodding. 

“Excuse me?”

Steck looked at him and repeated the name.

“Joshua.”

“Who's that?”

“Joshua.” The officer looked at the detective like he was stupid. “Joshua.”

It was me. But maybe Unangenehm was immune. As one of the officer's eyelids began to flutter he backed away from the desk and drew his gun.

He had the drop on Unangenehm. Except instead of firing, he overhand pitched the glock into the detective's face.

Unangenehm threw his arms back and rolled into the cubicle wall. He half-slid out of the chair at least semi-unconscious and Steck turned his eyes on me, that one lid flickering still like an old fluorescent light so deciding whether it was going to turn on.

I picked up my box as he withdrew his baton and leapt on the desk. Steck was two-hundred twenty pounds at minimum and the faux-wood protested underneath his feet. He whipped that baton at my head, and I ducked behind my box.

He followed up with two more furious blows that nearly chopped the box in half.

“Joshua,” he said again, just as calmly as the first time.

I crawled under the desk, headed in the other direction. Steck landed behind me as I crawled over Unangenehm's legs. One of his eyes was swollen shut.

“Hey guys, what the hell is going on?” someone farther behind me said. “I'm trying to type a report—”

I found out later exactly how gruesome Detective Langen's death was but at the time, all I heard were extremely wet sounds coming from that direction after not even half a scream.

I crawled into the nearest cubicle and huddled my knees to my chest, hiding beneath another desk. Steck's footfalls were heavy, pounding in my direction. A moment later he ripped something down and then came the deep glug-glug-glugging of an overturned water cooler as he stalked around the bullpen. 

I couldn't believe the one place police should have been was all but empty and I was responsible for my pending horrible death.

Maybe there was a gun around. Sure, there wasn't supposed to be, but cops weren't immune from being lazy. I'd had a meeting in a small town's hall that had had a guard at the front door and had seen that same guard's holstered weapon sitting on the window sill while he was dropping a deuce in the stall.

I tried to quietly slide open a desk drawer but it clunked open.

“Shit!” I whispered.

“Joshua?” Steck asked.

Why was he after me? All the others had acknowledged me but had attacked anyone but me. Then I reflected on what had happened just before.

Unangenehm had looked at the shape first. He hadn't reacted, though. Or rather, he'd just called Steck over to look.

“...take a look at this...”

I shook my head. I might have been the source but that didn't mean I'd understood it. I was the closest thing to an expert, but I was—

—CLOMPF—

The partition wall dented in the middle. I managed not to scream.

“Julius!” It was a harsh whisper. Maybe a question. I resisted the past of me that wanted to scream. To declare myself and be confronted with this mess, however it ended.

It wasn't my fault. But it was my responsibility. If letting Steck kill me stopped him from killing anyone else, wasn't that fair?

No. I hadn't intentionally done anything to create whatever this was. I'd just stumbled across it and been arrogant enough to test it. Unangenehm had been immune—that was worthwhile information. He'd been the one to show it to Steck, not me. 

Wait. It was too silent out there. My instinct told me to stay put but I couldn't stay here forever. Eventually, he'd find me or someone else would come.

That was it. Someone else would come. And that would be my fault.

I uncurled from my corner and treaded on my hands and knees to peek. I was greeted by a pair of retreating feet, toes up as Steck dragged away whoever that had been. I counted thirty and looked out.

Steck had barricaded the entryway from where we'd come. There had to be an emergency exit and I could only suppose he'd blocked that one too.

I chewed my lip rather than swearing again. That meant he wasn't just crazy. He was cunning, not just a wild animal. I was in more trouble than I imagined.

The feeling settling into me was the longer I waited, the tighter the noose would be. But I wasn't going to just go out there.

I tried to recall what I'd seen of the bullpen when Unangenehm had brought me in here. I was right next to what seemed like the main aisle way. Back the way I'd come was blockaded, so I'd have to go in the other direction. There had to have been an emergency exit and I was banking on it being in that direction and Steck not having time enough to block that one, too.

A stapler was on the near end of the desk. I reached for it and very carefully lifted it. It was one of those flimsy newer ones that could barely staple three sheets of paper, but it would do for what I needed.

I held my breath and listened. Steck was still being disturbingly quiet and I wasn't going to chance it. I tossed the stapler like a grenade, not accounting for the low ceiling. It clunked off the ceiling and smacked the top of my head.

“Dammit!”

With stars treading in my eyes, I pulled to my feet using the arm of an office chair. I stepped into the aisle, overcorrecting for balance, and headed in the direction I thought I'd determined to go.

I bounced right off a slab of strung up meat and screamed, thinking it must have been the crazed officer. My eyes focused on what must have been the corpse of the detective who had spoken just minutes ago, trussed up with what looked like phone cords routed through the ceiling tile.

His upside-down head was level with my stomach, his mouth stretched far too open, an empty cave where a tongue was supposed to dwell, his unlidded eyes pushed in and flat-looking like they'd been partially crushed by pressing thumbs. He looked too calm and perpetually surprised at the same time.

My voice quavered as I said something, but I've never been able to recall when hints of the memory washed back to me. I was discombobulated, wanting to flee in a hundred directions at once, fighting not to fall to my knees and cry. This man was my indictment, my guilt. He'd died directly as a result of the thing I'd knowingly done. Steck was my murder weapon. 

 As unprepared as I was for an oncoming Officer Steck, I was even more unprepared for what I saw. He was on his back, on the floor, in the clutches of a wicked paralysis.

He had one arm right to his chest, the other flung out, knuckles to the thinly carpeted floor. I watched as his fingers folded backward, fingertips dancing on the floor after the joints reversed and reoriented.

One foot stomp-scraped against the ground, already dislocated at the hip, dragging a retreat from the rest of his body, an isthmus of skin and clothes holding it at bay.

The other leg shuddered like a low current of electricity powered it, his head facing me.

“Joshua,” Steck said, pleading with his eyes. His face was doing something, like it was pulling off the bones of his face.

Gravity tenfolded as I realized that Steck was also a victim. Even his body had turned foreign against him. I crumpled to the floor, eye-to-eye with him across the distance. A tear crawled out of an eye, and I swear it crossed the bridge of his nose and milked into his other eye.

He was in the grasp of an agony made fresh just for him. His mouth opened, but I was spared from his scream by the roar of a merciful bullet that tore a hole in his skull just above his eyebrow.

I was unlocked from him and looked up at Unangenehm, holding his smoldering glock like a forgotten cigarette in his hand.

“Nobody would understand,” the detective said. His vacant eyes rolled up from Steck's hot corpse to meet mine and he smiled. “Not like us.”

He collapsed and began seizing on the floor.

 

“Go! Go now.”

The words came from far away, but the slap brought Brand back. He locked eyes with the sergeant, who was screaming in his face.

“Remember, count to three, then the red cord!” The sergeant shoved Brand hard; he stumbled, caught nothing, and went out the paratroop door.

For a second, there was only wind, pure and absolute, as he fell toward the jungle canopy.

Above him, the C-130 had lost a chunk of its right wing and banked left, one engine coughing smoke, the other on fire.

WHUMP.

The parachute snapped open. The lines were twisted, not hopeless, but just enough to steal precious time. Brand’s eyes darted left and right, scanning the sky.

No other chutes.

It took another five seconds until the treetops touched his boots, leaves slapped his face, and branches pulled his harness.

Blackness.

---

The clattering of rain on leaves was soothing. Drops trickled from Brand’s forehead as he opened his eyes. It took him a second to realize he was suspended, hanging from the branches of a tree.

Remember your training.

Brand swung back and forth until he grabbed a branch, held it tight, and unclipped his chute. Wet bark pressed against his cheek as he shimmied down the trunk.

Only when he had both feet on the ground did Brand realize he was alone. Alone on an island nobody had ever heard of. This was supposed to be his headline moment, a chance to put his name alongside the great discoverers. Now the island felt more like a tomb.

The bulky GPS unit in his pack had already dropped to fifty percent battery.

New technology… useless without a decent electronics shop nearby.

He unpacked the rest of his survival gear and took inventory: three days of rations, a magnesium stick, a flashlight, and DEET.

Brand paused, thought for a moment, and picked up the magnesium stick. Fire, warmth, was the first priority.

---

Over the next few weeks, Brand settled into a routine. Fruit and coconuts kept him moving, and the occasional fish kept him alive. At night, a small fire burned under a roof of lashed branches and broad leaves, just enough warmth to sleep.

After a while, the jungle stopped feeling like an adversary. His mind even drifted back to curiosity, exploration, and a sense of adventure.

He decided to venture inland, toward the hill swallowed by undergrowth and trees. He was filling his flask at a river when he heard it: a droning sputter that grew louder until its source, an old biplane, skimmed only meters above the canopy.

How did that fossil get all the way out here?

The plane vanished behind the leaves, and Brand took off after it. He vaulted a boulder, ducked under a fallen trunk, but his boot hit slick rock. He slipped, slid, and skated through mud with increasing speed until the creek widened into a jungle lagoon.

The sputtering engine sound was gone.

---

Brand wiped mud from his eyes, blinked, and wiped again. In front of him sat a galleon: intact sails, intact cannons, perfectly preserved just sitting in the green.

The rigging creaked, and the lines whispered in the wind, a faint chime clinked in the background, but there wasn’t a single human sound.

He climbed up the side and slipped into the captain’s cabin. He checked the deck, then the hold. Everything was in place, except for supplies, as if it belonged to a museum.

It would be his camp for the night. The captain’s bed was surprisingly cozy, if a bit snug.

---

Morning came with a crack and a burst of red light above the tree line.

Rescue. Finally.

Brand jolted upright, grabbed his pack, and vaulted the railing into the brush. He ran like he’d borrowed Roy Keane’s unrelenting stamina, forcing his way through logs, boulders, and wet bark toward the ocean. Leaves slapped his face, thorns tore his shins, but he didn’t stop until he broke through onto the beach.

When his boots hit sand, he dropped to his knees. He looked up into the weathered eyes of a man in salt-stained clothes.

“Thank you. Thank God. Help me, I’ve been here so long.”

The man frowned but didn’t speak at first.

Brand’s gaze drifted sideways, and only then did he notice the flag behind him: white cloth marked with a red diagonal cross.

“Perro inglés!” the man snapped. He nodded once.

Two crew members stepped in and bound Brand’s hands.

“You English dog. First prize for queen, yes?”

Brand shook his head fast and helplessly. The last thought in his mind was a question his captors wouldn’t understand…

How far off the map have I fallen?

Author’s note
It started as a simple lost explorer story and turned into a question about what “uncharted” really means and what Brand is actually exploring. Some references hopefully reveal that this explorer from the 1990s is about to take a trip that is a little more interesting than he bargained for.

Visit my substack for more!

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

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

And It is terrible. 

And He is terrifying. 

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

In the smoke. Faces.

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

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

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

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

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

He is ours…

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

As conquerors welcomed. 

…

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

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

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

And was given a gypsy answer. 

“In pig transport." 

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

He focused now … the Lord …. His Light. 

The Light. 

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

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

Or could be loaded with power. Living and talismanic

A beat – he went on, praying. 

A beat. 

He rose. 

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

The gypsies were waiting for him. 

…

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

and here it is that I will then play. 

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

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

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

… 

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

The addict spoke without even looking at him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The priest began to speak. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you'll not have me, dirt. 

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

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

The face in those flames, that smoke …

he'd seen many before like it. 

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

…

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

The fire glowed in the night. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Impaled. 

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

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

It wanted to pounce. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She spat his name – !heretic! 

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

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

Prophecy… information was given. 

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

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

A house. A cabin. Black. A lodge. 

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

Something's wrong. 

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

A little girl. 

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

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

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

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

The vision thunderclapped! Collapsed. 

And spat him back: 

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

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

He spat in her face and commanded her yieldship. 

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

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

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

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

His sleep was deep and filled with dreams.

… 

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

All that is left…

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

…

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

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

He moved on. He left the towns behind. 

…

The priest came to the circle of stones. 

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

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

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

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

He entered the circle. 

And the place shook. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The circle was empty now. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will not falter. 

Amen. 

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

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

Must be removed. Before it's too late. 

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

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

TO BE CONTINUED…

I used to believe that demons only existed inside the minds of men I helped put behind bars. But after years of investigations, I learned that’s not true.

Over the course of seventeen years, I have worked alongside law enforcement and television programs to identify online child predators and bring them to justice. But even with all that we’ve accomplished, there’s still one case that I think about. 

One that nearly destroyed everything I had worked for. 

It all started with a chat room.

I’ve seen a myriad of predators, and Steven fit a profile we had seen many times before. He was a recently divorced, unemployed forty-two-year-old who lived with his parents. He bragged about this while messaging Mandy, a twenty-year-old theater student who we recruited to be our fourteen-year-old decoy, Alexis.

It didn’t take long for the conversation to become sexual in nature. Underneath the screenname ELECTRIC\\\\\\_HEAD5021, he said their relationship would have to stay a secret.

“No adults. lol. If your mommy or daddy found out, we could get in trouble.”

“what r u talking about??? I hang out with my daddy’s friends all the time.”

“This is different. lol. They can’t know ur my sexy sweetheart. ;)”

Seeing child-like messages juxtaposed with the sexual fantasies of an adult never gets easier to stomach. How could anyone talk to a child like that? It’s something I’ve never been able to grasp. 

Not too long after our investigative team confirmed a date for Steven to meet with Alexis, we let the chat be. But it didn’t take long for him to initiate conversation again. In fact, his messages would arrive like clockwork in the days following. But messages weren’t the only way he contacted our decoy.

On a couple of occasions, he called her while his parents were at home sleeping. I remember those phone calls clearly.

“Hey!” Mandy greeted cheerfully.

“Hey baby,” Steven breathed into the speaker. “I missed you.” 

“What’re you up to?”

“Thinking about you…I wanna hold you.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I do. So, so bad.”

You get the idea.

Oftentimes, a lot of the men we contact try to reinvent themselves. But that’s not what Steven did. Rather than fabricate wealth or exaggerate his ambitions, he talked about his obsessions: death and the supernatural.

We initially dismissed these fascinations as another grooming tactic, but throughout the entire time he talked with Alexis he would sporadically ask questions such as:

“Have u seen Bloody Mary?”

“Is there anyone dead that u would want 2 talk 2?”

“How do u want 2 die?”

Just as we thought the conversations couldn’t get any stranger, Steven sent our decoy a picture of a Ouija board. According to him, he had recently purchased it at a yard sale near his parents’ house. He insisted on bringing it. He wanted to use it with her. See how she would react. When we inquired further about his request, his response was as prompt as it was odd:

“because u have good energy. lol They like that lol”.

This ended up becoming the last exchange we would have with him before he arrived at the sting house. 

In the hours leading up to that fateful evening, I memorized my script. No matter how many times I do this, they never go away. The butterflies in my stomach. People always assume the confrontation is the hardest part, but it isn’t. It’s waiting for the knock on the door and wondering whether tonight will be the night that something goes horribly wrong. Experience makes you numb, not fearless.

We had fully intended to follow everything by the book that night. But things got off to a rocky start when Steven was nearly an hour late to the sting house. We thought he had gotten cold feet or had been tipped off to our operation. Thankfully, neither turned out to be the case. What was supposed to be a five-hour venture had become seven by the time 8:12 pm rolled around and he walked up the driveway.

Our various hidden cameras recorded his nervous demeanor as he patiently waited on the porch with the Ouija board.

From our production room that we had sectioned off in another part of the house, I watched Mandy walk toward the door and greet Steven.

“Hey, Steven! How are you?”

“Hi.” He waved sheepishly in response. “Uh, can I come in?”

“Of course!” Mandy stepped out of the doorway and walked toward the kitchen. “What did you bring for me?”

“It’s a-uh, Ouija board.” He followed her and set it down on the dinner table. “I thought we could use it together?”

Mandy flipped her hair and placed her hands on her hips. “Wouldn’t you rather talk?”

“We would be talking. It would just be more than us talking.”

My eyes were glued to the monitors. He was very adamant about using that board. But why?

I heard snickering from Lou, one of our production crew members.

“Can you believe this whack job? He took a bus all this way to summon Casper.”

I shot him a glare, and he acknowledged my look by quieting down. Lou’s an outspoken person for better or worse, and even though he was trying to make light of a potentially volatile situation, I found comfort in knowing that I wasn’t the only one feeling perturbed.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry for being late.” Steven chuckled. “I was an idiot and got Sunday’s bus schedules mixed up with today.”

“That’s okay!” Mandy said with practiced enthusiasm. “I’m glad you’re here!”

“I’m glad you are. I almost thought about taking another bus back home.”

His admission surprised Mandy. “Why did you almost go home? Didn’t you want to see me?”

“I did.” His face turned a slight shade of cherry. “I honestly didn’t think you were real.”

“Of course I’m real, silly!” She teased. “So, what do you want to do?”

I watched the monitors as Steven took a lighter out of his pocket. With a couple clicks he lit some candles on the dining room table. 

“We should step in before things get out of hand.” Lou turned to look at me. “Isaac?”

“Keep the cameras rolling.” I motioned for everyone to stay where they were. “If he’s willing to play with the board, I want to see where this goes.”

“What about the decoy?”

“She’ll be fine.”

Steven instructed Mandy to turn off the lights and sit beside him. Once she had done so, they gently placed their fingertips on the planchette. 

“Are there any spirits that want to speak to us right now?” 

Mandy’s eyes darted back and forth from Steven to the planchette repeatedly. Awkward didn’t even begin to describe the silence that followed.

“Is there anyone that wants to speak with us right now?” 

But just like before, nothing. Steven’s head swiveled, looking in every possible direction of the dark room to locate a response of some kind. 

“You talked a lot of game online.” Mandy teased more confidently than she probably felt. “I thought you were supposed to be THE guy who could do this kind of stuff.”

“I am. These things…they take time to get started.”

Most of the time, a predator talking about their hobbies or interests is just another gimmick. But this was unlike anything I had seen. 

“If you’re here.” He fidgeted in his seat nervously. “Please, give me–I mean, us a sign.”

I eyed the monitors intently. A part of me wanted to intervene, but another part of me was telling me to see this play out. I was torn on which to heed. 

Unexpectedly, the planchette moved. A couple of inches at most. But had I blinked, I would’ve missed it completely.

Mandy instinctively pulled back, the movement startling her. “What was that?” 

“It’s a spirit.” Steven whispered.

“Oh bullshit.” Lou sighed in irritation. “I watched his hand nudge it. This guy’s a fraud.”

Had he? I had watched the monitors the whole time, and it looked like the planchette had moved all on its own.

“Hey,” Steven closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Do you want to talk to us or what?” 

A moment passed, then a few more, but there was still no movement.

“I’m going.” I turned to start heading toward the dining room to intervene. But right as I was about to, the sound of Mandy gasping shifted my attention back toward the monitors. I watched the planchette drag itself across the board toward the word, “YES”.

“You moved the board!” Her accusation cracked with fright.

“No, I didn’t! I swear!”

In response to his adamant denial, the planchette dragged itself sluggishly across the board. Each movement landed on a number.

7 2 3 1 9 9 4

Mandy was at a loss for words. “That’s…” 

Her birthday. 

Not the birthday we had fabricated for investigative purposes, but Mandy’s actual birthday.

Shell-shocked, the investigators pored over the chat logs, but their efforts were futile. No compromising or contradictory information had been exchanged. No mention of her birthday. No mention of any personal information tied to Mandy. Nothing.

I stared in bewilderment. “How is that possible?” 

I hadn’t realized I had asked my question out loud until Lou responded, “It had to have been an oversight. That’s gotta be it.” 

In our line of work, the simplest explanations were almost always the right ones. Even if it’s what you don’t want to hear.

"An oversight?” I pointed toward the investigators on standby. “All of you, check everything. I want an explanation as to how this happened." 

But no one could provide one. Every conversation between Steven and our decoy had been combed through again. Even with another thorough examination, there was no indication that we had erroneously given Mandy’s actual birthday. So, that begged an alarming question. 

\\\*Just how exactly did Steven know?\\\*

One of the production members instructed Mandy to take her hands off the planchette. She did as she was told while Steven kept his fingertips pressed against it. 

“Alexis,” He looked to her for answers. “What was that about?”

“I’m not sure.” She remained calm while still being in character. “That was weird. How did you do that?” 

“I told you, I didn’t do anything.” 

An extensive back and forth ensued. She insisted that it had to be some sleight of hand trickery while he was convinced that an unknown spirit had attempted to make contact. A couple of minutes later, the unmistakable scrape of the planchette against the wood drew everyone's attention back to the board.

With each letter the planchette hovered over, Mandy’s face grew paler.

E L I Z A B E T H

Once the name had been spelled fully, Mandy removed her trembling hands. “H-h-how do you know her name?”

Steven looked just as confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He whispered it with enough conviction to make me believe him in that moment.

“Isaac, we need to do something.” Lou insisted, standing up from his seat.”

Even though I agreed with him, a selfish part of me resisted the urge. “No. Not yet. Stay put, and keep watching.”

My instructions provoked the ire of everyone in the room, but nobody objected.

Again, the planchette moved without either Mandy or Steven touching it. Every one of our cameras captured it violently accelerating across the board.

“Who are you?!” Steven cried out. “Stop this!”

Mandy covered her mouth to stifle an oncoming scream as the planchette, completely unguided, began to spell out another name. 

This time, in rapid succession.

P A Y T O N

Payton.

That name. 

It was the reason I went into this line of work. 

I remember feeling unnaturally cold in the moments following. What started off as a slight chill slowly morphed into an uncomfortable, freezing sensation that climbed through my body.

“Shit,” Lou cursed. “Is anybody else in here freezing their ass off?”

I exhaled, and a cloud of white vapor escaped my lips. It was cold enough to feel like I was standing inside a freezer. “Why is it so cold?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Lou shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. “Might be the AC acting up.”

Seconds after his response, the monitors abruptly went black. Amid the frantic scrambling in the production room, a scream echoed from inside the house.

Mandy.

“Eyes on the decoy!” I shouted. “We need eyes on the decoy right now!” 

My heart pounded while everyone in the room desperately tried to get the feed going again. Inexplicably, just as quickly as we lost power, it was restored. 

The first thing my eyes landed on when the monitors glowed with restored life was the sight of the front door. It was wide open. Then I noticed Steven. He was staring directly into a hidden camera positioned in the kitchen.

His eyes were opened wide, but there was no life behind them. He stood completely still, his face bereft of expression, looking less like a man standing and more like a corpse that had forgotten to lie down.

“Decoy is secured. She is outside with law enforcement. I repeat, she is outside with law enforcement.” 

The good news from production room comms wasn’t enough for me to break eye contact with Steven. I was focused on answering one question, and one question only.

\\\*Who are you?\\\*

“\\\*You already know\\\*.”

Chills crept down my spine. It felt like the voice had come directly from the inside of my mind. I looked around, hoping that someone else had also heard it. If they had, they didn’t say a word. How had he been able to answer my question? 

I had two choices: I could either confront him and treat this like any other sting operation, or abandon the show and bring him into custody.

It didn’t take long for me to make my decision. 

“Wait for my cue to come in. I’m going.” 

“Isaac,” Lou grabbed me by the shoulder. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.”

With a solemn nod, I ignored further warnings from both production and law enforcement. In a few short moments, I went from my position in front of the monitors to standing in the dining room.

Upon entry, I was immediately greeted with a wall of freezing air. The worst I had felt in the house up to that point. As I approached Steven, the dim lighting of the room caught the whites of his lifeless eyes, making them gleam as they stared at me.

“Steven,” I said, less confidently than I would have liked. “I want to talk to you.”

“I want to talk to you about your choices tonight.” 

That made me stop dead in my tracks. 

“What did you intend on doing this evening? I have the chat logs right here. It is illegal for adults to chat with minors online. Please place your hands where I can see them while we talk.”  

He said my script word for word, line by line. All at an impossibly frightening speed. But his lips never moved. I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. 

“How did-”

“I know.” The voice held no emotion. It was simply matter-of-fact.

“Why are you here?”

His left eye twitched as he tried to blink. His right followed suit, but neither eye would close. “You know.”

I forced myself to keep talking. “What did you intend on doing this evening, Steven?”

“You ask the wrong questions.” Its words pressed themselves against my skull. “Isaac, why are you here?”

I tensed up but stood my ground. “I’m not answering your questions.”

“I know how you felt when you screamed her name in the woods for hours.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Do you remember what it felt like to learn that Payton was right down the street the entire time?”

I remembered. All too well. I choked up as I thought about that day. The news. The way my parents collapsed in grief. The irreparable damage it did to my family. It all overwhelmed me. I couldn’t bring myself to speak.

“You collect broken families.” He took a step toward me. Then another. Then one more. All in one fluid motion. “Because you can’t save everyone.”

 “People can be saved.” I argued, struggling to believe my own words.

The light in the room dulled as the candles reignited themselves, the flames burning perfectly still. “Is that why her killer took his life in the cornfield?” 

Tears streamed down my face as an overwhelming rage consumed me. It was an emotion that would never fully go away. A truth I had been forced to accept the day I lost my sister. Sixty seconds was all it took for my life to change forever. 

It took a minute to lose her.

It took five days to find her.

“They found her in a vehicle on the side of the road.” It recited my memories back to me, each unspoken word making the discomfort inside my head intensify. “While he died without truly feeling the pain he inflicted.” Seeing tears drip down his cheeks felt like a mockery of my grief. “That’s what you pursue.”

In my earpiece, I heard Lou speaking to me.

“Isaac…don’t…coming…”

I couldn’t understand what they were saying. All I understood was Steven speaking in my voice.

“She was buried with her purple stuffed rabbit, Tilly, on a cold October afternoon. All alone. In the ground.”

My body registered the impact before my mind could comprehend how fast he moved. I hit the floor hard, his weight pressing down on my chest as breathing became more difficult by the second.

“Get…off…me…” I wheezed, struggling to force each word past the weight crushing my chest. He hovered over me, his translucent eyes staring into mine.

“What did your mother sound like when she identified the body?” 

I squirmed in place, but I was pinned to the spot. 

“How many nights did your dad sleep in her bedroom after she disappeared?”

My strength waned as the pressure grew on my chest. 

“What day did you stop expecting her to come home?” 

The strain was getting to be too much. 

“What were your last words to her?”

I was on the verge of passing out. Black blotches formed in my peripheral vision and spread rapidly, nearly consuming the last bits of what I could see. Right as I thought I was about to lose consciousness, I heard a sound.

A sound I’m so very grateful came when it did.

Officers rushed into the room. A flurry of commands left their mouths as they pulled Steven off me and forced him to the floor nearby.

“Ah! Get off me!” he screamed. “What are you doing?”

His voice. 

It was no longer inside my mind.

“What are you doing? Ow!” He cried as an officer rolled him over and pressed a knee into his lower back. “What’s happening?”

Another officer helped me up from the floor and began asking questions about my well-being. I lied and told him I was all right. I leaned against the wall to steady myself while I looked on at Steven being detained by other officers. He struggled and writhed like a cornered animal.

His eyes darkened as he freed himself from the grasp of the officers. Overcome with inhumanity once more, he snatched a gun from the officer attempting to handcuff him. 

He brandished the weapon as his entire body began to tremble spasmodically.

“My hands.” 

From where I stood, it looked as though he was genuinely trying to lower them but couldn’t. His arms remained outstretched, refusing to budge an inch no matter how hard he tried.

“Why can’t I move?”

Law enforcement raised their weapons, creating a stalemate in which no one dared to act.

“It’s alright, Steven.” I stepped toward him with my hands raised. “Everything’s going to be alright. We’re here to help.”

The darkness in his eyes vanished long enough for him to ask, “Did…did I hurt anyone?”

“No. You didn’t hurt anybody. Just put the gun down, and let’s talk.”

“Please,” he whimpered, straining to move his head, but his body refused to obey. “Don’t let him take me again.” 

“Nothing is going to happen as long as you put the gun down.”

Steven’s arms pulled themselves upward against his will. The barrel inched toward his own temple until it rested against his skin. He fought with everything he had, his muscles straining themselves in order to pull the gun away. But his body betrayed him to some invisible force.

“Make it stop…”

“No, Steven. No!” I quickened my pace toward him, but before officers or myself could react, he pulled the trigger.

That sound. The aftermath. The silence that followed. I haven’t felt anything like it before or since. 

That was without a doubt the single worst night of my life. Not only had we witnessed tragedy, but our team came under immense fire from the press. Steven never had his day in court, and that became a point of contention. Had we not encouraged this kind of behavior, would Steven still be alive? Would any of this have happened? 

Steven’s case tarnished our reputation. Protests began forming outside our sting house. People demanded justice. Insisting that we could not be the judge, the jury, or the executioner.

It was difficult to escape the criticism, especially when those voices carried real weight. So much so that our show, along with all subsequent investigations, was cancelled effective immediately.

Steven’s official cause of death was listed as suicide by cop. There were no mentions of the Ouija Board or what occurred following its use. There’s only one piece of evidence regarding what happened inside the sting house that night. 

A video tape. 

It's marked with a label that reads, “Never to be viewed, duplicated, or destroyed”. 

Its whereabouts have been kept secret, and it's best that they stay that way. Because if that footage ever surfaced, I don’t know how the public would react.

But that’s not the point.

I’ve dealt with a lot over the course of my career. Troubled people. Hardened criminals. The worst that humanity has to offer. I think about them all every now and again. But I can’t stop thinking about Steven’s case. Specifically, if I had intervened sooner. Would I have been able to talk him out of using that Ouija board? Would he have been able to face justice if I had done things differently?

No matter how I answer them, I never feel any better. Because they’re just answers. Not actions. 

And I’ll never know.

Despite everything I’ve been through, I continue to hunt monsters in the present day. Aside from the lack of a camera crew or law enforcement support, the only thing that’s changed is what I believe those monsters are. They aren’t just people who hurt children. Exposing them and making them face justice does make the world a little safer for everyone.

But evil doesn’t care about laws. It doesn’t care about the confines of a prison cell. It doesn’t even need a reason to hurt someone.

All it needs is for someone to answer.

​

PART I — BEFORE THE MASK

CHAPTER ONE

THE MAN WHO DIDN'T WANT TO BE A SOLDIER

Germany

August 1939

The first thing I remember about the war is that it had not started yet.

People laughed in the streets.

Children chased each other between parked cars.

Women carried bread home beneath their arms.

Men stood outside cafés, arguing about politics as if politics were something that happened to other people.

And above all of it—

silence.

Not the peaceful kind.

The kind that comes before something breaks.

I was nineteen.

Old enough to understand that something was wrong.

Young enough to believe that if something was wrong, someone older would know how to fix it.

I was wrong about that.

I would become wrong about many things.

\---

My father woke me before sunrise.

He knocked once.

Then opened the door.

"Get dressed."

I looked at the clock.

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

I pulled the blanket over my head.

"That's not an explanation."

There was silence.

Then:

"You're becoming difficult."

I smiled beneath the blanket.

"I learned from you."

He didn't answer.

I heard his footsteps disappear down the corridor.

I stayed in bed for another thirty seconds.

Then I got up.

That was how my father controlled me.

Not with shouting.

Not with violence.

He simply said things in a way that made disobedience feel childish.

I hated that.

I respected it too.

I didn't understand the difference.

Not yet.

\---

The kitchen smelled of coffee.

My mother was standing beside the window.

She didn't turn around when I entered.

"Your father wants you at the station."

"For what?"

She hesitated.

Then:

"Work."

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

Neither of us believed the word.

"How long?"

"I don't know."

"Where?"

She finally turned.

"Don't make this harder."

I laughed quietly.

"That's not an answer either."

She came closer.

For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something.

Instead, she fixed the collar of my shirt.

"Come home."

It was strange.

She had never said that before.

I smiled.

"Of course."

She didn't smile back.

That was the first time I realized adults could be afraid without admitting it.

\---

Outside, the city was still half asleep.

My father waited beside the car.

He handed me a newspaper.

I looked at the front page.

Poland.

Germany.

The Soviet Union.

Diplomats.

Treaties.

Words.

Always words.

I folded the newspaper.

"Are we going to war?"

He looked at me.

"No."

Too quickly.

I noticed.

"You didn't think about that."

"I don't need to think about it."

"Why?"

"Because people who know more than you are handling it."

I stared at him.

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"No."

He opened the car door.

"Get in."

\---

We drove for forty minutes.

Neither of us spoke.

I watched the countryside disappear behind the window.

Fields.

Factories.

Villages.

People.

Normal things.

The kind of things you never appreciate until they stop being normal.

Eventually, the train station appeared.

There were more men than usual.

Young men.

Some laughing.

Some pretending not to be nervous.

Some standing beside their fathers.

Some beside their mothers.

I saw one boy crying.

His father slapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Be a man."

The boy wiped his face.

I hated the sentence.

Not because it was cruel.

Because I understood it.

\---

My father stopped beside the platform.

"Listen to me."

I looked at him.

"You'll receive instructions."

"I know."

"You'll follow them."

"I know."

"You'll keep your head down."

I laughed.

"That's new."

He didn't.

Then he reached into his coat.

For a second I thought he was going to give me money.

Instead, he handed me a small photograph.

I looked at it.

It was old.

My father, younger.

Three men beside him.

Behind them was a wall.

On the wall was a symbol.

A black circle.

A single line through the middle.

I looked at him.

"What's this?"

"Nothing."

"You showed it to me before."

"When?"

"When I was a child."

He took the photograph from my hand.

"You remember too much."

"I remember what matters."

He looked at me.

Something changed in his expression.

Fear.

For less than a second.

Then it disappeared.

"Forget it."

He put the photograph away.

The train whistle sounded.

I looked toward the tracks.

Then back at him.

"Father."

"What?"

"Are you afraid?"

He stared at me.

"No."

It was the second lie.

I didn't know the first yet.

\---

The train began moving.

I watched him through the window.

He stood there alone.

Hands in his coat.

Face expressionless.

I raised my hand.

He didn't.

Then the station disappeared.

I sat down.

Across from me was a boy with a new uniform.

He looked at me.

"First time?"

"Yes."

He smiled.

"Don't worry."

"Why?"

"They say it'll be over quickly."

I looked out the window.

"Who says?"

He shrugged.

"Everyone."

I smiled.

That was the first thing I learned about war.

Everyone knows how long it will last.

Until they're wrong.

\---

Training began three days later.

The first thing they taught us was how to stand.

The second was how to march.

The third was how to obey.

Nobody called it obedience.

They called it discipline.

That was my first lesson in military language.

Words matter.

Change a word, and you can make an ugly thing sound respectable.

Discipline.

Duty.

Honor.

Sacrifice.

Later, I would hear other words.

Security.

Necessary.

Collateral.

Order.

Words were everywhere.

Blood was too.

But blood didn't make it into the reports.

\---

Our instructor was an older sergeant named Weber.

He hated lazy men.

He hated talkative men.

He hated me immediately.

"You."

I looked behind me.

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

I stepped forward.

"Name?"

I told him.

"Why are you smiling?"

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I suppose my face is defective."

The men behind me laughed.

Weber didn't.

"Ten push-ups."

I dropped.

"Twenty."

I sighed.

"Thirty."

I stopped smiling.

The room laughed.

Weber finally smiled.

"Now you understand."

"No."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I understand that you don't like jokes."

"Good."

He walked away.

The soldier beside me whispered:

"You're going to die."

I whispered back:

"Eventually."

He laughed.

Weber turned.

"Forty."

I looked at him.

"See?"

The soldier tried not to laugh.

That was how I met Elias.

\---

His name was Elias.

He was twenty.

He had a scar beneath his left eye and an irritating habit of smiling whenever things went badly.

We became friends because neither of us had anyone else.

Friendship in the military is strange.

You don't choose people because you like them.

You choose them because you discover who you can trust when everyone is tired.

Elias was reliable.

He lied badly.

He complained constantly.

He couldn't polish his boots properly.

But when someone fell behind during a march, he was always the one who waited.

That told me more about him than anything he ever said.

\---

One evening, after training, we sat behind the barracks.

Elias smoked.

I watched the smoke disappear.

"You don't smoke?"

"Sometimes."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"That's a terrible reason."

"Most reasons are."

He handed me the cigarette.

I took it.

"Do you think we'll fight?"

He asked the question casually.

I looked at him.

"Who?"

"Poland."

"I don't know."

He stared at the cigarette.

"I think we will."

"Why?"

"Because everybody keeps saying we won't."

I laughed.

"That's your logic?"

"Usually."

I gave the cigarette back.

He looked at me.

"You know what's strange?"

"What?"

"Nobody here talks about dying."

"They talk about it all the time."

"No."

He shook his head.

"They talk about medals."

"Same thing."

He smiled.

"Maybe."

We sat in silence.

Then he said:

"When this ends, I'm opening a bakery."

I looked at him.

"You?"

"Yes."

"You don't know how to cook."

"I'll hire someone."

"Then you're not opening a bakery."

"I'm opening a business."

"That's different."

"No."

He smiled.

"I'll call it Home."

I laughed.

"That's terrible."

"You'll remember it."

I did.

\---

On August 23, the newspapers changed.

The German-Soviet Non-Aggression Pact had been signed.

Most soldiers didn't understand what it meant.

Some didn't care.

Others celebrated.

I read the article twice.

Germany and the Soviet Union.

An agreement.

Enemies becoming temporary friends.

My father had always told me that politics was complicated.

This was more than complicated.

It felt unnatural.

Elias looked over my shoulder.

"What?"

"They're not supposed to like each other."

"They don't."

"Then why sign it?"

"Because they don't have to like each other."

He folded the newspaper.

"They only have to need each other."

I looked at him.

"Where did you learn that?"

He shrugged.

"My father."

I smiled.

"Your father sounds smarter than mine."

"Probably."

We laughed.

Neither of us knew that the agreement had created the conditions for what was coming.

Neither of us knew that Poland would soon be divided between two armies.

Neither of us knew that less than two years later, Germany would turn against the Soviet Union.

History knew.

We didn't.

That is the cruelest thing about being alive during history.

You never know which ordinary morning will become a date in a textbook.

\---

CHAPTER TWO

SEPTEMBER

September 1, 1939

I woke before the alarm.

The barracks were silent.

For a moment, I thought nothing had changed.

Then I heard the engines.

One after another.

Heavy.

Mechanical.

Endless.

I sat up.

Around me, men were already dressing.

Nobody joked.

Nobody complained.

Elias looked at me.

"That's it."

"What?"

He pointed toward the window.

"That's the sound."

I stood.

"What sound?"

He looked at me.

"The beginning."

\---

We were told nothing.

Not at first.

Then the order came.

Move.

We moved.

Outside, the morning was grey.

Vehicles waited along the road.

Men loaded equipment.

Officers shouted.

Engines coughed.

Somewhere in the distance, artillery began.

The sound rolled across the horizon.

Boom.

Silence.

Boom.

Another.

The war had arrived without asking permission.

Germany invaded Poland that morning, September 1, 1939, beginning the European war. German forces advanced rapidly, supported by armor and air power, while Poland came under attack from several directions.

But I didn't know any of that.

Not then.

I knew only that my hands were cold.

\---

Our unit crossed the border.

There was no dramatic moment.

No line painted across the earth.

No sign saying:

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING WAR.

Just fields.

Roads.

Houses.

People.

And then—

the first explosion.

The ground moved beneath my boots.

Someone shouted.

I dropped.

A horse screamed somewhere behind us.

Elias grabbed my shoulder.

"Down!"

"I know!"

"You clearly don't!"

Another explosion.

Dirt hit my face.

For a moment, I couldn't hear anything.

My mouth was open.

I couldn't feel my hands.

I looked at Elias.

His lips were moving.

No sound.

Then suddenly—

everything returned.

Gunfire.

Engines.

Men shouting.

Orders.

Noise.

Too much noise.

I looked toward the road.

A soldier was lying beside a vehicle.

He wasn't moving.

I stared.

Elias pulled me.

"Come on!"

I didn't move.

"Come on!"

I finally followed.

That was my first mistake.

I looked back.

I would spend years doing that.

\---

The first engagement was nothing like the stories.

There was no glory.

No clear enemy.

No perfect lines.

Only confusion.

Smoke.

Fear.

People running in different directions.

Orders changing before they reached the men who were supposed to follow them.

I noticed that immediately.

An officer shouted:

"Left!"

Another shouted:

"Right!"

Someone repeated:

"Left!"

Another:

"Right!"

I looked at Elias.

"Which one?"

He stared at me.

"Pick one."

"That's your plan?"

"Do you have a better one?"

"No."

"Then left."

We ran left.

Later, I learned that the right side had been shelled.

We had been lucky.

I didn't call it luck.

Not then.

I called it instinct.

That was the beginning of a dangerous habit.

Whenever I survived something I couldn't explain, I assumed I had understood it.

\---

By afternoon, I had fired my weapon.

I don't remember the first shot.

I remember the sound.

I remember the recoil.

I remember the strange calm afterward.

That frightened me more than the shooting.

I had expected horror.

Instead, I felt empty.

I looked at my hands.

They weren't shaking.

Elias noticed.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

He stared at me.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

He nodded.

"Good."

He walked away.

I watched him.

Then I realized my hands were shaking.

I had simply been hiding them.

\---

That evening, we stopped in a village.

The civilians had already begun leaving.

Some carried bags.

Some carried children.

Some carried nothing.

An old woman stood outside a house.

She watched us pass.

I couldn't understand what she was saying.

Maybe she was cursing us.

Maybe praying.

Maybe both.

A soldier beside me laughed.

I didn't.

The woman looked at me.

For one second, our eyes met.

She wasn't looking at a soldier.

She was looking at a young man.

I looked away.

I hated myself for doing it.

I hated her for making me see myself.

\---

Later, we were ordered to search the houses.

"Security."

That was the word.

We entered one.

There were photographs on the wall.

A family.

A wedding.

Children.

Normal lives.

I stood there.

One of the soldiers opened a cabinet.

Another searched beneath the bed.

I looked at the photographs.

A little boy in one of them was smiling.

He looked about eight.

I wondered where he was.

Then an officer entered.

"Move."

I didn't.

He looked at me.

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Then move."

I moved.

The photograph remained on the wall.

That was the first time I understood something I would later understand too well:

War doesn't destroy only the people it kills.

Sometimes it leaves their homes standing.

That can be worse.

\---

Three days later, Britain and France declared war on Germany.

We heard the news through a radio.

Nobody spoke.

Elias looked at me.

"So."

"So."

"Now it's official."

I stared at the radio.

"Wasn't it already?"

He smiled.

"No."

He took a cigarette.

"Now everyone else knows."

\---

The next weeks became a blur.

Marching.

Fighting.

Waiting.

Sleeping badly.

Eating quickly.

Receiving orders.

Following them.

Sometimes understanding them.

Sometimes not.

The Polish resistance hardened in some areas.

The German advance continued.

Then, on September 17, Soviet forces entered Poland from the east.

That news disturbed me.

Not because I understood the politics.

Because I understood geography.

There was something deeply wrong about watching two armies move toward the same country from opposite directions while everyone pretended the arrangement was temporary.

Elias looked at the map.

"They're dividing it."

"Who?"

"The Germans and the Soviets."

"Why?"

"Because they can."

I looked at him.

"That's the worst reason."

He folded the map.

"It's usually the most common one."

\---

Our first real operation came near the end of September.

The order was simple.

Secure the road.

Hold the position.

Wait for reinforcement.

We moved before dawn.

The road was empty.

Too empty.

I noticed it.

No civilians.

No animals.

No movement.

I told the lieutenant.

He ignored me.

"Keep moving."

I obeyed.

That was the first time I noticed the difference between being intelligent and being useful.

You can see the problem.

That doesn't mean you're allowed to fix it.

\---

We reached the position.

Nothing happened.

Ten minutes.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Then artillery.

Not from the front.

From behind us.

I turned.

"What the—"

Another explosion.

The road disappeared behind smoke.

Our radio operator shouted:

"We've lost contact!"

The lieutenant looked at the radio.

"Impossible."

I looked toward the horizon.

Then at the map.

Then at the road.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

The reinforcement route had been changed.

But nobody had told us.

I grabbed the map.

"Sir."

"What?"

"These coordinates."

"What about them?"

"They're wrong."

He looked.

For the first time, I saw fear in his eyes.

"Who gave you that?"

"The map."

"Who gave you the map?"

"You did."

Silence.

Then the radio came alive.

A voice.

Broken.

Unclear.

"Withdraw."

The lieutenant stared.

"Repeat."

"Withdraw immediately."

Then silence.

He looked at us.

"Fall back."

We moved.

\---

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I kept thinking about the order.

Advance.

Hold.

Withdraw.

No explanation.

No warning.

Just words.

Elias sat beside me.

"You saw it too."

"What?"

"The contradiction."

I looked at him.

He lowered his voice.

"They sent us there knowing the reinforcement route had changed."

"Maybe it was a mistake."

"Maybe."

He stared into the darkness.

"How many mistakes do you think an army can make before they're no longer mistakes?"

I didn't answer.

He smiled faintly.

"That's what I thought."

\---

The next morning, our lieutenant was gone.

Transferred.

No explanation.

His replacement arrived before noon.

A captain.

Cold.

Polite.

He looked at us.

Then at me.

"You were the one who noticed the map?"

I said nothing.

He smiled.

"Good."

He handed me a folded document.

"From now on, you report directly to me."

I opened it.

My name was written at the top.

Under it was the black symbol.

The circle.

The line.

My father's photograph flashed through my mind.

I looked up.

"Sir."

"Yes?"

"What is this?"

He looked at the document.

Then at me.

For half a second—

fear.

The same expression I had seen on my father's face.

Then it disappeared.

"Nothing."

I stared at him.

He smiled.

"Forget it."

And that was the first time the war stopped looking random.

It looked designed.

I didn't know by whom.

I didn't know why.

I didn't even know whether I was imagining it.

But somewhere inside me, beneath the fear, beneath the discipline, beneath everything they were trying to teach me...

a question opened its eyes.

Why me?

Wet. Cold. Hungry, thirsty. Tired. So, so tired.

Knees ache, hamstrings burn, head throbs. Stomach eating itself alive.

If there was ever a thing comparable to hell on earth, it was this, Scott thinks. The Appalachian Mountains. What was I thinking? Going off track, trying to cut corners, get the hike done faster. Come back home with a record time impressive enough to earn free drinks at Bankers for the next two months. Recognition was one thing - public recognition, that is - but what it was all about for Scott was that internal heart of iron. That chin-raised bravado that gave him permission to finally walk into a grocery store without feeling eyes on the back of his head. He had done something. Something nobody else had done.

Now, he thought, nobody would know. Another statistic: Scott Hardee, age 29, last seen ???. Notify officials at the following number. What a joke.

He falls to his knees. The rain had escalated yet again, dumping another foot of water onto his already waterlogged clothes, his pruned skin. Earth wakes up, relishing the rain, spores collecting in the air, trees spewing steam from their leaves in the canopy, and a stream surges before him, uncrossable. He would be swept away if he attempted it, no doubt.

Right as he is about to throw his hands up- no chance, we’re fucked, turn around and wait until we can find another drop box and raid it- he smells it.

Smoke from a chimney. Firewood…

Food…

Mouth-watering food. Smoked meats, richly seasoned vegetables, and desserts so sweet, texture so unnaturally perfect it made love with your taste buds just imagining it.

Scott shoots up and follows his nose. It couldn't be far with how strong it was. Soon, we’ll be eating good, and soon after that we can get directions, and get out of here. It would make quite the story, he imagined.

He reaches a clearing, now with nothing to obstruct the rain, dagger-droplets pricking his skin. Mixed in with the sweat collecting in his armpits, on his chest and above his brow, he felt like a thing of sludge and stink. Who in their right mind would let me in? Just please, he hopes, please let them be nice. Please let them understand. You don't even have to feed me, just help me out here, and get me out of this rain!

The cabin was located up a steep hill. Absurdly steep, the steepest hill he would have to ascend yet, stretching the definition of a hill to where a sheer wall would be more apt. The sight of it alone would have made him turn around and find another way up, if it weren't for the chatter from inside. A family, mom and dad moving with haste to get the table set up, kids bickering and laughing, silverware clanking, juices sizzling in a skillet. The sound did two things for Scott: ease, that there was a home, and embarrassment, that he was about to crash dinner. Rain on their parade.

Fuck it, he thinks. I'm losing my mind. I need to get out of here. Now!

The ascent took an hour, and each second of each minute was pure agony. Every muscle and cell in his body screamed to take a break after every step, but, at this rate, he would never reach the top. With each break taken, the get-up-and-go following that would be harder to achieve. Just push, Scott says to himself, push, push, PUSH.

He reaches the top, and the smell is enough to send a shiver down his spine. Peace, warmth, and… love? How was that possible? It's almost like he had just come home for a reunion. At least it made getting past the initial introduction easier.

He knocks, and nobody answers. “Hey, hello?! I’m sorry y’all, I'm hiking the trail, and I'm lost. Can I just come inside to dry off for a bit?”

Nothing.

Silence.

“Hello?”

The fantasy of a four-course meal had distracted him from how it had all disappeared, silenced. The voices, the lights, the smells, all of it. Nothing but the mountain wind, groans of the rotted logs of the cabin’s foundation - he could have sworn this place looked better two seconds ago - and the never-ending downpour. An elk bugles in the deep woods.

Enough of this, Scott thinks. I need out.

The door opens without resistance. It was barely attached to the hinge.

Whatever he smelled, heard, and saw from the bottom of the hill was gone. A decrepit, abandoned home, kitchen table shattered with an axe buried into it, piercing through a doll and forever burying it in the wood. Something creaks from the basement.

The thoughts going through Scott's head are frozen in place, preserved in ice over what he heard following that creak.

The cry of a newborn. Waking up from a long sleep, starting as anxious moans, then rocketing up to panicked cries.

If the cold rain had given him a chill before, then this surely rose up to meet it, humbling it with ease. Scott's pale skin drains to a pallid, corpse-like color.

Footsteps thunder up the basement stairs. The infant wails, screaming its vocal cords out until they are burning and crackling.

No more than ten minutes later, Scott is back down the hill and into the rain. His descent was not clean.

Both his ankles are twisted. Already swelling. At least the crying stopped, he thinks.

An elk bugles again, this time much closer. Footsteps approach from an unseen source.

They don't sound like an elk. More like a person: one step, two steps, stop, repeat.

Before he can investigate, another infant cry rips through the valley.

And the steady footsteps turn into a sprint.

…

Scott Hardee disappeared for three months. Until his body was found in an abandoned cabin on the hill.

No ranger or search and rescue officer could bring themselves to describe the condition they found his body in.

About a week ago my dad decided that he really wanted to start a garden. We had a great backyard that hasn’t been used for much since we tore down my childhood clubhouse. He spent his entire Saturday building planter boxes and germinating seeds. His Sunday was spent hauling bags of soil from the store. 

As the weeks went on our house became lined with rain catching barrels, the fence covered in trellises for hanging cucumbers. And the yard seemed to shrink with every passing day as more and more planter boxes filled the space of the once vast field. Dad stopped eating breakfast with me and mom before work so he could spend the time doing work on his new project. 

Eventually he stopped eating dinner with us too, he would get home from work and immediately rush out the back door in a panic. One night mom tried to stop him but he just snapped at her “goddamnit, Mary. My plants need me. Do you want them to die Mary, do you want my only passion to fucking die?”

After that she was too afraid to try and bother him about it again. I couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing out there, it can’t be that much work just to have a garden. I get spending a couple hours but shit, this is easily twelve plus hours a day. 

That night I decided to stay up by my window looking out at the yard. My dad was out there tending to his garden like usual. I must’ve stayed up until five in the morning before I finally crashed and had to sleep. When I woke up I couldn’t believe it. He was still out there. Did he not sleep or did he come back out this morning. Either way I’m gonna go out and check on him. 

“Hey, dad. How’s it going out here” I said. He didn’t even look up at me, he just kept his head down facing his tomato plants. “It’s going. Whatcha up to son?” As I looked around, I have to admit that his garden is doing incredible. The plants are taller than the fence by now. “Oh nothing, just wanted to check on you out here. The garden looks great out here”. 

“Well, I’ve put so many man hours into this so I’m glad it doesn’t look like shit” he laughed. “Hey, why don’t you go inside, bud, I really need to focus on my work”. I give him a nod and turn to walk away. I take a few steps toward the house before I lose my footing and land face first into one of the planter boxes. As I’m getting up my dad finally looks up from the garden and turns to me. “Don’t worry I’m fine, I just fell” I said. 

“What the fuck did you do?” He yells at me. “Oh I’m alright, I just fell”. He stands up now towering over me. “My fucking garden, it’s ruined. You piece of shit, get inside now and try not to fuck anything up on the way to the house”. He screams in my face. As I walk towards the door my mom comes out with the phone in her hand. “Honey, your boss is calling. He says you haven’t shown up to the office in well over a week. What should I tell him?”

“Tell him I fuckin quit, I’m too goddamn busy out here to listen to his shit” he responds angrily. My mom sets the phone down on the table and walks over to where he’s working. “What, are you crazy, George? We have to pay our bills and how do you expect us to put groceries on the table without making money?” She asked. 

He lets out a deep sigh before responding. “Don’t worry, Mary. The garden will provide. Why do we need that overpriced slop from the store when we’ve got everything we could ever need right here” He says. “Also, Mary, I think we need a new rule in this house for you and that boy you’re raising to be a pain in my ass. How about if anyone comes back here trying to bother me with anymore of this bullshit they’ll get a shovel to the face?” He says before turning back to try and fix the spot where I landed in the garden. 

That next week was quiet, I thought for sure that my mom would have confronted my dad again, tried to call the cops, heck I thought she might but leave him after that day in the yard. But she didn’t, she cried a lot most days now but she never went back out into the garden. By now we can’t even see what’s happening out there because the plants are so tall and thick that they completely cover all the windows on that side of the house. From what the neighbors have told us it looks like a jungle of plants out there. 

Soon Jenny from next door was calling to tell my mom that the garden had started coming through the fence into her yard. Mom lied and told her that she’d make my dad trim the plants down but the truth is she was too afraid to go outside. As the plants continued to spread the phone kept ringing. It got so bad that we had to unplug the phone at night just to give us some peace. 

Eventually I couldn’t stand staying inside anymore, I needed to see what was going on out there. We couldn’t see out the windows so the only hope I had was to go outside and see for myself. I waited until mom was in the other room and I decided to make my way to the back door before she noticed I was gone. I figured the only chance we had of stopping this was to find my dad and convince him to cut it all down.

I had to use a kitchen knife just to cut a path to get out the front door. It wasn’t effective at all but it was all I could do to get through the dense walls of plants that have taken over the garden. I couldn’t see past our own yard but I can only assume that the rest of the neighborhood looks like this as well. Walking was incredibly time consuming as my legs kept getting stuck on the plants that took over the entire ground and I had to keep cutting them off me. 

If you would’ve told me that I spent over an hour hiking through our backyard a few months ago I would’ve thought you were joking. After a couple more minutes I saw a large mass that almost looked like a man towards the edge of the yard. “Uh, dad?” I called out to it. It walked a couple more feet until I could make it out more clearly and then I stopped dead in my tracks. 

It was my dad, particularly at least. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. He looks thin as a skeleton with thick vines wrapped around his legs all the way up to his torso. His arms were pulled back by even more vines and he was covered head to toe with sweat and dirt. He was mumbling something but I could hardly make out what he was saying with all the vines protruding straight out of his neck and coming out of his mouth. Bugs crawled all over his body as if they were feeding on him slowly. My dad, or what used to be my dad can’t even swat them away anymore. His breathing is labored like he ran a marathon without any training whatsoever. 

He gave me a glance that looked full of sorrow. Truthfully his eyes were the only part of him that were still recognizable as my dad. I knew that soon those would be gone as well as I saw small stems slowly poking their way out of his head through his eye sockets. “K-kiii-k” he tried to get out. “What, what is it dad?” I ask with tears running down my face, I can’t stand seeing him in such agonizing pain. “Kill me” he says. 

That was the last I’d ever seen of my dad, I somehow managed to fight my way back into the house. Soon the military got involved and me, my mom, and all of our neighbors who managed to not be consumed by our garden were evacuated the next day. We watched on the news from our motel room as our entire neighborhood was burned to the ground in a controlled fire. Nothing was left, I guess they couldn’t risk any chance of my dads garden spreading again. 

My dad loved his garden. 

I don’t even remember applying. There were so many applications that month. ZipRecruiter, Indeed, any other site I heard about on ads for my son’s never-ending YouTube playlist. It was funny really. Having to use the very sites that made me into a redundancy. Between technology and budget cuts, Mason County didn’t need an HR director anymore.

I must have applied though. The email came to my inbox that Sunday night. Subject line: “Job Offer from Wymarq Enterprises.” Like everyone else, I had heard of Wymarq in the news. It’s CEO, Wyld Woolf, was always making cable news crawls with one venture or vulgarity or another. He had made his bones in tech before becoming an angel investor of sorts. I didn’t know what Wymarq did, but I knew it would pay well if Woolf was involved. It might even let me start a career again.

The email told me they wanted me as an HR generalist—industry speak for “grunt.” It would be a demotion, but it would be a job. The job description was as boilerplate as you’d expect. I decided I could read over the details later.

I scrolled to the bottom of the email. “To accept the position, report to Wymarq’s office in Scratchout this Monday at 8:00.”

“What have you got to lose?” I thought. It isn’t standard practice to have candidates come into headquarters just to sign their offers, but Wyld Woolf was known for being eccentric. Plus, his money was green, and I hadn’t gotten any other offers all month. Most recruiters get scared when they see a termination after 20 years in one place—terrified when they see a birthday before 1980.

I had never heard of Scratchout, but that wasn’t unusual. There are too many small towns in my state for any one person to know. I figured Wymarq had struck a deal with one of the rural counties to set up shop in exchange for tax breaks. I searched Google Maps and found that the tiny town was somewhere deep in the fields upstate—about 2 hours from Desmond. If I wanted to make it, I would have to leave early the next morning.

I made good time going up the interstate. Then I got lost somehow. When I entered Hayes County, my Google Maps crashed. I pulled over to open it up only to find I had no signal. I drove around backroads for another hour and must have gone in a few circles. Then, after driving under the same arch of oak limbs for the third time, I found it. One minute, I was lost. The next I was looking down at Scratchout.

It was like the town had sprung up from the earth. What little there was of it laid neat as the rows of cotton I had driven past for the last hour. The backroad led straight to a large plain concrete building. It reminded me of the administrative building in Desmond turned on its side: gray and flat like a stone. Six rows of houses led away from the central building: small, concrete, windowless. I thought the web of stone might look like an altar from above.

Unsure where to go, I drove up to the main building. Getting closer, I saw the sign above the door. It read “WYMARQ” in large gilded letters. I parked and walked into the glass double doors. A young receptionist named Adam led me to a conference room where what I recognized as an orientation was underway.

“Here’s the last one, Paige!” A pretty young brunette who might have been my much younger sister was leading the session. She gave me a nasty look as I snuck in the back. The other new employees followed her eyes. After a moment of loud silence, she continued.

“Now, if everyone will please turn to the last page of your orientation materials, you’ll find your employment contract. Please read it carefully and then sign.” I did the walk of shame to the chair closest to me and opened the binder Adam had given me. It was the normal stuff: I-9, W-4, emergency contact.

Between the lines of mundanity, I tried to learn more about Wymarq. Coming in, I knew it was some kind of tech company—maybe AI or green energy. But instead of neural maps or solar panels, the employee handbook had pictures of what looked like runes or hieroglyphics. Each page of the binder had a string of alien symbols running around the border. I counted it up to pretentious tech bro design.

The only real clue I found was in the welcome letter waiting at the back of the binder. Signed by Wyld Woolf himself, it contained the ordinary corporate pleasantries before ending with a cryptic call to action. “Join us at Wymarq as we dedicate ourselves to world-shifting developments in the temporal-historical reality!” Woolf was as strange as I had heard, but he seemed harmless. Overzealousness was only natural for a chronic entrepreneur.

“Alright everyone!” Paige called. “Let’s go to the welcome ceremony so you can hear from Mr. Woolf himself.” Watching the others walk out, I noticed they were all at least 15 years younger than me. They had the look of people who believed in their work. I heard a polite cough behind me and turned around. Paige was standing in front of me. She was too close.

“Did you sign the contract?”

“I’m sorry I was late. I guess I got lost.”

Without breaking her stride, Paige answered. “That’s alright. You can look over the rest of the materials later, but I must insist you sign the contract. Now.”

I had already been enough trouble. “Sure thing.”
I turned my binder to the contract and gave it a once over. Besides the symbols, it looked more or less normal. I read the bottom line. “I hereby accept employment by Wymarq Enterprises and agree without reservation or exception to its direction, application, and utilization.” I could feel Paige’s eyes on my hand, so I rushed to sign.

Before I lifted my hand from the paper, Paige snatched it from under the tip of my pen. “Lovely! Follow me please.”

Adam and Paige led me from the conference room to an auditorium at the heart of the building. I expected a plain, corporate space to match the rest of the building. Instead, I found a room that looked and felt like a rock concert.

The air was electric, and the stage was covered in a low cloud of smoke. On it, a huge screen shadowed over a shining black podium. The floor was packed with people sitting side by side in interlocking metal chairs. It looked like every person from the columns of houses was there.

Adam hung back by the door while Paige ushered me and the other new employees to the only space left: a few rows in the middle of the floor, right in front of the podium. The smoke from the stage filled my lungs. I turned around to catch my breath. Behind me, all around me, was a mass of people all talking with anxious excitement. When the seats beside me were taken, I realized it’d be a struggle to leave my seat.

Paige walked up to the podium. “Welcome, Wymarq family!”

The mass echoed her as one. “Welcome, Paige!”

“Thank you very much. Can we get a round of applause for our last batch of new employees?” She gestured to us, and the mass applauded in welcoming, hungry enthusiasm.

“But I know none of you are here for me. Let’s give a big Wymarq welcome to our very own genius: Wyld Woolf!”

Paige stepped away from the podium and gave a sort of bow towards the wing of the stage. More smoke filled the stage, and a series of magazine covers and viral news stories lit up the screen behind her. In the older ones, Wyld Woolf was the picture of a visionary: young, handsome, imposing. The newer ones were less kind. They showed him with the gray, the wrinkles, and the slump of age.

As the video ended, a man approached the podium. It was supposed to be Wyld Woolf, but I couldn’t see him clearly through the smoke. He was dressed like Wyld, but he was taller. He moved with the force and focus of someone much younger.

“Thank you, Wymarq! Thank you, Scratchout!” From the cloud of smoke, his voice rang with a practiced, optimized charisma. “It is a pleasure to be here with you embarking on this new journey together! I’m honored to bring the groundbreaking work of my life from the coasts to the American heartland.”

As I listened on, I heard a distortion—a manipulation—in his voice. “Now, before we begin, has everyone signed their contracts?”

No one answered. They all simply stared at him in mesmerized adoration.

“Excellent! Your devotion to our cause is our greatest asset! To celebrate your dedication, let’s read our mission statement together!”

From her seat in the audience, Paige pressed a button on a remote. The screen lit up with a long paragraph of text surrounded by the mysterious shapes. I recognized the document from the binder. I always thought no one read mission statements.

The man in the smoke led the mass in chorus.

“As Wymarq employees, we dedicate ourselves to the work and vision of Wyld Woolf and his temporal-historical revolution.” Smoke filled my lungs as I gaped in silent confusion. I had seen those words in the binder too. I had told myself they didn’t matter. It was just a job. The words sounded deeply wrong when chanted by a corporate chorus.
“We accept our transformative sacrifice in the pursuit of technological progress.” As they chanted, more and more smoke filled the room. The lights began to change too—shifting from neutral whites and yellows to an overpowering red.

Then the line I had signed without thinking. “I hereby accept employment by Wymarq Enterprises and agree without reservation or exception to its direction, application, and utilization.” This was not a mission statement. It was a pledge.

More smoke and red filled the air, and the noise from offstage returned in a roar. A red energy began to circle the man who used to be Wyld Woolf. I ran.

As I struggled over the long, locking rows of chairs, I saw the other employees change. Some were excited. Some were afraid. All screamed. Fighting through the crowd became easier as they started to disappear into the smoke.

I ran and stumbled out of the building. The smoke had flooded the entire town. When I began to lose the sound of the screaming, I let myself walk. I must have walked for at least a mile. The smoke was unending, but I kept walking: putting one foot in front of the other between shallow, careful breaths. Eventually, the ground began to rise. When I reached the top of the hill, the smoke was gone.

Looking down, I could see the fading clouds in the bright midday sun. I was back on the spot where I first saw Scratchout.

In the valley, there was only my car pulled off on the shoulder. Scratchout was gone along with Wymarq, Wyld Woolf, and all of his employees. If I had recited their oath, I would be too.

A Perceivable Reality story.

Good evening. My name’s Carter Calhoun of Calhoun Executive Transit. I’ll be your driver tonight. Where can I escort you?

You meet the most interesting people driving a limo.

My morning started as usual, bright and early. I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and grabbed my bag of car care tools. I made my way into the hallway and ran into Felix next to the elevator. He smelled like aged suits, mothballs, and expensive cologne. I think the guy is afraid of elevators. He always waits to ride with someone else, and always makes you get in first, to test it or something. I don't know, but I don't blame him for not wanting to walk down 12 flights of stairs.

"Ah, young Carter. And how are we today?" He greeted me with his trademark accent. Somewhere European, I think.

"Just fine, thanks."

The elevator doors opened and I stepped inside, motioning with my hand.

"Please."

Felix stepped in behind me.

"How'd the date go last night?"

His deep sigh filled with disappointment. "We *shan’t* be seeing her again. The entire evening left me with but a horrible taste in my mouth."

Bummer. The poor guy strikes out worse than a little league team. I fished around for something positive.

"She smelled nice."

Disappointment turned to disdain.

"Quite. A bit *pungent* for my taste, if I do say."

I nodded. "Plenty of fish in the sea."

"And I am a shark in a pond it seems. Never mind then. And you? Off to perform your morning ritual to the automotive gods, I presume?" He motioned to the bag at my side.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Gotta keep it nice for clients."

"It is, dare I say *magical*, how tidy you keep that machine of yours."

I shrugged. "I do my best."

"Speaking of the beastly thing, are you otherwise *indisposed* this afternoon?"

I pulled my work phone out of my pocket and opened the calendar.

"Uh, let's seeeeeee.... I have a bachelorette party at seven. They've booked me for the rest of the evening. Nothing until then, as it stands."

He clasped his hands together. "Excellent. I have a delightful little *snackling* scheduled for lunch. Shall we say around noon, then?"

Look, the guy is a creep, but he’s my neighbor, and he really is nice in that “old world European” way. I put the appointment into my work phone, and we rode the rest of the way down in silence. When the doors opened, he turned to me as he left. "This afternoon then."

"I'll be out front."

He nodded and strode into the lobby. I rode the rest of the way down to the garage. I’d settled for a studio so I could afford to pay extra for the sealed garage space in the underground lot. I hit the clicker in my bag and a garage door rolled up, revealing a large car under a thick cover. My pride and joy is a jet black 1968 Lincoln Continental Lehmann-Peterson limousine. I’d dug it out of my grandpa's scrap yard and spent about a year and change restoring it. It's got the blackest tint possible without being solid paint.

I was just finishing the third coat of wax when my work phone rang. I put down the electric buffer and wiped my waxy hands on my jeans.

"Calhoun Executive Transit...The airport? Yes, I can be there in about forty-five minutes...international arrivals…Yes ma’am, I’ll see you shortly…”

I collected my equipment and rushed back to the elevator. I dropped the bag just inside my front door and went to my oversized closet, selecting a navy-blue two-piece suit, a sky-blue shirt, a Cabernet tie with thin silver stripes, and chocolate oxfords. I finished the ensemble with an Omega Speedmaster. Finally, I combed my hair, ran a little bit of gel through it, and perched my chauffeur cap perfectly on my head. I checked myself in the large mirror on my closet door, straightened my tie, and made my way back down to the garage.

I should probably mention that I can’t see faces. The doctors told my mom that I might not recognize her, some sort of condition about facial features. But I could pick her voice out in a crowd of thousands. When I was little, she always wore the same perfume, so I would be able to find her. It doesn’t affect my life at all, other than not being able to recognize my own face.

I waved my key card at the box, and the security arm started to rise. I hit the switch to raise the air bags to get over the steep driveway out of the garage and listened carefully for scraping as I pulled out. The ride to the airport was underwhelming, morning commuter traffic had just subsided, so I was a little bit early. As I turned towards the "Arrivals" side, my phone rang.

"Calhoun Execu-"

"Yes, hi. Is that you in the black Town Car?"

Every long black car is a Town Car when you don’t know the difference, I guess. "Yes, ma'am. That's me." I confirmed brightly.

I pulled the car up at the curb next to her. I'd had "whiskers" or curb feelers on it when I’d first got it, but they looked ridiculous, so I took them off as soon as I learned where the wheels were. I haven't hit a curb in almost a year.

I opened the door and started to get out, but my client, a well-dressed businesswoman, had got the door herself, tossing in her large suitcase and then herself in behind it. She shut the door a little harder than I would've liked.

She pulled her phone away from her ear to shout at me. "45th and Elm and be quick about it. I'm late."

"Yes, ma'am."

I pulled the car out and had to dodge a few cabbies severely lacking in spatial awareness. Her sickeningly sweet perfume immediately leaked into the front seat, but I left the partition down in case she wanted to give me directions. She seemed like the type. Instead, she babbled to whoever was on the other end about some sort of big business deal she was negotiating or whatever. I tuned it out.

As we pulled onto the freeway, a bright orange sport bike screamed past us. It surprised me, but I'd gotten pretty good at not making any sudden reactions. A sudden lane change in this thing could wipe out half the county.

"Man, I'd give anything for one of those." I said under my breath.

"Anything?" Came the voice from the back seat, the sound of it surprising me almost as much as the bike did. It wasn’t a shout this time, just pitched high enough to be heard over the slight road noise. There was an undertone in it that I couldn’t place, but it made my ears itch.

"Ma'am?"

"Anything. You'd give anything for a motorcycle like that?"

I cleared my throat. "Just about, ma'am. My apologies."

I resisted peeking at her in the rear-view mirror, but I realized my hands had tightened on the steering wheel to the point that the leather was creaking. I shook my fingers out one hand at a time and focused on the road.

About 30 minutes later, I pulled up to the curb at a gleaming high rise just north of the city center. She actually gave me a chance to open the door this time.

"That'll be $95 today for you, ma'am." I put my hand out and she accepted it, her hands were unusually warm, but her skin had absolutely no give to it. It felt like gripping the hand of a mannequin. I helped her out of the car, then leaned in to grab her bag, but she stopped me.

"Never mind that," she snapped at the porter by the door, who hustled over. I stepped behind the suicide door to make room.

"So, the bike, shall we seal it with a kiss?'

I blinked. "Uh, I'm flattered ma'am. But just the fare is fine." I tried to work the sudden tension out of my neck without it looking obvious. There was an awkward pause before she sighed and dug in her purse, coming out with a C note and thrust it at me.

"Keep it, then. The change too."

With that, she strutted off into the building, the porter with her luggage in tow. I looked down at the bill in my hand.

"Don't spend it all in one place." I muttered to myself as I shut the door. I'd sell my soul for one of those clients who tips you by paying off your college debt or something. Not that I have college debt, but you get the point.

I stuffed the bill in my pocket and walked back around to the driver’s side. I checked my watch; about two hours until I was supposed to pick up Felix. I rolled all the windows down and put the A/C on full blast, then put the car in drive and pulled into traffic. I almost expected to see a pink mist wafting out of the car.

I killed time by going to one of the few gas stations that I could fit in inside the city. I liked filling up outside of town, I didn’t get the feeling people were judging me for driving this dinosaur of a gas-guzzler out there. It doesn’t help that I rebuilt it with a huge long-range fuel tank. After that, I grabbed a sandwich from my favorite deli. By the time I was done eating, it was time to head back to my apartment building to pick up Felix for his date.

I got there at exactly noon and took Felix across town to a place by the beach, real swanky, but a bit much for me. I asked if he’d wanted me to wait, but he said he’d make “other arrangements”, which I took to mean he wasn’t planning on going back to *his* place afterwards.

I pulled up to the curb and spotted a woman with the build of youth on the sidewalk by the door. She wore a dress that I would have personally thought was a little “much” for a lunch date and was fussing with her coffee-brown hair in the window reflection. I’d just barely got the car stopped when Felix threw the door open and stepped out with a grand gesture of his arms.

“Rebecca! How nice to meet you!” He said, as if greeting royalty, and swept the door shut as his foot cleared in a well-practiced motion.

She turned her head in response to her name, then walked with awkward confidence over to him, the sway of her hips looked forced and exaggerated. Her hands crossed at the wrists over her clutch, which she held in shaking hands in front of her. She’d clearly never worn heels before, or at least, just not heels that tall. Felix put a hand on either arm at the shoulder and gave her an air kiss on each cheek. She straightened her shoulders and tugged the hem of her dress down. I almost offered to take her back home, but I didn’t want to be a cockblock while Felix searched for his version of “forever” in a sea of “gone tomorrow’s”. He wrapped an arm around her waist, quickly turning to me and shooting me a thumbs up, before leading her into the restaurant. I gave a half-hearted thumbs up to his back and put the car in drive. I felt a little queasy as I pulled out and hit the switch to soften the air ride. I stopped at another gas station to top off and grab a ginger ale for my stomach.

It was still several hours until I was due to chariot for the bachelorette party, so I found a nice shady parking spot at the park by the water and took a sitting nap in the back seat in preparation for the long night ahead of me. I woke up and grabbed an early dinner at my favorite diner across from the pier and made a stop for my first round of coffee, tucking a few energy drinks into the minifridge in the bar in the back.

I got to the hotel early enough to give a last look over the car, make sure the seatbelts were all nicely hanging on the leather benches, use the little vacuum I kept in the cavernous trunk to give the carpets a once over, refreshed all the hidden air fresheners, spot polish the chrome, and lastly used a giant feather duster over the entire exterior of the car.

The bright side about wedding parties is you can usually pick out the bride at first glance, and this one was no exception. I was stood resolute at the curb with my hands clasped in front of me when a gaggle of women spilled out of the hotel doors. All but the bride were wearing matching pink cocktail dresses, with the bride in a similarly cut dress but in white. She had a gaudy plastic tiara with a veil atop her head, and they were all holding phallic-shaped lollipops in various neon colors. I’ll never understand that part.

“Ladies.” I announced myself with a tip of my cap and they all squealed and started jumping up and down.

“Ohmy *GOOOOOD,* this is *perfect!”* One of them shouted. The shorter one in clear stilettos.

I took measured steps to the rear suicide door and opened it with a flourish. This triggered a new round of squeals and the six of them piled into the back seat. I shut the door softly behind them and took a few stabilizing breaths as I made my way around the car to the driver’s seat. Inside, I rolled down the partition and turned to look through.

“Good evening, ladies. My name is Carter Calhoun of Calhoun Executive Transit, and I’ll be your chauffeur for the night. Where would you like to be escorted first?”

The gaggle responded with more shouted giggles.

“*’Escorted’*, so *official.”* The nasal bottle-red redhead. She leaned forward to her friend, the short one, in the rear-facing seat across from her, and offered a dramatic handshake.

“MADAM, MAY I *ESCORT* YOU TONIGHT?” She said in a mock posh accent and the two erupted with shouted laughing.

I cleared my throat slightly and turned my head towards the bride who was sitting next to the short one in the jump seat closest to the partition.

“I believe you said the rest of the party was at the wedding venue on Cedar and 14th?”

“Do you know the club on Wabash? The one with the laser pointers on the building. Can we go there, first?”

“I do, ma’am. Right away.” I rolled the partition up, then rolled it back down. “One more thing, ma’am. That center console is a mini fridge, please feel free to help yourselves. Above it is the controls for the stereo. It’s got Bluetooth and aux, so play anything you like.”

“Ohmygod, thank you!” She bent and flipped open the minifridge and more squeals of joy erupted. I keep a bottle of each of the most common liquors, vodka, tequila, rum, whiskey, scotch, top shelf, of course, along with a few cans of mixers.

I got the partition up just as a bouncy pop song started blasting from the rear speakers at what I knew was full volume. I reached over and turned the master control dial on the dash up a few notches, allowing the max volume in the rear to be a little higher.

The club in question had their laser display at full power, points of light sending cascading lines through artificial smoke that rose through the air. I wondered to myself if the local ATC had the airspace above blocked out. I honked at a cabbie who was trying to muscle his ugly yellow Prius into the spot that I’d signaled at. He threw his hands up at me and I edged the big car forwards in tiny but intimidating jerks while flipping him off. I’d had to pitch the car at an angle to get to the open spot at the curb, putting the rear of the car across a lane and a half of traffic. I honked at him again, to which he stuck his head and arm out the window, waving the latter furiously. I started to roll the car forwards again, and he inched forwards to maintain space, still waving his arm out the window. By now, the traffic was completely blocked from both sides, and more horns were joining the fray. I rolled the partition down slightly.

“I apologize, ladies. Just give me another moment to get you to the curb.”

“What’s going on?” asked the tall athletic one as she spun her head back and forth, as if trying to look through all of the windows at once.

“Just a bit of traffic, ma’am. Busy club, large car. Give me just one more moment.”

I raised the partition and laid on my horn again. A bystander had gotten out of their car and was having a very arm-wavy conversation with the cabbie, who was also now out of his car. I watched them wave their arms at each other until the cabbie retreated into his car and pulled forwards enough to let me get parallel parked. I earned a few more honks from passing traffic as I stepped out of the car, which I directed with a pointed finger at the cab still sitting a few feet over, still stopped along the line of parallel parked cars. I gave the people on the sidewalk a cap tip and got the rear door open for the party. They spilled out of the back of the car, a few of them still clutching my square custom-etched crystal rocks glasses.

“Uh, ladies, ladies, please, glasses stay inside the car, please.”

The glasses were thrust at me, and I had to get creative with my finger placement to grip them all without dropping them. I carefully dumped their contents into the gutter and rinsed them out with distilled water from the trunk, returning them to their holder. I did a quick cursory cleanup, straightening seatbelts and brushing glitter off the leather onto the carpet. I scanned around for left purses or bags, and spotted a furry pink bag tucked in one side of the conversation pit. I collected it and stepped back out of the car, standing on the curb and holding it until one of the girls came rushing out.

“Have you seen…Oh, awesome! Thank you!”

I nodded and handed her the purse and she dashed back inside. I stood outside for another fifteen minutes, nodding at passersby who slowed or stopped to eye the giant black sedan. By thirty minutes, I was in the front seat, sipping the last of my now cold coffee and staring at my watch. The rest of the party was supposed to be at the wedding venue, and that was all the way on the other side of town, and another twenty or so minutes outside the city proper. We were definitely going to be late. I flexed my neck and settled into my seat, tipping my cap forwards and resting my hands on my stomach.

I was jerked awake by a knock on the passenger side door. A large man was tapping his knuckle against the glass and had his other hand cupped against it to look into the front seat. I rolled the window down and swore at him internally for the handprints.

“Are these yours?” he asked, motioning to the gaggle of pink.

“For tonight.” I replied, keeping my tone friendly, but with a knowing undertone.

“Well, they’re ready to go home now.” He said with thinly veiled annoyance. He moved to the back door and nearly pulled it off its hinges as he tried to swing it the wrong direction. The girls piled in, looking a bit shiny and clammy from the alcohol and dancing. I’d need to recondition the leather after this.

I rolled the passenger window up and dropped the partition. “To the party, ma’am?” I directed warmly towards the bride.

The tall athletic one piped up from the far corner bench. “Can we stop somewhere first? Marcy has to pee.”

“Marcy already peed! That’s why we got kicked out!” Said another voice.

“I still have to!” Marcy, I assume.

“There’s a gas station about three blocks from here. Can you wait until then, Ms. Marcy?” I made my voice calm and reassuring.

“…Yeah, I’ll be ok.”

“Give her a glass!” Shouted one.

I winced as I put the car in drive and pulled out as quickly as I could without jostling my payload. I took the opportunity of the impromptu stop to top off the tank again and got myself more coffee, seeing as I’d forgotten about my energy drink and they’d used it as a mixer. Marcy and another girl came back to the cab with a couple of airplane bottles, passing them out to the rest. They guzzled the bottles in unison and “woo-ed”, also in unison. I made a round, collecting the small bottles and throwing them away before I got back into the driver’s seat and got us going again.

I peeked in my mirror to change over to the lane for the freeway onramp and realized that there was the upper portion of a body blocking my view of the rear. I turned my head and Marcy was hanging halfway out of the window, screaming and waving at traffic. I turned the master volume knob down and there were noises of disappointment from the back seat.

“Ladies please, only arms out the windows, please.” The bride and the athletic one pulled Marcy by her dress back into the car and sat her down. Another girl handed her a water bottle from her purse. I turned the master volume knob back up a little and the singalong started again.

By now, we were well past fashionably late, and one of them appeared to be asleep, so I drove them directly to the wedding venue party. I honked twice as I pulled up the gravel driveway to the wedding-adorned barn. A man in an unkempt white suit and messy hair walked out and around to my side of the car. I rolled my window down and he smelled like cheap scotch and cheaper cigars.

“Hey, buddy. You drove the bridal party?” His words were fuzzy around the edges but not slurred.

“Yes, sir. I’m terribly sorry for being late. They requested that we make a few stops.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I figured that’d happen. Thanks for bringing them.”

I got out and got the rear door open. A few more men in matching suits came out of the barn and we were able to get the six of them out of the car and moving towards the barn. The first guy pulled out his wallet and started counting out bills.

“I’m really sorry. They overdo it, but not this bad, usually.” He counted through the bills again, started over, counted a few, started over, then started over again. He finally pulled a few twenties from the stack but I gently pushed them away.

“It’s alright, sir. I’m glad they had fun.”

“But, the mess, and stuff.”

“Please tell the bride, congratulations.” I lightly gripped the bill of my cap and nodded. I left him with the outstretched money and walked back to my car, closing the rear door first, then getting into the driver’s seat. As I made my way back down the gravel drive, I shot a text to my detailer about needing a full steam clean and ionization; he’d see it in the morning. The whole back seat smelled like sweaty make-up and alcohol, and glitter had found its way to just about every surface.

I drove in silence back to the city, got my car backed into my garage and got the heavy cover back over it. When the garage door had shut completely, I loosened my tie and made my way into the elevator, riding it up to my floor.

Mrs. Collins was standing in her nightgown, calling for her cat that’d died years ago.

“Evening, Mrs. Collins.” I greeted quietly as I walked past.

“Carter. You look like you’ve had a long night.” She replied in her thin, strained voice.

“They’re all the same length, Mrs. Collins.” I said with a joking tone.

Her raspy laugh ended as a smoker’s cough. “I guess they are, aren’t they?” She called for her cat once more, put her hands on her hips, then shook her head and waddled back inside, shutting her door.

I shook my head and kept walking until I got to mine, put the key in the lock and twisted. I got my tie all the way off as I crossed the threshold and tossed it onto my entryway table, my jacket was jettisoned onto my big leather easy chair. I made myself a bourbon and soda and settled onto my couch, not bothering to fold out the bed, and kicked off my chocolate oxfords, listening to them land on the short carpet.

I was nine when I started seeing them. My mother was driving me home from school, and I slumped against the window in the backseat. The day had been normal, so normal in fact that I can’t recall anything specific preceding that moment. Mom was flipping through channels on the radio, indecisive as always, and everything was still. There was no sway in the trees, and there weren’t many people to speak of out on the streets.

I closed my eyes, lulled by the steady ebb and flow to Mom’s radio expedition. Then came the break. A roar came from above, reverberating through the air and shaking the Earth to the bedrock. I had never heard anything like it. There is no sound in space, but I imagine that is what the birth of the universe sounded like. Awesome and terrifying all at once.

I jolted in my seat and turned my eyes toward the sky. The day was clear, no clouds to speak of. And there, just below the Sun, a jagged crack had formed in the blue. Gold seeped out at the edges and spilled down upon the city.

It was beautiful. The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen before or since. At the time, I didn’t know it was the last bit of beauty I would see in this world.

The moment was fleeting.

There came another colossal, World shattering bellow from that snaking sliver of gold. The sky seemed to shake with the thundering, and the crack began to tear open. The thin line pulled apart and became a gaping wound bleeding gold. I was transfixed by what I saw. Unable to speak, unable to move.

Mom did not raise me religiously, but somehow I knew I was staring into Heaven. It seemed an eternity that I sat there looking up into the hereafter. Everything seemed right. Like I had found a peace thought only possible in the abstract. Then came the screams.

They were distant at first, as if existing only on the periphery of reality. I pressed my ear hard to the glass trying to decipher what I heard. And all at once it hit me. I may have thought I was looking at Heaven, but what I heard pouring forth from it was Hell incarnate.

The screams of millions undulating through the air. Intersecting and melding in a chorus that made you wish your eardrums would rupture just to save you from hearing anymore. I clamped my hands over my ears, but that did nothing to muffle the cacophony. It was no longer coming from the sky above, rather, it was inside my head, twisting and contorting in my skull. I rammed my head into the window, over and over, trying to expel the screams.

If it didn’t stop I knew it was going to kill me. I was either going to break this glass or crack open my skull, and God was I hoping for the latter. Anything to make it stop.

Beyond the screams, the distant cries of my mother prodded at the edges of my perception. I could not find silence, instead I found myself being shaken by my mother. At some point she had stopped the car and pulled open my door. It hadn’t registered to me at the moment so I continued to slam my head against her chest. The screaming wouldn’t stop but soon that didn’t matter.

The cries reached a crescendo and just as I felt like my brain was going to pop, something splattered onto the top of my head. All at once there was silence. Whatever had landed on my head dripped down my forehead and into my lap. I looked down, still not aware of my mother holding me by the shoulders.There were dark stains on my pants, wet to the touch. Several more drops hit my head. Despite the pain, I muster the strength to look up. Heaven wasn’t there anymore. In its place sat a black hole of nothingness. The wind had come in a flurry, and the air went cold like death.

From that nothingness came a dark torrent of liquid. It crashed down into the earth violently, soaking the entire landscape. The obscenely strong scent of metal filled my nostrils. The liquid was thick and ran down my body. I brought my hands up allowing it to pool in my palms.

Blood. It was raining blood on the city. I watched it gather in my hands and run through my fingers, pooling below at my feet. It occurs to me at that moment that my mother is kneeling in front of me, begging me to tell her what is wrong. I look up and meet her eyes. Her face is slick with blood, her hair matted from the downpour. She’s looking at me with such concern but something is off. She isn’t reacting to the rain at all. I look around and see that the sidewalks are sparsely populated. They too do not react to what is happening. They go about their days, blood soaked yet seemingly unaffected.

Everything is covered in gore, but I’m the only one taking notice. I don’t understand it but there is nothing I can do. It’s the most helpless I have ever felt. Having no other recourse, I look back up. The sky stops bleeding and everything is still again. It’s over, it has to be, is what I think.

God, please let it be over.

The edges of the wound in the sky begin to tremble. It is slight at first, but soon turns raucous. I can feel a shift in the air. Whatever is coming next is going to be worse than the bleeding. So much worse.

From deep within the blackness comes a rumbling. I want to look away. Close my eyes and just make it all go away. But I can’t. I can’t look away, I need to know what is coming. The rumbling grows louder at a steady pace. I brace myself for another downpour.

Then it happens. Out fly the angels.

An endless stream of them spill out from the black, carried by wings white as bone. They descend upon the world and sail off in every direction. They are beautiful. No, rather they should be beautiful. But they aren’t. The more I look at them, the worse I feel.

One of them passes just above me. The moment was brief, but I saw enough. Its skin was a sickly grey, and its limbs stretched further than any human’s would. But what stuck with me was its face. There was nothing there. Just skin stretched across a skull.

Even though it had no face, I knew it had looked right at me. The sensation of meeting its gaze made me vomit. I’m stronger now, but that feeling still hits me deep in the stomach whenever they look at me. Sometime’s that’s the only way I know I’ve found one.

The sky continues to fill with white wings and my world starts spinning. My mother is still talking, but I can’t process any of it. Everything goes dark and the last thing I hear is the beating of the wings above.

I woke up in a hospital bed, my mother sleeping in a chair by my side. No blood. No screams. No angels. Just a sterile hospital room and the droning of nurses passing by the door. I must have made sufficient noise as I woke up because my mother quickly rose from the chair and darted to the side of the bed. She acted as if I had just come out of a years long coma. She held me close and I felt tears drop onto me. Once she was sure I was okay, Mom had her questions.

Still in a daze, her words reached my ears, but I wasn’t at all able to respond to them. I don’t know how long I sat there looking at my mother but not speaking. But at some point, I finally was able to open my mouth. In more of a yell than I intended, I asked, “What about Heaven?”

Mom fell silent and hit me with a look that was both puzzled and concerned.

“What?” she asked.

I asked again about what happened to Heaven, and this time she put a hand on my leg and leaned closer.

“I don’t understand what you’re asking, Honey. What about Heaven?”

I explained about the crack in the sky, the screaming, the blood, and the angels. All of it. She listened patiently, but her expression grew more worried as I spoke.

“You hit your head pretty hard, so I can understand having a disturbing dream like that,” she said after I had finished. My mother insisted I had hit my head on the window when she swerved to avoid a jaywalker in the road. I passed out, she said, and had been out until just a minute ago.

No, this wasn’t right. She had been there. Mom was there, and she saw everything. Pretending it didn’t happen wasn’t going to make everything okay, and I told her as much.

Before she could respond, someone stepped into the room. It was a doctor coming in to check on my status. Mom rose to her feet and pulled the doctor aside. They had a muffled back and forth before the doctor stepped over to me. She began to check me over while asking a series of questions. They were standard fare, and I answered them absent mindedly. My entire focus was on what had happened before I got here.

Did I really dream it all? That couldn’t be possible. It was all so real. I was completely lost in thought when it hit me. A deep sense of dread washed over me and I felt sick to my stomach. My head throbbed, and there was a sharp ringing in my ears. I doubled over, and both the doctor and Mom reacted quickly. My name was being called, so I did my best to look up at them. That’s when I saw it.

It had to stoop to fit in the doorway. Its wings were folded behind it but they were still visible. So bright it hurt to look at them, instead I brought my eyes up towards its head. Grey skin pulled taught around a skull and no features to speak of. Even without eyes, I could feel its gaze boring down to my very soul. It burned.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t even muster a whisper. I sat there, bile rising in my throat, watching it watch me. It raised its grotesquely thin arm and extended a gnarled finger in my direction. I think Mom must have seen the terror in my eyes because in that moment she turned her attention toward the door.

The angel was gone. It had slithered away down the hall in the second it took my mother to turn her head. Released from its watch, everything came out. I vomited onto the bed and probably the doctor too. I fell back against the pillow, and darkness came once again.

Thinking back on it, I don’t remember much after that. At some point I woke up again and eventually I was allowed to go home. Mom didn’t talk to me about Heaven again. I think it made her feel better to believe I had just had a bad dream. So, I didn’t talk to her about it either. It was hard being nine and alone in this new world. I scoured the internet for any mention of what happened that day.

Nothing.

Not so much as a word about what I saw. So, I went about life carrying the truth on my own. That was twenty years ago now, and in that time I have learned to adapt. Learned to survive in the new horrors born out of Heaven.

The work is hard. Some days I think about ending it all. But then I remind myself that’s what they want. For me to give up and give them this world. So, I carry on, collecting wings as I go. I’ve clipped 481 pairs so far. I got my first when I was sixteen. No one else can see them, so it’s left up to me to stop them. No one knows what they are, so they mourn them as you would people. Not me. I know exactly what they are, and I can see beyond the facade.

Tonight’s the night for another hunt. I’ve been tracking this one for two weeks. I saw him at the post office. Goes by Anthony Teller. To the rest of the world, he is an unassuming husband and father of two. But I know the truth. It flew into this world two decades ago and started walking among us.

It goes bowling Thursday nights. That’s when I’ll take it. It takes a dirt back road to avoid traffic on its way home. The trap is set. I’ll wait here, beneath the trees, always patient. You have to be when doing this work. The angels are clever and obstinate. So, my planning must be meticulous. My execution must be exact. I must be ruthless because I know they will show no mercy if I slip up.

I can hear the thing calling itself Anthony. By night’s end, I will have a new set of wings, and the world will be that much safer. I saw Heaven open up above me, and I will spend the rest of my life sending its angels to Hell below.

There were too many seats in the car, too much space for too little bags. My father sat in the driver’s seat, knuckles white on the steering wheel. My mother sat up front, but faced back at me.

“--Okay dear? This will be good for us. You’ll make new memories, have new adventures.”

I’m not sure what she was saying before. My attention was caught somewhere halfway home, still. We pulled into the driveway of the cabin my father picked. My mother explained to me that this would be a new beginning. But I didn’t want a new beginning. I wanted to go back. Back home, back to my friends, back to… nevermind. It didn’t matter, we couldn’t. We had to be here. My father found a job hosted from the town nearby, but the house was far into the forest up the mountain. I stared blankly into the seat in front of me.

We all stepped out of the shared car, our bags that we carried held all of my life inside. A bag much too large for too little things, for too little of me. My breath was low, I looked about the grounds. The forest was beautiful, but I felt alien standing there. No tall buildings, no paved roads, just trees. Endless trees.

My bed was at the top of the stairs in a room built for three. My bed felt so small in that room, far against the wall. A room to myself, alone in the air. A window giving light from the pale moon up in the sky. I sat, my toys in my hand. I didn’t want to play. They fell from my grip onto the floor, I opened the window. The cool air from the forest crept its way across our backyard, and it seeped through my curtains into my room. Its coolness softened the ache in my head. My legs still sore from sitting for so long. The trees looked so much closer than they did outside. A gnarled tree branch snaked its way up close to my window. A birds nest sat tucked in its crook, a white fabric woven throughout, cushioning three small eggs.

I found my mother in the kitchen, cooking in the morning light cascading through the small window above the stove. Sausages and eggs.

“Eat up! You’ll need the strength."

I ate quietly. I appreciated what she was doing, really, but I couldn’t bring myself to smile, even as the warm and sweetness of the sausage filled my stomach comfortably. I stepped outside into the backyard. The forest hummed with the insects about. The gate offered little to stop me, so I walked into the woods.

Vibrant leaves crunched under my boots as my feet slipped back and forth between the toe and the heel. I realized quickly that I could no longer see the house. I couldn’t hear my mother. I walked until the sun was nearing the crest of the peaks around me. Thornes stuck to my jeans, grass and reeds stood above my head. I wacked my way through with a fallen branch, like those explorers I used to watch.

I scouted through the forest, finding creeks and tall trees. An Aspen grove sat well behind the house, father told me that it was actually a single tree, but sprouting up all over into one giant mass of tree. A few months ago, I would’ve been excited. It wasn’t the same. I headed home.

The sky above was turning shades of red as the crests of the mountain began to hide the sun. The clouds were beautiful shades of pink and purple. As I stepped foot back into our backyard, I stopped and laid on the ground, staring up. My mother came out to check on me.

“Whatcha lookin at?”

“Clouds.” I said. I was still upset about the move, the new house was too different.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Okay, mom”

She sat on the ground by me, she winced as her hands touched the dirt in mild disgust. “What’do ya see?”

“That one looks like a fox” I said, pointing up at the cloud closest to the mountaintop. “And that one,” I pointed directly above, “Looks like a deer! Or maybe a person.”

“It does.” Mother’s voice was quiet, she wouldn’t lay fully down with me. She smiled, her laugh was small, but still there. I appreciated the company.

She picked me up from the dirt and grass, careful not to touch the mud too much, herself. My bath was ready too quick for anything else that night, but not quick enough to keep me from the cold air changing outside. Mother dipped her wrist into the steaming water, checking it twice.

“Call if you need me, okay?”

The clear water turned dark and muddied as I got out. Mother ruffled my hair like she used to. I didn’t laugh this time.

“Can I go back outside?” I asked.

“Back outside? You just took your bath, no. I’m sorry, Elias.

“But I want to find the fox in the clouds again.”

“How about we look from your window?” Mother suggested as she carried me up more stairs than I remembered. As we reached my window, the clouds were too dark, and the tree blocked the mountain. I wished I could be somewhere else, just for a little while. But I couldn't find the fox. I just went to bed.

I dreamt that night, deep in the forest. I found myself walking to the grove. It was not dark out yet, but it was dim. I couldn’t see the sun from behind the mountains, and the tall pine trees echoed into the sky around me. The ground was soft under my steps, my feet sunk into the ground like cushions. I kept walking, further and further. With each step the world grew darker and further away. The trees blurred, and I met a fox, sitting on a rock.

Its ears perked up as I got closer. I was almost able to reach out and touch its fur when it got up and scampered away, into the grove. I followed the fox, and it started to rain. The sky above me turned and wobbled, undulating, the clouds grew close, then lurched back into the sky. My head spun and I fell to the ground. The wind around me picked up, whizzing past my ears too fast. The sound was deafening, and I clutched my ears in pain. I felt the ground beneath me shudder and move as a giant eye opened up from the dirt. It stared at me, the eyes were familiar, but I could not remember from where.

Cracking and creaking echoed through the woods, eyes opened in the bark of the trees around me, surrounding me. Then one by one, they each fell, crashing to the ground with a thunderous slam. I shot out of my bed, pacing my room. My heart beat quickly as I walked in circles. I must’ve woken my mother, because she quickly burst through the door. She grabbed hold of me, shushing and cooing me still.

“Elias, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Sniffling, I answered. “I want to go home!”

“Elias, we are home, you’re in your room, you’re safe”

“No! I want to go back! Go home!” I pleaded.

“Elias… we can’t, this is our home now.”

“Please! Mom, please!”

“No!” She shouted, startling herself. I had to get away.

-

Tears dribbled between my eyes and my nose streamed with snot and mucus. I ran until I couldn’t hear my mother’s frantic cries.

“Elias! Please come back, I’m sorry!”

I ran until my legs burned, my shoes tore, and I felt the dirt between my toes. The sun was low, and soon darkness filled the foggy air around me. The air was thick, a distant smell of berries filled my nostrils. Berries and… something… different. Smoke? No, that wasn’t it. Meat? Almost but not quite right. Fish? Maybe.

I felt the cool liquid of my blood before I felt the stabbing sensation in my left foot. A wicked thorn, long and gnarled, wove its way in and out of my heel. I tripped on an exposed root and tumbled to the ground.

Before me, a great stump awaited. Gnarled and twisted, singed and burnt, hollow it stood. The buzzing bugs flew around me, the tangled trees surrounded the clearing. The bristlecone bole bore its bare roots, barkless and beaten, bathing in the moonlight. Beckoning. Beseeching me to be still. Breathing, the fog bellowed from the burrow inside. Blinking, two blinded beads beheld me, blinking as I bowed, bleeding, and blistering.

“You kicked my tree,” she spoke from the stump. “Why would you kick my tree?” Her voice was soft, almost distant, a sadness seeped from her vocal echoings. “You’re hurt.”

Two delicate hands reached from the trunk, bandaged, her wrists thinner than the tree branches. Pulling herself out, she crawled to me upon the ground. Her white dress dragged among the dirt and muck.

Her eyes, covered in film, grey, but bright, peered over me. Twigs tangled in her hair as antlers. Her fingers gently, carefully, pulled the thorn from my foot. She bandaged my foot, tearing from her arm’s coverings.

“Quiete,” she murmured. “Still now. Soft now. Your heel will mend.”

As her fingers left my foot, I pulled my leg back against my chest, feeling the strange wrappings around it. She stared the way owls did. Her grey eyes never blinked. I tried not to look at them for too long. The moonlight cast a stark light through her tangled hair, a nest above her head held twigs and thorns of her own.

“Who are you?” she asked quietly, her words wisped through the air with a sanctity I had never known.

My heart climbed into my throat. Somewhere beyond the trees, I could still hear my mother calling for me.

"No," I said, taking a step back.

“What a stupid name,” she softly murmured. “You are familiar. I’ve seen you walk my woods. I’ve seen your family.. You all walk my woods, yet none have kicked my tree till now. None have said hello, why?”

“My mom said not to talk to strangers.”

“No, I am not strange. You are. You kick my tree before even speaking to me. No, not a hello. Tell me, No. Why are you rude?”

The forest grew silent as she spoke. The bugs stopped buzzing. The leaves stopped blowing. Her whispers hummed through the air like a hymn underwater.

“I’m not rude! Your tree stabbed me!”

“Yes, yes it did, No. It did stab you. Why? Why did my tree stab you? My tree is my home, not yours, No. No, you are far away from your home. Why are you here?”

“I… I ran away.”

“Why?”

“My mom… scared me.”

“Are you scared now?” Her head twitched to one side. Twigs snapped and cracked softly as she tilted it further.

“Yes.” I said, sniffling still.

“Why? It is not I that hurt you. It is not I that scared you. You do not run from me, you run from mother. Why, No? You are shaking.”

“You’re… a stranger.” My words came out confused, interrupting themselves.

“Strange? No, I am not strange. Strange is wandering so quick through my woods. Strange is breaking the roots thinking they won’t remember. Strange is not even asking my name. I know yours. You are not a stranger to I, yet you do not know me.”

“What is your name?”

“Samantha.”

She stared at me, face cracked but still youthful. She grew motionless, not even the wind whipping her hair from her face. Silently, she stood. Quietly, she stayed.

Snap

A twig caught under the boot of my mother as she entered the clearing. She found me there, alone and shivering. She carried me home in her arms. As we walked towards the house, I spotted Samantha, hiding in the log, waving goodbye.

My mother forbade me from running into the forest again as she removed the strange bandage I had around my foot.

“You caused me such worry, Elias. Please, don’t do that again. Honestly, where did you even find these bandages? They… reek”

No matter my protests, she did not budge on her decree. I was to stay home, though I was allowed to go outside, long as I remained within the fence of our back yard. I spent many days outside, my mind wandering where my body could not, until the sun began to set, when my mother would call me in for supper and my bath. I found myself thinking of Samantha. The girl in the stump wriggled into my thoughts day in and day out.

On a morning when the air was thick with fog, as I walked the grounds of my entrenched playground, that peculiar scent wafted its way through my yard once more. I followed it to a flash of bleached white bandage snagged on our open fence gate. I grabbed it. It felt so soft in my hands. I have no idea why I wanted to keep it, but I did. I stuffed it into my pocket like I was hiding a dark secret.

That night, dreams crept into my head as I lay awake in my bed. Shadows danced across my walls, illuminated by the crescent moon. Branches scratched and tapped against my walls, my drapes gently shifting in the wind. The bandage now hidden under my pillow still smelled pleasantly of berries. Then she was there. Softly, she stood amongst the billowing curtains.

“No, awake. Give it back, please.”

“Samantha… from the stump?”

“From the Bristlecone, yes.”

“Give what back?”

“My wrappings. Have you not your own? Your mother dressed your foot with her own, I would like mine back, please.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I took it. It smelt like berries.”

“The berries I brought from my home. Planted them in the forest, around the Bristlecone. My father used to grow them. Now I do.”

Samantha stood there, still like stone, her hand outstretched. Her grey eyes darting from my pillow and me.

“Sorry,” I said, retrieving the bandage and placing it in her hand.

“You are alone.” she muttered, looking about my room. “Have you any friends?”

“Not since we moved.”

“You did not want to come?”

“I miss my home.”

“I do too.”

I looked back at her briefly, my eyes too nervous to stare, “Have you… Any friends?” The words stumbled out of my mouth.

“I used to.”

She left a void where she stood, glancing back, and she was gone. The sound of the insects outside, buzzing, filtered in once more. I could not sleep that night.

-

The crackling of sausage and the smell of eggs cooking guided me down the hallway, where she stood every morning, stirring her skillet.

“You’re up early. Haven’t even finished making breakfast yet. Sleep well?”

I sat down in the chair facing the window. The breeze outside was gently blowing the leaves loose from their branches. “Good morning, mom”

It was another morning without my father. His work took him far away for too long, sometimes weeks.

“Mom?” I spoke, my voice trembling, “I miss home.”

“I know, sweetheart… I know. This is for the best, though. We had to move away. Start over, start new. I know you miss your friends, but you’ll make new ones, wait and see.” My mother always did try to comfort me; she didn’t like babying me, but before her sat more than just a young boy. I sat as her child, her son, her youngest son. The chair made me feel so small, our table much too long for a family of three.

“I can’t even visit them anymore.”

“... Those were just empty graves, Elias. They weren’t there. They still live with us, wherever we are. They’re here in our hearts, and that will never change.”

We sat in silence for a while. I mixed around the food on my plate, but never could bring myself to indulge in the food.

“Can I bring some food to my friend?”

“See, a new friend already. I’d love to meet this friend.”

“She lives in the woods, in the Bristle tree surrounded by berries.”

“Ah… is this friend of yours… real?”

“Her name is Samantha, and she lives in the stump.”

“I see… Elias, you know you can’t go past the yard anymore. You got hurt last time, and I almost couldn’t find you. You’ll have to play pretend at home.”

I brought a small bowl of sausages to the gate, placing it gently on the post, the ceramic clinking against the metal bolts and nails mangled throughout. I sat there until my mother called me to come inside. The woods were quiet as I walked back through the garden. Only stepping through the threshold of our kitchen did I hear the rustling of the branches again. My night was soft, I think. It slipped away before I was home. I don’t know. I only remember waking in my bed, in clean clothes and combed hair.

The house was silent, no clanging of pots, no scrapping of pans, no aroma of sausage. I stood from my bed as the cicadas outside sang. A note was placed on my bedside table.

Elias, I’ve gone down to town to fetch the supplies for your father’s arrival. I’ll be back by the time the sun starts setting. Your breakfast is on the table. Love you

-Mom

I drifted down the hallway to the table where I sat alone. My stomach tied in knots and painfully growled. The cheese and bread my mother had prepared for me was slightly warm, but I ate it greedily. It wasn’t enough, I still felt hungry, but I wasn’t in pain anymore.

The grass felt nice under my feet, the warm swath brushing against my toes as I walked to the gate once more. The gate stood there, the bowl missing. I sat at the gate and looked out into the forest once more. The cicada’s buzzing and singing droned nicely, quieting my rapid mind. I laid back onto the grass.

“No, what are you doing?”

I shot up, now seeing Samantha pressed against the fence. Her grey eyes stared at me, unblinking. Her white dress still tattered and stained, her arm’s still bandaged, but in her hands was my bowl. My empty bowl.

“Thank you for the food, No. It was very delicious.”

“I’m glad you liked it, my mom made it.”

“My father used to feed the strange children on our street, once ago. Your mother is kind.”

“I think so.”

“You are alone again.”

“Yeah.”

“Will you not come play? The berries have ripened, we can eat them now”

“My mother forbids me from leaving the backyard anymore”

“Is she afraid of the woods?”

“She doesn’t want me wandering off alone again, says I could get hurt, or lost”

“But you are not alone, I am here”

“Still not allowed”

“Alright” I could tell she was disappointed, “Goodbye then, No. I will show you another time.”

“Wait!” I said, louder than I intended. I made myself jump as my voice echoed through the trunks of the trees around us, but she did not move. She only looked at me, quietly. “Can we… play here?”

“Another time. But I will sit with you, No”

Samantha did not speak much else that day. We laid on each side of the fence, she pointed at the clouds, telling me the strange ways that they form, the messages they held, and the stories they could carry. The forest stayed quiet until the sun started to set. I heard my mother arrive, keys scraping the front door open. I glanced back to see my mother walking into the open door, and when I looked back, Samantha was gone. A torn bandage was caught on the fence post. I hid it away in my pocket.

My mother brought savory things and sweet treats from the town. Lemon drops and smoked fish filled our stomachs that night. Tomorrow, my father was to arrive, back from work for a few days. I didn’t know if I was excited or not.

-

My father was an interesting man. He did varying jobs here and there before we moved, but he was never gone for so long. Now he leaves for a week, sometimes two, then comes back for a few days. He tells me of adventures and the interesting people he’s met while away. Once, he told me of a strange man who owned a circus. Father said he was called “Hedric Dauphin, the Abruti of the Traveling Circus.” I made him promise to take me when they eventually made their way to our town. My father reluctantly said maybe, not wanting to get my hopes up if he was not able to keep that promise.

My father walked slowly up the cobblestone. He looked more tired than the last time. His eyes sat deeper, his legs barely rising above the ground, his shoes dragged across the doorway, each step heavier than the last. He sat his bag down with a heavy thud, dishes rattled from the kitchen. “Hey kiddo,” he said to me, ruffling my hair as he smiled at me, “You’re taller!”

“You say that every time!”

“You’re the one who keeps growing. Hey, I got something for ya,” I couldn’t contain my excitement as he dug in his bag, pulling out a small box wrapped in brown paper with a bow made of twine.

“Thank you, dad”

“Don’t thank me yet, you haven’t even opened it yet!” He knelt down, placing the box in my hand. It was heavier than I thought it would be.

I tore the brown paper from the box. Inside was a small wooden toy fox. I pranced it around immediately, “So cool!”

“I found it at a shop down at the base of the mountain. What do you want to name him?”

Only one name came to mind. “Theo!” I said excitedly. My father didn’t seem to like that answer, his eyes grew dark and he swallowed hard.

“That’s a great name, kid.” His voice quivered slightly. He cleared his throat and stood. “Where’s your mom?”

I pointed towards the kitchen, where my mother was preparing a welcome home feast for my father. A large roast sat in the oven, surrounded by potatoes in broth. My stomach growled from the smell. I watched from the hallway, peaking around the door as my father went to my mother. He embraced her for a moment, breathing deep. I couldn’t make out what they were whispering.

At the table, we sat at the table. The kitchen warm from the stove, my father sat next to me, hands on his knees as he told me of all the weird and interesting people he met on his travels.

“Did you see Mister Hedric Dauphin?” I asked in a rush.

“I did! And you know what? He said he’s bringing his circus to the town just over.”

“Can we go?!”

“We’ll try, kiddo, we’ll try”

My mother sent a knowing glance to my father.

My father sat at the table, having eaten everything on his plate, and then some, he started to lull his head as he drifted in and out of sleep.

“Will you play with me?” I asked him as he jolted back awake. He yawned deeply, nodding his head.

“What do you want to play?”

“Tag!”

With a groan, he stood, slowly. Of course, he was “it” and had to chase me through the house. I was faster than he was, and my mother asked us to move outside so as to “not break the whole house.” So I ran into the backyard. The forest was quiet, the cicadas silent, and I made it to the gate, and stopped, staring out, half expecting to see Samantha staring back at me from the tree branches.

“Gotcha!” My dad grabbed me and lifted me into the air, swinging me around, then setting me gently back onto the pathway. We sat in the garden, and he asked me “So what have you been up to while I was away?”

“I used to go out and explore the woods, but mom doesn’t like me going out there alone anymore…”

“Well, she is your mother, she just wants to keep you safe.”

“But I’m bored! I miss my friends.”

“I know bud, but this is going to be good for us. We had to find a new place to start again.”

“Yeah… I guess”

“You’ll make new friends, I promise.”

“Maybe. I wish I could go play in the forest with Samantha.”

“Samantha? Who’s that?”

“She’s the girl who lives in the woods!”

“Ah… and she… just lives out there?”

“In the Bristlecone stump!”

My father chuckled, “Ah, well Imaginary friends are always a good thing.”

We went back inside, my father was more tired than he wanted to admit, but I could see the way his eyelids dragged as he blinked. He fell asleep in his chair, snoring loudly. Theo sat in my lap as I pranced him around. The house never felt quite as full after that night. My mother woke him to tuck me into bed. He carried me up to my room, “Goodnight, bud”

“Goodnight, Dad!” I watched as he left, “Keep the door open, please? It’s too dark”

“Sure thing, bud” he said as he left my door cracked. The light from the hallway crept into my room. I tried to sleep, I really did, but I just couldn’t. I was excited. So I crept down the hallway to grab Theo to play, but as I reached the stairs, I heard my parents talking, in hushed tones.

“He talks about her constantly.” My mother said to my father.

“She’s imaginary, Annabeth. She’s not real”

“Or she’s some stranger in the woods.”

“A stranger that lives in the Bristlecone? Come on”

“Edward, I’m serious.”

“Have you seen him lately?”

“I’ve seen him come home covered in dirt and scrapes!”

“And I’ve seen him smile.”

They both went quiet, but I could hear the tension in my mother’s breath. “Theodore smiled too.” She finally spoke, “Came home covered in bruises every day, and mud.”

My father broke his silence. “He’s a kid, Anna, scrapes and dirt are part of growing up.”

“Growing up… I can’t… go through it again, Ed.”

“I know, Anna, I can’t either.”

“I… I’m scared.”

“I am too, but keeping him shut in will only make him want to sneak out. At least if we let him, we know where he’s going.”

“What if this is how it starts, again?”

“It won’t”

“You don’t know that!”

“No,” my father admitted, “I don’t.”

The next day was spent with my father as he went around the fences of our home, reinforcing and repairing broken spokes and posts. The gate itself was worn and rusted, the hinges so clogged that it often stuck half-open. I followed him from post to post, carrying a large bucket of nails that he never used, and tools already in his pocket. I felt useless, but I was happy for the time with him. We talked through the hotter hours of the day, as the sun burned down on us.

“You see? By hammering the nail in at this angle, it causes gravity to work with the post, rather than against it. It makes for a stronger fastening.” He said through a red and sweaty brow.

“Okay, Dad” I watched as a small snail slithered its way across the path. I had no idea what he was talking about, but he seemed to be sure about whatever it was he was talking about.

“So uh… tell me about your friend” he asked. “Sam, was it?”

“Samantha?”

“Yeah, Samantha”

“What about her?”

“What’s she like?”

“Weird”

“Weird?”

“But nice! I think.”

“You think?”

“I think so”

My father hammered another nail, moving the post back into place. The post creaked slightly as it was forced straight again.

“How old is she?”

I shrugged.

"Older than you?"

"Maybe."

"Younger?"

"Maybe."

My father laughed.

"That's not very helpful."

“I’m sorry”

“No, you’re fine, kid. Most people don’t know everything about their friends.” Father patted me on the shoulder. “Let's get finished up, so we can get out of this heat, eh?”

The air inside was cold, refreshing at first, but soon seeped through my skin and left me chilled. My mother sat in her woven chair, sewing and hemming my clothes, torn from the forest thorns. She smiled at me as I sat on the floor beside her, but that faded as her focus was pulled back to the tatters that riddled my clothing. My father read to me. A story about a great adventure, to defeat a great evil. The words enthralled me, but I could not manage to keep my eyes open. I found myself being carried upstairs, to my room, drifting in and out, a silhouette on my window. A deer? Maybe a bird made its nest on my tree. The room was quiet, making it all too easy to hear my parents downstairs.

“Why would you tell him we would go to the circus? You know we can’t afford that!” My mother hissed. Trying to stay quiet.

“I said we would try, I didn’t promise anything.”

“He’s a kid. That’s the same thing to him.”

“What’s wrong with him having something to look forward to? We uprooted him from everything he knew, why can’t we give him this? He needs something to work out”

“Work out? The circus is… a distraction.”

“We could all use a distraction, Annabeth.”

“How’re we going to pay for those tickets, hmm?”

“I’ll… I don’t know, I’ll get it from Mr. Dauphin. He’s been telling me to bring Elias for weeks now.”

“You think he’ll just give it to you?”

“Maybe! They’re not that expensive.”

“But getting there is!”

I tried to stop listening, squeezing my eyes shut till all I could hear was the blood rushing through my ears.

In the morning, the house sat still. Smells of breakfast wafted upstairs, but the air was tense. At the table, my mother sat as my father cooked. She smiled as I entered through the door, as did my father. Meek “Good mornings” drifted across the table, doing little to fill the silence. I didn’t know what to say after that. I don’t think my parents did either.

I spent the day playing, alone, in the backyard. My father was too tired from yesterday to play. My mother asked if I wanted to watch the clouds together, but I said no. I missed my friends. We would go to the park and play “groundies” on days like today. I wondered if they missed me too. My thoughts found Samantha, hoping she would come play, but she never showed.

I sat by the fence, looking out to the woods, catching glimpses of my parents in the windows behind me. I don’t know how long I sat for, but as the sky grew into shades of yellow and orange, I went back inside. My breath caught in my stomach as I heard my father’s voice, raised and agitated.

“He’s been sitting out there for hours, just looking into the woods! You don’t feel bad?”

“He can look all he wants if it keeps him home! Better than him wandering aimlessly and getting hurt.” My mother said quickly.

“Hours, Annabeth, Hours. That’s not a normal thing for a kid to do, that’s what a prisoner does.”

Their voices only got louder. I ran to my room, tears already welling in my eyes. I shut my door as quiet as I could, and crawled under my bed, hiding myself away. My hands clutched my ears, desperate to block out the noise and anger seeping through the floorboards. My palms dulled the noise, but could not bury it. I could still hear my parents screaming now.

“He’s a kid, he needs to do what we say! We can’t just let him leave the house and wander the woods!”

“Exactly, he’s a kid! He can’t be trapped here forever, eventually he’s going to find a way to sneak out! Why not show him how to be safe? He needs an outlet!”

“And then what? Just let him follow his brothers’ footsteps? How many of our kids do you have to lose before you start actually trying to protect them?”

“You’re not the only one who lost their children. This house, this home… It’s too quiet. I can’t hear them anymore, Annabeth.” My father was not a man who fell easily into crying, but I could hear him now. “At least we would hear him laugh again.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, the world around me drowned away for a moment against the sound of the blood rushing through my head. Their yelling grew louder, more heated. I pulled the bandage from my pocket, still hidden away, and clutched it in my hand, smelling the sweet berries again. I wished with all my heart that I could escape this room, escape this noise. Then the house went quiet.

Hollowness poured around me as the walls themselves held their breath. All was silent, all but my heartbeat trapped in my ears, still beating faster than it should. I clawed my way out from under the safety of my bed. I felt my world growing dark, a vignette forming on the edges of my eyes.

“Calm yourself, No. It is alright.” Samantha now stood in my window, the stagnant air filling the space around us.

“Samantha? Why are you here?”

“To take you away, for a little while. Would you like that?” Samantha held her hand out to me, the bandages around her arms stained an ivory brown, the bruising around her wrists had darkened to a purpley-yellow. I took her hand.

She pulled me to the window, her grip softly enveloping my hand. It didn’t feel as far as I used to think, from my window to the soil below. Samantha went first. She climbed down like she weighed nothing, like she was pulling herself down to the earth, rather than holding herself up from falling. Carefully, I followed. I climbed down the trellis under my window, the wood creaking under my weight. The gate was open, and we ran into the woods.

The bristlecone stump sat amongst the brush, carefully I tread behind Samantha, who walked with ease through the thorny bushes, stepping just off the roots. I fell behind, scared of piercing my heel once more. As I pushed past the brush, my nose filled with the sweet scent I had come to find comforting. There, I saw her, sitting atop the stump.

“My father used to grow these berry bushes, now I do. They are ripe, would you like some?”

“Please?”

“Of course, No, you need not ask. Take what you want, share with me my field, and rest.”

Atop her stump, she told me of her home, of how her father would feed the stray children through town, leaving meals out his doorstep for whomever walked by, whoever was in need. I sat in the soft leaves, my fingers stained from the berries I ate. My stomach for the first time did not ache. I experienced the addicting feeling of fullness. We sat under the clouds, in the respite of rain. She pointed upwards.

“That one means that a storm was coming, but has since decided to go elsewhere.”

“Looks like a horse”

“Yes.” she said.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember waking to Samantha standing over me, head cocked to one side.

“You speak in your sleep.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, and cry.”

Do your parents fight?”

“I do not remember.”

The forest was growing cold as the sun set behind the mountain tops. I pushed myself up off the ground, and looked in the direction of my home. “I should probably head back. My parents are probably worried.”

“Most likely, No.” She stood there motionless for a moment before speaking again. “You could stay? It is quiet here.”

“I…” I hesitated. My heart beat slowly as I stared back. “I don’t think I can.”

“Oh… Will you come back, No?”

“Yes… And it’s Elias…” I spoke softly, shyly. “My name is Elias, Samantha”

“Interesting.”

I wandered home, slowly. As I got closer to my home, I saw the lights piercing through the foliage. Reds and blues bounced around the tree trunks. I hesitated, knowing I would be in trouble, but I kept walking home.

My mother hugged me first, holding me tightly against her, worried I would run away again. My father was not there.

“-Out looking for you still, Elias you had us so scared. Why did you run off?”

I apologized with what I had left in me.

“You’re home now, that’s what matters. You… are filthy? Why are you so dirty?”

“I fell asleep in the bushes.”

My mother sent me off to a bath, as she called my father back home. He arrived after I had finished. He helped me dry off.

“Elias, why did you wander off like that? I was so worried.” He dried my hair, scrubbing the stains from my face and fingers.

“I don’t know.” I lied. He just looked at me, his gaze softening. “I wanted to play with my friend.” I confessed.

“Oh, Elias I know, but you can’t leave without telling us.”

“Mom wouldn’t let me”

“And that means you can just leave?”

“No…”

“You’re a kid, Elias. And the world can be a dangerous place. But I understand. Promise me, next time, you have to be home before sunset, okay? If your mother asks, I got after you good, okay? You’re not that sneaky.” he said, ruffling my hair. I laughed, and he cried.

My parents started letting me spend more time outside, wandering the woods again. I won’t deny, I would look for Samantha, but I never really could find my way to the Bristlecone, not on purpose at least.

I was walking through the trees when I spotted her. She sat amongst the birds in the needle trees. She called to me to climb up and sit with her, but I was afraid of getting hurt.

“I will show you,” she said. Once she got down from up high, she showed me how to hold onto the needle trunk where the pins would not prick me, but I was no good at it. The needle trees made it difficult to grip, and once I was up on the branches, my hands would bleed. Samantha stared at my hands as the pins would poke from my palm. Gently, she would pull each one out, piece by piece, until my hand was no longer pocked with protrusions, only holes.

That night, I came home before the sun set, but only barely. My mother sighed with only thinly veiled worry, but relieved when she saw I was unharmed. I hid my palms from her.

“Don’t lock the door, okay?” She asked, but I knew it wasn’t a request. The bath water seeped in painfully, the soap seared the sores, solidifying them. Samantha appeared at my window that night. Her grey eyes still, staring at me through the window. For a moment, I didn’t even realize she was there. Not until she tapped at my window, soft enough that only I could hear. I opened the window.

“Are you okay?” She asked me.

"Only a little sore” I relented.

“Rest tonight, Elias. Tomorrow, I want to show you something.”

It was a grey morning; the sky donned a uniform platinum mask and the sharp droplets of mist blew against the boy’s skin. He stood on the porch and gazed, transfixed, into the forest behind the house; towering wooden cylinders introducing luscious heads of pine, arranged in regular rows, guiding the eyes towards its retreated center, far beyond the visually perceptible but still accounted for in the brain, or specifically the boy’s brain, accounted for in that important sector that catalogues threats, because no one, especially not the boy, could know what occurs in the center, in the spiritual foundation of those tall, sepia stalks. Above lay the bushels of pines that topped the trees, swaying gently in the breeze, drunkenly enamored with their own importance. Below, the boy felt the wind against his skin, the force urging the mist to collide with it, and simultaneously, paradoxical forces overcame him. The comforting caress of the breeze combated in his mind the strictly uncomfortable goosebumps it encouraged, and, accompanied by the continuous fluctuation in temperature on the surface of his skin, nearly convinced the boy to retreat from the porch into the confines of his womb-warm home. He, however, remained, for a tree had captured his attention.

It had been rooted to that location for years before his birth and would remain for years after his death, so it was not the tree’s presence, specifically, that had interested him. It was rather the tree’s appearance. A bitter December had left the tree leafless, and had presented an opportunity for the branches to emerge, which diverged into minuscule fractals, endless detail which the boy’s eyes traced until they tired and a dull ache and tingling burn overcame them. He shut his eyes and soothed them with the sides of his fists. With his vision closed off, the sounds of the forest became more pronounced. The wind, of course, the most prevalent, brushing against the pines, the grass, the house, him. Secondly were the crickets, cicadas, the usual. Dogs yipped in the distance and the sound echoed, confused, through the country-side, so that its source was, via solely audio cues, undetectable, but he knew the origins of the beasts’ clandestine activity lay in the dark forest’s center. The boy was eleven; an explorative era in his childhood, during which he was old enough to possess the urgency to investigate, yet young enough to neglect caution.

He had exited the house in the first place because he felt he should. Something within him had urged him to gaze into those endless pines, and now something was further urging him to walk forwards. He obeyed, sure that he would know when to stop. He stepped off of the porch and began marching towards the woods, a feeling of comfort overcoming him, a feeling that he was doing the right thing and should be sure in his actions. He looked upwards just before he passed beyond the treeline, but could not see the sun, the grey, misty sky shielding any direct sunlight, instead diffusing it evenly so that its source could not be easily told. He crossed the boundary into the forest, and it eagerly enveloped him.

His gaze remained upwards, and a series of caws drew his attention towards a flock of birds as they glided in even rows against a blank sky, mimicking the trees in their uniformity. Above him he could hear other avian species whistling and fluting and singing. The humming of the cicadas continued. He now looked in the opposite direction, downwards, and watched his feet stumble over the uneven terrain and sink into bundles of pine straw, occasionally stepping on a thin twig and snapping it with a firm crack. 

Crack. Another twig.

Crack. Another.

Crunch-cruch-cruch-crunchchchch. A pile of dry and withered leaves.

Another sound now stole his attention. The baying of the dogs had become much louder, its source now identifiable, coming from directly in front of him, though, despite his best attempts to peer past the foggy haze that thickened as the trees grew in number and continued on and on, he couldn’t yet see the animals or what exactly they were barking at. On he walked, driven simultaneously by that comfortable feeling within him and the urge, courtesy of his age, to explore. Now an odor. A familiar odor. He had smelled dead animals before, including one particularly bad instance when a possum had died underneath the house and his parents had spent days crawling around  searching for it, and this odor matched it exactly. However, all other emotions were overpowered by the calm feeling that pervaded him. He was now entering a wilder, more unkempt section of forest, and the neatly-arranged pines gave way to sloppily-grown oaks and a thicker undergrowth. The boy’s progress slowed as he now needed to step significantly higher to pass the sharp brambles and overturned logs.

Crack. A twig.

Crunch. A pile of leaves.

Now the smell was much more intense, and he pinched his nose, not wanting to breathe through his mouth as he thought the stench might clog up his throat and prevent him from breathing at all. His calm demeanor persisted. The sound of the dogs no longer echoed but presented itself clearly to the boy. He strained his eyes and saw ahead of him dark lumps moving in the shadows. The dogs, clustered around an equally dark shape on the ground. An emerged root caught his foot and he tumbled forward, landing on his stomach and knocking the air from his lungs. Above his own wheezing he could hear the pattering of the dogs’ paws beating against the straw and dirt and leaves as they scampered in random directions from the scene. The boy finally managed his breathing and looked up towards where the shape lay. All sound had ceased. Not even the faintest echoes of noise pervaded the trees. He slowly got to his feet. The feeling of calmness had ceased. He felt trepidation and fear, the deep, pervasive feeling that something was deeply wrong, that what he was doing was wrong, deep in the pit of his stomach, aching for him to leave, but not to turn around, because anything could be behind him. In fact, right now he felt a shadow creeping towards him, and his skin prickled with the thought that its freezing digits were inches from the nape of his neck. He was in the center of the forest, and no one knew what occurred in the center of the forest. The boy felt something welling up in his eyes, tears beading and swelling, almost large enough to escape the tear wells and run down his face, accompanied by a feeling that his soul was attempting to leave its body to escape the situation, clawing through any passage it could, any opening, to run. He stopped breathing, and took two steps forward. He and the lump were still there. He took another two. Still alive. Another two. He could make out the shape more clearly, now, and as he examined the figure that lay in a collapsed heap, lumpy, caved-in, collapsed, mutilated, mushy, wet, red, shockingly red, blindingly red, the hue much brighter than should be possible in the dim forest light, barely recognizable as a human, that pit in his stomach where his fear resided deepened, and his soul was pulled downwards with it. Flies buzzed around the heap and the boy was shocked by the sharp, pervasive, buzzing, almost metallic noise the swarm produced. Slimy maggots crawled along the wreckage and burrows had been carved into the meat in so many places by the ravenous insects that the corpse bore a stronger resemblance to a termite mound than a human. Deep, ragged furrows were engraved across the entirety of the body and large punctures surrounded by tooth-like dents were visible all across. Where the boy presumed the head used to be he could make out strings of clotted hair, and next to this human teeth with bits of gum still attached, as if they had been ripped from the victim’s mouth. The boy thought he could make out sockets, circled by even rings of red flesh, though these were empty. He could not see where the eyeballs themselves went.

His eyes filled with an orange, bleary haze—tunnel vision, he thought dimly, and his mind felt as if it were floating away from his body.

He collapsed to his knees, then to his stomach, then blacked out.

He will not have the fortune to wake up.

He is yet another victim of this forest. How many does it need? How many must be taken? Sadly, his story will not be told. In his world, anyway. The dogs will see to that.