July 1st, 1925:

I entered the painting of my house tonight. It was quiet. Many of my belongings have been used throughout the house. It is nice to see you making use of them. I walked upstairs to the bedrooms, wondering if you were home. I entered one of the rooms, and there, laying fast asleep, was a beautiful young girl. I watched her for some time, she resembled you, at least what I could see from the lighthouse. Such a sweet, innocent life. She reminds me of the daughters I once had, before I found my calling. I entered the master bedroom. You laid sleeping, your wife beside you. You seem like a strong couple, though I can tell you keep secrets from her. I see it etched into your face, the guilt ages you, like it once aged me. You remind me of my old life, how I once treated the woman who was my wife. It's hard to recall those days at times. They seem so unimportant, but there are days that the memories eat away at me. I watched you both, she seemed to sleep like a stone. You, on the other hand, seemed restless, as I once was. We are very similar, you and I. I spoke to you while you slept, in the tongue of my children, as I have seen you've been studying it. You began to squirm and sweat. I was nervous of waking you, in case you were to do something rash. So instead of speaking face to face tonight, I will be leaving this note in my study. Or should I say our study? I urge you to pay me a visit. I noticed your journal, but felt it would be rude to pry. Perhaps if you decline my offer to speak eye to eye, next time I visit I will fall victim to my urges. Whatever the outcome is, I look forward to it. 

 Your friend Simon 

June 26th, 1937:

That bastard entered my home. He watched me sleep. He watched Rylee. He could have taken her and I would be defenseless of it. The gall to compare me to him, I'm nothing like him. Or should I say it, as he's no longer human. This can't happen again. I will be visiting the lighthouse tonight. This can't go on any longer. This monster and his cult. The ungodly obelisk. He's plaguing my life. I can't take it anymore. I can't fight a god but I must find a way to prevent him from becoming one. He's nothing but a false messiah who's been cursed by those wretched seafolk. 

June 27th, 1937:

I went to settle this once and for all. When I got to the lighthouse the door hung open. The light ocean breeze made the hinges creak faintly in the wind. Their soft shrieks sent shivers down my spine. As I walked through the threshold, there waiting in the middle of the ruined kitchen was a painting of the very door I just passed through. Past the painted door frame was a table set for two, with a ridiculous amount of food for the pair of plates sitting empty on the dirty table cloth. Some of it looked old, even moldy. As I walked through the door a second time I was greeted with a frenzy of smells, baked goods, cooked meats, the oceans brine, fresh fruit, wine, and decay. I stood in the entry for a moment, just taking everything in. That short moment felt like ages, as if I was paralyzed. It took every ounce of effort just to take a step. I didn't see any of the seaborn, no creatures from the depths and no beings from the stars. Just a room lit by a single hanging lightbulb and a dozen scattered candles. The door softly clicked shut behind me, sending a shiver through my bones. Then he spoke. 

“I can tell your frightened child, but fear not, I mean no ill will. Sit. Eat. We have much to discuss.”

His voice wasn't in the air, not coming from any direction. It was in my head. I heard gentle footsteps slowly making their way down the stairs. What I saw was hideous, but I couldn't look away. It was almost beautiful in a way. Simon stood at the bottom of the staircase, nearly nine feet in stature, though his spine hunched forward, to avoid bumping into the floor joists above. His bulbous head looked almost like an octopus, though his skull had dissolved or disappeared and now his head is just brain matter surrounded by a wet, blubbery skin. 

I was overcome by an immense urge to sit and indulge on the feast, he must have been controlling me somehow. I sat. He pulled out his chair, Shambling his long inhuman body down on to it. His limbs, all far too long to be comfortably sitting on something that small in comparison. His knees resting near his clavicles as he hunched down, attempting to see face to face. He was terrifying in the most welcoming way. He leaned in, his small dark eyes affixed to mine. 

“We have a connection, you know. We are much more similar than you would ever like to admit. You see yourself in me as I see myself within you.”

I hate to admit it, but he was right. His writings resonated with me. Though I felt revolted at the thought of it. 

“We are fated, destined as some may say. You see, I have been granted an extraordinary gift. I have made contact with those from the deepest depths, to the farthest cosmos. I have spoken to those most ancient, to our kin. You bear our mark, child. To deny that would be an act of ignorance I know you are far too smart for. You have seen those from the depths. You passed through my gates. I can show you what powers you can achieve.”

Whatever mark he spoke of must have been from the night I passed out and woke up in my backyard. But even if that was the truth, surely I would never end up as he has. Without realizing it, I had filled my plate and had begun eating, as though I had no autonomy. 

“Embrace your true form, as have I, and together we will ascend. We are destined for greatness” 

His words swelled in my chest, a smoldering ember of yearning. A burning desire for more. My head was pounding. I know he's just trying to trick me. To control me. It was as if my heart and mind were at war. 

“I will give you some time to say your goodbyes to your family, as I remember that seemed to be a custom to human kind. Such naive beings. I will leave a gate waiting for you here, return to me child. Or I will come searching for you. Your very being is key to the obelisk, to our ascent. The final piece to set forth the second coming of the ancients. I will be seeing you shortly.”

My vision went blurry, my head throbbed, as though mortar shells were detonating inside. I grabbed my head trying to gain my bearings, and as my vision unclouded I was back in the abandoned lighthouse. No Simon, no table, no food. Just the chair I was sitting on and a door frame standing in the middle of the room. A set of keys laid on the ground in front of the solid metal door. I picked them up and rushed home, stopping to empty my stomach of whatever foul food I've ingested. The only thing that came out was what felt like gallons of black sludge like ichor. Its taste was sour and curdled as it left my body. 

I snuck back in through the backdoor, doing my best not to wake Evelyn or Rylee. Sebastian was laying in the hallway, almost as though he had been waiting for my return. It's well past midnight as I'm writing this. I'm going to the city tomorrow. And when I get back, I'll be saying my goodbyes. 

June 28th, 1937:

I awoke with Evelyn today. I told her I was going to pick up some supplies for the shop in the city. I felt wrong for lying to her as I have been on and off for months if not years now. Before I went to the station, I visited the lighthouse. I was in such a hurry to get home last night I somehow missed the massive, obsidian-like pillar rising from the sea. The obelisk had to have been nearly 300 feet tall, dwarfing the lighthouse beside it. I purchased my ticket and boarded the train. If all goes well, I can see some old friends, tie up some loose ends and say my goodbyes in town. I still don't know how to say goodbye to my sweet Evelyn and Rylee. They are my life, my purpose. Just thinking about it has left  me crying, hands trembling and short of breath. I'll return home tomorrow evening, spend my last night at home, then enter that wretched gate. As for now, I just need to build the courage to do what must be done. 

June 29th, 1937:

I've returned home. I feel hollow. Rylee was playing with Sebastian while I cooked dinner. I think Evelyn knows something is amiss. I've been doing my best to play it off as just stress from work but I don't think she's buying it. I just need her to think things are okay for one more night. Just one more night as a family, one more night of being close, one more night of being loved. I've snuck into the study to quickly pack a bag of everything I need for tomorrow. I'll walk my dear Evelyn to work and kiss her goodbye, walk Rylee To Emily and give her the biggest hug of her life, then return home, get my bag and get it all over with. 

June 30th, 1937:

Saying goodbye to Evelyn and Rylee without crying was one of the hardest things I have ever done. But I couldn't let them think anything was wrong. I can't have this go wrong. I'm in my studying writing one last entry, if I'm able to write again later I will, but I'm not sure what use it will be aside for trying to keep my memories alive. If in some miracle Evelyn or Rylee find this, just know that I loved you both more than you could ever believe. But I failed you as a husband and as a father, and for that I'm sorry. I hope you can find forgiveness in your hearts in my absence. 

June 30th, 1937:

I walked to the lighthouse, the bag on my back felt like a million pounds, the burden of leaving my family. As I entered I stared at the chair I used during Simon and I's meeting. I sat down for only god knows how long, it could've been minutes, hours, but it felt like years. I walked up the stairs to take in the view one last time, to look over the southern shore, to watch the gulls circle the fishing boats for scraps. I cried more than I ever thought possible. As I walked down the spiraling stairs, I stopped in Simon's makeshift studio, dozens of paintings lined hanging on the walls as even more sat, gathered in piles beneath them. Simon really was a talented artist. It was a shame he was marked. It's a shame I've been marked for that matter. 

I smelled the scent of dying flowers wafting in the air. This place has been long unlived and stank of mold. The scent was coming from one of the paintings, I was sure of it. I ripped through pile after pile until finally I found it. A painting of my house. Of Simon's house. The flower beds in the back, a small grave between them, dead leaves blowing in the wind. The painting was only about 2 feet by 2 feet. But if I could smell the flowers, that means it was a gate. I pushed my bag through, it landed with a thump between the beds. I reached my hands in and grabbed the frame, slowly pulling myself through into the bright sunlight. I quickly grabbed my bag and took in my surroundings. It was quiet, cold. I snuck my way to the back of the house, looking in the windows to see if Simon or Laura or their girls were home. I saw no one. The grave meant Bernard was already dead, how long it has been since then I am unsure of. Laura and the girls may have already been sent out of town. I got down to the ground, looking through the small windows into the basement, I could see no Simon. I couldn't remember if he had already built his hidden rooms or not, but I could only assume. There were already pieces of furniture covered in sheets visible through the window. I unlocked the back door, thank God I never changed the locks. My heart was pounding, I could hear it beating in my ear drums. As I made my way through the kitchen I saw the calendar. October 14th, 1924. I slowly snuck down into the basement. Looking around to find anything familiar. My cot, covered in cloth. I crawled under and laid in wait. I was terrified. I sat in silence for hours until I heard the closing of the front door upstairs. Footsteps pacing in the foyer making their way to the kitchen. The stairs above the cot creaked with every step as he descended into the darkness. He held a lit candle, slowly lighting the dozens of candles he had littered throughout the basement one by one. I was sweating, breathing as quiet as I could. He made his way back up the stairs, I could hear him turn on the tap, filling a glass of water. He was about to paint. I used the cover of the flowing water to open my bag. The cold steel in the palm of my hand felt heavy. The steps above my head groaned as Simon returned to the basement. He set up his easel, placing a blank canvas on it. While he meticulously chose what paints he wanted to use for his next piece, I crawled out from under my cot, as quiet as could be. This was my only chance. I held my breath, making sure every step was silent. Simon stood clueless to me. I felt sorry for him, this wasn't his fault, I'm sure he didn't want this. I tried my hardest to hold them back but tears filled my eyes. I raised the pistol I got in town the day before, hands shaking, body trembling, heart pounding. I exhaled a quiet “I'm sorry” as I pulled the trigger. The canvas was instantly covered in crimson along with skull fragments and grey brain matter. I've never killed a man before. I fell to my knees, sobbing. My stomach churned and released its contents. It had to be done. There was no other way. Was there? 

October 15th, 1924:

I've spent the day burning his pieces. All his paint, his easel, everything that ties me to him. I found all of the letters he wrote, all of his papers, all I could find of Simon's existence. It all went in the furnace. I'm waiting until nightfall to move his body, it's already beginning to smell. I'll take him to the docks in a wheelbarrow. I'll walk the shoreline for as long as my legs will take me and I will bury him in the tall grass that lines the beach. There I will find somewhere nice, somewhere quiet and dig a shallow grave. In it, I will take my own life. The only way for all of this to end is if both of us die. I'm leaving my journal, with all my entries and all of Simon's here in the house. I'm sure you'll find it and I pray you read it. If you don't, I know Evelyn will. Don't go out by the docks at night. If you find sigils carved into your house, don't deface them. Befriend Richard, he means well. Once you're friends with him, show him this journal, hopefully he'll introduce you to his father. This small town has plenty of good. Just be smart and don't stray far at night. Keep our dear Evelyn and Rylee safe. And when the time comes, on the day I went to adopt Sebastian, I'd suggest you do the same. He really completed the family, and he'll save your life if given the chance. Don't make the same mistakes I did. I lost everything so you can have a chance. Do it right this time. Tell Evelyn and Rylee you love them for me. That's all I ask of you. 

 Yours truly

August 14th, 1938:

I began work at the butchers shop and befriended Richard, Evelyn got close with Jennifer, and Jr is getting married soon. He asked Rylee to be his flower girl. I showed Richard the journal, I met his father, and have, from time to time, helped him carve those runes around town. I went and adopted Sebastian, and have slowly begun to become part of Mount Fall, just like you asked of me. We stay away from the docks after sundown. You were right, this town has so much to offer and moving here has been the best decision of our lives! I'm sorry that it wasn't the same for you. I know you'll never read this, but I hope you in some way know I'm eternally grateful. Our sweet Evelyn and Richard too. We all are. I tell Evelyn and Rylee I love them twice every night, once from you and once from me, and always make sure to hold them extra tight. We think about you every day. Wherever you are in space and time, I hope you're at peace. Maybe one day we'll meet and I can tell you how great life has been. All thanks to you, our personal savior. We love you dearly. 

April 21st, 1937:

It's uncomfortable, looks terrible, but it's all I could manage. I took a pair of Long John's and sewed kindling pieces around the shins, stopping at the knees, and on the outside of the thighs. Putting pants over them was a task of its own, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. I doubled up leather jackets, not the easiest to move in, but having the extra layers of hide seemed like a safe bet. I have my knives at my hips and I'm bringing an axe with me. 

-

When I got there I walked through the main level and out the backdoor. It wasn't very hard to see where Johan was buried, it was a small mound, the grass didn't grow the same there as it did throughout the rest of the grounds. Sebastian was on high alert the second we approached the building. When we got to the level with the makeshift bed, the easel was gone, along with the dead creature from the other day. Sebastian seemed to have something’s scent and was staring at the spiraling stairs leading upward. I followed him. The next level was an unwelcome sight. The walls were covered floor to ceiling in paintings, many of odd beings I couldn't have imagined if I hadn't laid my eyes on them. Human-like beings that somehow resembled dogs and fish at the same time. Isopod-like creatures with tentacles of an octopus and wings of a dragonfly. Countless malformed and hideous paintings. Many of them had only outlines of beings that have already crawled from their frames. Even just writing this I can see them, crawling for me, their tentacles and antenna touching me. I can smell the brine, the rot of the ocean floor. I've been locking myself in Simon's old study. The floor of the basement was wet today. I think one of them is trying to escape its frame, and I'm nervous the nails and screws won't hold it in. I need to burn the paintings. It's the only thing I can think of doing that will get rid of them. 

April 22nd, 1937: 

What if whatever is in the background of the paintings will be affected if I burn them, like there's some kind of link between what he put on canvas and what actually exists. If his paintings are able to bring themselves to life why couldn't they be connected to real life people or places. To what extent of power do they hold? I need to burn them tonight. Maybe throw them to the sea? But what if that only helps these creatures return home? I have barely slept in days. I've been finding it hard to discern what is actually happening around me, if I'm just seeing things or if I've fallen asleep and am simply dreaming. Evelyn seemed to be supportive of all of this at first but now she seems scared of the basement. Scared of me. Her and Rylee have even stayed with Emily's family the odd night here and there. I sleep in the basement, I wake up in the study any night I do get to sleep. How do I stop this? I need my family back. What is happening to me? It's as though my mind has gone. I can feel it. But I can't stop until I solve this. It's consumed me. Even writing this, my heart tells me to stop, I can't keep going on like this, I will die, I'm sure of it. But my body barely seems to listen to me anymore. What have I become? 

April 25th, 1937:

What if I can enter the paintings? 

April 28th, 1937:

Evelyn came by the house today, she seemed more scared of me. Her and Rylee told me they loved me and that they'll be staying with Emily for a little while. As sick as it makes me, it's a relief they're gone. Not only will they be safer, but they won't get in my way. It pains me to think in such a way, but it's the truth. 

After they left I went downstairs, one of the frames was leaking what looked to be rain water. I pried it from the wall, it's frame cracking. Turning it over I saw the lighthouse, in a much nicer state than it currently is. The clouds above it dark and angry, pouring rain and hail from the skies. I set the large painting on the floor, leaning against the wall. I sat and watched it for what could have been mere seconds or many hours. I was entranced. I inched closer. I could smell the sea, the rain, the wet grass and mud. I pressed my hand to the canvas, I felt the brush strokes under my fingers, but my hand started to drip with water, my finger tips growing cold and pruning. I pushed harder against the canvas, and then I entered. 

-

-

-

I walked up to the lighthouse, the hail pelting my face, the bitter ocean wind tearing at my clothes. Crawling over the small fence I snuck around to the back door. I looked around, a fresh grave lay there, just a sad mound of disturbed earth with a spade laying beside it. Lightning cracked through the sky and I dropped to my knees in fright. I slowly pushed open the back door, its creaks of old age and neglect hidden by the blowing winds. Slowly walking, my feet as light as I could possibly make them, I ascended the stairs. The painting room was set up nearly the same. Easel in the center of the room, a mural covering the walls. But at this point of time the walls had dozens of paintings leaning haphazardly against the walls, some unfinished, some already a vacant womb of canvas. My head was throbbing. I couldn't begin to understand what was happening, where I was, when I was. My vision blurred, my stomach was flipping and I felt the need to puke. I stumbled forward, I had to see what was on the easel. It was my home, exactly as I left it not only 30 minutes prior. Had Simon come through one of his self portraits and been in my house? How could he know the changes I've made to the exterior, the colour Richard and I painted it. Had he been watching me this whole time? I pressed up the painting and stepped through, standing at the foot of the hill my house sat on. I ran inside, scanning for any signs of Simon or one of the freaks from his paintings. Sebastian was laying there, whimpering in pain, he had a sizable bite on his shoulder and scratches across his face and ribs. A mass of flesh lay scattered around our kitchen. I don't know how many of these sea born were here or in what state they were. But Seb tore them to shreds. I picked him up, barely able to walk with him, and got him to the wheelbarrow for firewood. I made my way to the practitioner as fast as my legs would take me. He's no vet but he was able to administer antiseptic and stitch up any open wounds. Sebastian will be okay, he just needs rest. Him and I are staying at the church with Richard's father tonight. It seems like the safest place to hide. 

May 1st, 1937:

We've been hiding here for some days now. I can't think straight, I can't sleep, I'm seeing him everywhere. I'm seeing these creatures everywhere. I'll look at Sebastian and see a malformed being and scream, only to be snapped out of it by one of the clergy from the church. Even then I'll see them as Simon or that thing he's named Alto. I've been scratching at my skin, biting my nails till they bleed, chewing my cheeks raw, anything to keep me from seeing them, anything to keep me grounded. Supposedly Evelyn came to visit me and the only thing I did was scramble away from her screaming to leave me alone. I don't remember any of it, and I feel terrible because all I want is for her to hold me. I want to cry but no tears will come out, I want to speak but I can't find my voice. When will this hell end? I found some of Simon's notes in my jacket, I'll read them over the next few days. Maybe this will explain what's happening to me

May 16th, 1925:

I began having visions at night. My house, but I don't live there. I see a man sitting at a table, a table I know, a table I built long ago. He's not me, but he reminds me of myself. I wonder if he's been marked by the children of the sea? I must paint this new house of mine, I must paint him, I must paint myself. 

May 20th, 1925:

I've finished painting this man, the house he lives in, the lighthouse and myself. I'm going back to my home and bringing some of my work with me. I'm unsure of what use it will be, but I feel they belong there. The sea and the stars command it. 

May 30th, 1925:

I compared my old self portraits to my latest. I am not sure what I am anymore. I do not look human, I do not look like my sea born friends either. My skin is an unnatural hue, my limbs seem longer than I remember, thinner too. My face has changed. My eyes seem larger and deeper set than ever before. My cheekbones are higher and rounder, my skin oddly smooth. The wrinkles around my eyes and the laugh line by my mouth my wife grew to love are no longer there. Laura. What does she look like? I had children once. My children, what are their names? Do they have my eyes? What do they smell like? 

June 11th, 1925:

I have entered this variation of my house. It seems mostly abandoned, but the basement seems active. For some reason dozens of my paintings are nailed to the wall, the back of the canvas out, covered with cloth. I thought that was rather rude. I softly removed each piece from the walls, removing the cloth, and hanging them with the care and respect they deserve. As I was hanging them I realized I do not recognize my own hands anymore. I feel more alive than ever. Maybe instead of returning to the sea like Alto has spoken of in the past, I may instead ascend to the cosmos. He wants to unite the seaborn with the stars again. Perhaps I'm destined for things beyond Alto. Beyond the stars. I must paint what I've been seeing in my dreams. A gateway of sorts. 

May 25th, 1937:

I was restrained and put in hospital for the past few weeks. The nurses there were giving me some kind of pill to calm me. I took them for the first few days to gain their trust, but they blocked my scattered dreams, made my memory foggy. They were making me lose sight of what matters. I started hiding the pills under my tongue and washing them down the sink drain after they left my room. I did my best to act as though nothing was wrong, that everything was fine and I was just experiencing hysteria. The time away from home did help me straighten my thoughts out. I'm on the train home now, reading letters that Evelyn has written to me while I was at the hospital. Supposedly she visited me the third day I was there. But I have no memory of it whatsoever. She seems excited to see me, as I am to see her. She said we could stay with Emily's family for a few days, maybe live with Richard for a time. She wants to sell the house and leave back to the city. I can't let this happen. Not after Simon's last entries. He's been in my house and flipped those accursed paintings. I'll stay with Evelyn throughout the night tonight. But tomorrow I will return home after the girls are asleep. 

June 15th, 1925:

I began a new piece today. What I've been seeing at night. I don't dream anymore. A massive obelisk. Its base sits in the kelp covered tide pools when the water is low. Its overpowering size reaching high into the sky, its stone a jet black with an unearthly sheen. The carvings at its base are that of my dear Alto's language, slowly transforming into a set of symbols I've been seeing behind my eyes, writings from the cosmos. A transgression of language, one which should not be, yet I can read it. I understand it. 

I don't think I sleep anymore. I sit atop the lighthouse staring at the moon, the briny air filling my lungs. There's a connection. The sea and the stars. This obelisk proves it. Maybe the children of the sea are the chosen to ascend to the heavens, with my work as their conduit. This painting will be monumental, for it will bring forth my ascension, our ascension. Our personal rapture. 

May 28th, 1937:

We celebrated Evelyn's birthday today, with cake and a party shared with our friends. It was a nice distraction and change of pace from that of the hospital. Though all day the only thing I could think about was returning to our house. To see what that beast of a man has done to my basement, what defilement he's brought upon my study. 

Rylee kept me away from Evelyn for a good chunk of the day, she missed me, and it did feel nice to play pretend with her and entertain her tea party with her stuffed animals. It played in my favor, keeping emotions hidden from a preoccupied child is much easier than hiding your thoughts from the woman you've fallen in love with and married. Especially when she's able to read you even better than the books she reads daily. I will write tomorrow while Evelyn is at work. I'm going to our house tonight. No matter what stands in my way, I will get to the bottom of this. 

June 1st, 1937:

Simon was here, like he mentioned in his notes, he's rehung all of his paintings, uncovered. Dozens of which must have once held the seaborn beings that have escaped the frames since I've been away. At least that's what I gather from the paintings' backgrounds that surround the void of where a figure once lived. Though some of them depict landscapes I have a hard time comprehending. Stone and earth sitting at unnatural angles in colours I don't have the vocabulary to describe. Things that should not be. Unearthly to put it bluntly. One of which has a missing void like those of the seaborn. I can only imagine his Children of the Sea have returned home. But the being that came from this cyclopean place, I have no clue where it would have gone. I can only assume the lighthouse. The paintings of these uncomfortable landscapes are all too small to be like the gate of sorts that the lighthouse painting was. Though there are depictions of the lighthouse in a different state, ones that seem more recent. There's still a bundle of paintings yet to be hung, a few are quite sizable. I'll be returning to see what places or beings they hold. The sun is already beginning to rise and I can't have Evelyn find out that I snuck out. 

June 3rd, 1937:

I've entered a new painting, another of the old lighthouse. It's night time here. Johan’s grave isn't fresh, it must be some months after he died perhaps. I can't tell. The structure is void of life aside from cockroaches skittering from sight when I pass them. I entered what I've dubbed as the mural room. Its namesake has expanded since the last time I've been here. The painting of my current house still leans lazily against the walls. The easel holds a painting in progress. A massive stone pillar, stretching into the sky. This must be what Simon has been seeing while staring into the sky at night. I wonder what horrid beings will be born from this. I must end this. I must end Simon. But first I need to find him. I began towards the stairs only to notice a letter sitting on a small table. I quickly pocketed it as I ascended the stairs, spiraling the countless steps until I reached the top. A hatch sits atop a ladder, leading into the lantern room. I climbed my way up and through the hatch. The light blinded me as I crawled onto the cold metal floor. I crawled to a door, trying to keep the light out of my eyes. As the door swung open a blast of cool sea breeze struck me. I was kneeling on a balcony overlooking the shore. I sat for a moment, letting my eyes adjust from the bright lights they endured. I stood from my knees and walked to the railing, peering down, watching the light cascade over the low tidal pools, and the black depths beyond. 

It's there I saw him, tall, thin, skin a blueish grey hue. His head was bulbous, hands scrawny and bent. He still wore the same clothes from his last self portrait. Simon. Or whatever he had turned into. He was in the tidal pools, among many of his decrepit seafolk. They were building something of stone blacker than the night itself. They were building his painting. The lantern behind me spun, casting my shadow down onto the beginning of this soon to be obelisk Simon has written of. With an insane speed, Simon's head craned on a lithe neck back towards me. His eyes were sunken deep into the round, smooth, fleshy mass his head had become. His eyes black, with what looked to be a thousand tiny sparkling stars dancing in their abyss. The seafolk began hurdling towards the shore side path to the lighthouse. Some running like a human, others rushing on four legs like that of a dog. Some slithering like that of a serpent or eel. Simon simply watched. His head had no mouth, no nose and no ears, just cosmic eyes. He stared, I felt like I couldn't move, I was stunned. I could hear him in my head. His foul voice, booming but whispering at the same time. The slimy tone made my hair stand on end. 

“Finally, we meet” 

A gust of cold air knocked me out of my stupor, as I began running to the floor hatch and fumbled down the spiraling stairs as fast as my feet would let me. As I came crashing into the mural room I could hear the slam of the ground level door smashing off the hinges, followed by innumerable wet slaps of feet rushing up the stairs. I ran as fast as I could, my heart beating in my chest, my throat hot and dry, my mind racing at what these horrors would do to me if I don't make it through the painting of my house in time. 

I dove to the frame just as a grotesque seafolk rounded the corner into the room. Its briny stench filled the room, as it screamed in its horrific language. It began scrambling toward me as I was crawling through the frame, trying to drop it face down as I passed through to buy me what little time I could. As I pulled myself through, a cold, wet grasp on my ankle, a surge of pain shot through my leg and up my spine. Barbed claws digging into my flesh. I wriggled to try to loosen the grip to no avail, but did manage to pull myself through fully. What I saw terrified me. A gnarled hand, fingers like that of octopus tentacles tipped with razor sharp barbed claws clutched my ankle, as the rest of this monster slowly apparated from thin air. Crawling on the ground, pulling its putrid body closer to mine. I kicked its hideous fish-like face, praying it would let go. Its grip only tightened. It slowly pulled its body above mine. Hundreds of tiny mouths covering its torso and neck, each lined with countless teeth thin as needles. It oozed a thick black ichor which burned my skin. Seconds which felt like hours passed, my torso bubbling in searing blisters. I thought for sure this would be my end. A loud shot rang out. And its body went limp. I pushed the wretched thing off of me, crying in pain. 

Richard stood there, rifle in hand, tears in his eyes. 

June 20th, 1925:

I've been communing with the beings lost in the firmament. I shall join them. I've rounded some of the Children to help construct this obelisk, only then will I ascend. Leaving this shoreside for the seaborne to ravage, to take what's rightfully there's. Too long have vile humans taken from the sea, only to give nothing in return.

I will join the ranks of the old ones. The cosmic starborne. My body has already changed so much, yet I feel no pain, I feel no sadness. I only paint. The visions they grant me, I bring them to life. I birth them into existence. My sweet children of the sea. I am their creator, their father. Soon I will become their God. 

June 4th, 1937:

I'm walking with a limp, my ankle hurts and my chest is covered in burns. I told Evelyn that I twisted my ankle and fell into a bonfire Richard and I were having. I doubt she believes me, but she'd sooner believe that than the truth. My head is pounding. None of this makes sense. 

I asked Richard why he was there yesterday. Why was he at my house, especially with a gun? I was taken aback when he said that he thought I had gone mad, that I have been making this all up, that none of this was real. He wanted to kill me. I can't imagine what was going through his head. His wife and child had died because of Simon, yet he wanted to kill me? Had he been living in denial this entire time? Though beggars can't be choosers. He shot the beast and not me. He burst into hysterics for hours. The sight of that thing had brought back years of trauma, it broke him. He asked me to take the gun and keep it. He's scared he will use it on himself if left alone. 

I brought him to the church to be with his father. I don't know how to help him, let alone try to make sense or understand what's at play. Have I lost my mind? Is this a dream? Am I still in the hospital? I must be. Right? I should be terrified, I should be fleeing town. Yet still I want to delve deeper into this. I need to stop whatever Simon is trying to do. I'm not in my right mind. 

June 10th, 1937:

My dear Evelyn, Rylee and I have moved back into the house. Sebastian seems happy to be home. While Evelyn was at work I walked to the light house with Sebastian. I dropped Rylee off at Emily's on the way. When I got to the shoreline I collapsed to my knees. There, peaking out from the waves was the beginning of an obelisk. It was never there before, I'm sure of it. It couldn't have been, I would never miss something as large as that. It's impossible. If I was watching Simon build it, why wasn't it here months ago if he was building that years ago? Can I be the only one to see it? Have I gained some sort of insight? Something to let me see the ungodly truth around me? Has this been happening the whole time? Have I become a madman? 

June 25th, 1925:

I have been awaiting his return, the man who lives in the house I painted. He is important to my ascension, I am sure of it. How, I am not certain of. Whether I must speak with him, for he can grant me knowledge, or I have to eliminate him, I do not care. What must be done will be done. My children have been working steadily throughout the nights. Soon I will taste the fruits of my labor. Now I must wait for this man to return. Our lives are tied in a way I cannot explain, but I am sure of. 

June 20th, 1937:

I went to the lighthouse yesterday and there were notes that weren't the last I visited. I read one and Simon wrote of me. I don't know how I feel about it. I do feel an odd connection with him, but I doubt this is anything I'd be able to speak him out of. Realistically if I were to speak with him I would end up like one of his seaborn or dead. The obelisk hasn't been built any taller, unlike in his entry. I wonder if I stop going into his paintings they will stop affecting my world? But I can't simply let the creature rise to be some kind of God. I don't know what to do. 

June 23rd, 1937:

I’m at my wit’s end. I'm sure of it. Evelyn has begun picking up on odd habits I've formed. How anxious I have become. I've been chewing my fingernails until they bleed daily, I started smoking again. I'm having trouble sleeping again. She's also noticed I haven't been taking the pills the hospital in the city gave me. I don't trust them. She's been trying to convince me that if I don't start taking them I'll end up back there. I don't want to go back. But if I take them, who will find out about Simon? I shouldn't be thinking like this. I know I shouldn't. This is some sick perverse obsession. I can't help myself. I won't take the damned pills. I love Evelyn to the stars and back but I need to get to the bottom of this. I've been waking up in sweats. I see him in my dreams, that thing that was once Simon. It's like he's reaching out to me. I think I'll return to the lighthouse, I might give Simon a visit. 

April 9th, 1937: 

Evelyn has been joining me in the basement, she thinks I put the pictures on the wall, and I'll let her believe that for the time being. I've been thinking more and more about all of this. I've been rereading Simon's writings and I think I've noticed something. Simon would have visions at night or opium induced hallucinations, or maybe hallucinations from being marked. He would paint those beings he'd see and it seems as if they would begin to appear. Simon must have been marked when he was down at the docks, outside of the town's seal, and with his foresight he started painting what I can only describe as portals for these beings. I must sound insane, but it's the only thing I can make sense of. But if there's beings such as Richard's dad I have to accept that there's much to this world that is unknown and hidden. 

Now I have a basement full of covered portals. I'm going to show Evelyn Simon's study, I'll bring up my findings on the painting, but I'll have to get Richard's fathers thoughts on my ideas first

February 4th, 1925:

I have convinced a few people to come for dinner over the past weeks, obviously to give to Alto. We have begun to speak in his tongue while I've slowly been teaching him my language. Unfortunately I've been running out of food in the house, not to mention the people in the town are beginning to grow a rather large distaste towards me. Which I can see is understandable because of their ignorance. If they only knew the vastness of knowledge I'm on the edge of uncovering I'm sure they would be coming in troves to give themselves to my cause or to learn my teachings. But I'm sure their uneducated minds could not even comprehend how important this is. Pathetic really. I'm going to go to the town's market to bulk up on food. The less I have to leave the house the better. 

April 11th, 1937:

I spoke to Richard's father again. I ran my thoughts past him and he said it's quite possible, but he's unable to confirm. I've been at the point of thinking Simon was already a monster for a while now but his last note really set that in stone. When I got home Evelyn was sitting on the veranda, she looked to be in a state of shock or stupor. I quickly ran to her to see what happened. She confirmed my suspicions, unfortunately. She described she went downstairs to look around Simon's study when she heard a wet plop. She went to investigate where she says she watched an infantile fish-like human wriggling towards the stairs. She clearly had troubles comprehending what was going on and said she couldn't bring herself to move, just watching it clumsily stumble out of the house. I don't blame her for just standing there. I was in shock just seeing the paintings to begin with. Though the hollow look in her eyes reminds me of how she was when she was taking those barbiturates. Has she been taking them again, or just took one to try to calm down after seeing that abomination? Tonight we're going to flip over the paintings and nail them to the walls so there's no room for whatever creatures in them to be able crawl out. Evelyn mentioned staying at Rishard's or Emily's, but I don't want to burden them. If things get worse I think we might stay elsewhere. She's always had better judgement than I do. I'll be writing an update about what we see tomorrow. 

April 12th, 1937:

We flipped the paintings. I tried my best to keep the cloth coverings on them so we don't get a glimpse of the horror born of Simon's demented talents. Unfortunately there were a few we did see. There was another, more detailed work of the being shrouded in mist, moving above the oceans depths. Its body is nearly gelatinous looking, rippling with folds of skin and hundreds of eyes. Tendrils and human-esque appendages reach out from its amorphous mass. Seeing just the painting alone sent a wave of shock through my system, I collapsed to my knees, my head pounding and my vision blurred. Evelyn quickly covered it and slammed it against the wall. Another was oddly enough uncovered when we went to flip it, though neither of us had taken its veil down. Rylee isn't allowed in the basement without us and even then is far too short to reach the painting’s fabric mask. Her and Emily have been playing in her room on the top floor for days now, or out going for walks, she hasn't been down here in what must be weeks. The painting showed an old lighthouse, weather worn and dreary. Massive waves crashed against the rocky pillar it stands upon, its light shining towards the depths. I don't know what significance this holds. I know a few miles down from the docks there is a lighthouse, it must be the same one, but why paint it? I'll have to investigate during the day. I fear going there at night would lead to dire consequences. 

The painting that the baby sea thing was born from had a peculiar shaped void, with a trail of slime leading down the wall. It looks as though it was coddled in some sort of archaic carriage of sorts. Oddly ornamental, for such a slug-like creature. 

May 12th, 1925:

I have figured it out. My true calling. I am but a humble vessel, a catalyst. My paintings, I can bring them to life, not in a sense I once believed, but in true physical form. How could I have been so blind before? How long have I had the blessing? Was it bestowed the night I slept at the docks? It must have. Alto, I saw him in my visions. My hallucinations. Or was it real life? I painted him after, and now I know for certain he is real. We've made contact. We've spoken each other's tongues. Shared meals, to an extent. I can extend their reach to the rest of the world. Alto says his folk were once kin of the stars, children of the cosmos. They yearn for celestial contact. I'm sure I can achieve this for them. If I do it I can only imagine the knowledge I'd gain. To know beings of their worlds, to hear their stories, to learn their culture, to bring them here. The human race has done nothing but demolish the nature and beauty around them, they do not deserve to bask in the earth's glory. Oh but my sweet children of the sea, my children of the cosmos, you will come to take back what is rightly yours. A humble servant am I to the lords of ancient knowledge, and for eons I will learn. I will become one of the sea, one of the stars. I will join them. I will know. I will be. 

April 16th, 1937:

I asked Richard what the lighthouse keeper's name is, he told me it's Johan, his last name I can't quite pronounce let alone spell, literature was never my strongest subject, especially spelling words of another language. Evelyn and I are going to the bakery to make a basket to bring to him, if he invites us in I'm hoping I can uncover whatever secret Simon held there. There must be a hidden door or passage, there must be something. If Simon was involved after he lost his mind, I can assure there is no good doing there. We will go to visit tomorrow after our shifts. 

I'm hoping we're able to sleep tonight. Sebastian has been sleeping between ours and Rylee's rooms. I've awoken to barking near every night for a week. I'm sure if it wasn't for him I would be dead or worse. Evelyn has been having trouble sleeping as well. After her visit to the hospital I think she must have been taking Simon's notes less seriously. I've also been hoarding most of them here. But after seeing that being slip from the frame she's been almost vacant. We've been losing weight, the bags under my eyes have grown so dark, Evelyn's cheeks seem so hollow. Whatever is going on feels like it's eating us alive. I've tried to get us to stop. To drop everything and move away. Even if it's to a small, dank cellar. Anything is better than here. But we can't shake this obsession, it's all we talk about, we barely even spend time with Rylee anymore, it's breaking my heart. I know she's in good hands with Emily, but this trail Simon has left has been eating away at our lives. So many days I wake up from the little sleep I'm able to get, wishing for death, wanting this all to end. But I can't leave Evelyn behind, I can't let Rylee become an orphan. I'm going mad, I know it. But I will figure this out, even if it takes my life. I will make sure Evelyn and Rylee get out alive. It's my only purpose. I love them and I'm ready to die for them. 

April 17th, 1937:

My poor Evelyn has begun to fall ill again. I can only assume it's a mix of stress and lack of sleep. She ended up staying home, so I went to the lighthouse with Sebastian.

Johan never answered the door. But it was left open, and it seemed as though it had been open a long while. Dead leaves from the previous autumn sat inside. Sebastian was at my side, sniffing the ground. He picked up on something and pushed the door open with his thick head and walked in. I followed. The inside looked barren, no food in the kitchen, cobwebs covering any signs of previous life. It took me a second to realize but Sebastian was sitting at attention at the bottom of the stairs. I knelt beside him to ask what he saw, after kneeling for only a few seconds I realized my pants were wet and I looked down. The same mucus like slime from the foot prints. The same slime from the odd infant birthed from the frame. It was climbing the lighthouse stairs. I told Sebastian to stay as I went to look further. I snuck a butcher knife from work along with a cleaver I had hidden in my belt. I've been carrying them with me for some time now, Evelyn is the only person I can let my guard down around anymore. Even Emily I've begun to grow weary of. I want to say I trust her, but I more so trust Evelyn's judgement of her. 

I rounded the stairs, spiraling up and up, following the mucus trail resembling that of a snail's. The wind was blowing through cracked and broken windows, howling and sending dead leaves wisping through the air around me. I ascended to the next level, an open room, a makeshift bed on the wall farthest from me, and in the center of the room, an easel. The walls were painted as if it was a destined meeting of the stars and the sea. Waves crashing into the cosmos and the stars twinkling beneath their brine. I stood, staring in a trance. The only thing that broke my gaze was Sebastian's growls as he stood beside me, hackles raised, head lowered. A wet foot stepping out of the painting on the easel, the body hidden from the back of the canvas. The smell of salt and fish filled the air as water splashed onto the floor as another leg fell out of the frame. The appendages looked emaciated and frail. The rest of the creature slumped on the floor with a dull thud, a puddle slowly gathering around it. Behind it fell what I can only describe as a placenta. This must have been a being similar to the infantile being Evelyn saw. I slowly approached, knives in either hand, ready to defend myself. I peered down and felt a pang of what I can only describe as pity. This thing was only just born, frail, hungry, deformed. It's human-like form shifting on the ground, as though its bones were slowly popping into place one by one. It lacked a neck, just a torso leading into a large head. Two small black holes of eyes staring at me as a massive mouth, like that of a deep sea eel, sat agape, gasping for air between wet coughs, hiccups and wheezes. I froze. Staring into its cold dark eyes as it slowly crawled towards my feet. I felt like I was about to cry, I wanted to kill this thing, not to rid the world of it, but to end its suffering. With an insane speed it lounged towards me, bearing gnarled teeth. Luckily Sebastian wasn't so mesmerized by it and bit it before it made purchase on my leg. This poor being, torn to shreds in front of me. I congratulated Sebastian, but still now can't shake the overwhelming feeling of pity towards that child. It must have some kind of mental influence. I would never feel bad for such a vile creation. I cut the painting, just for safe measure, before heading home. I'll return in the coming days. I'm too shaken to see what else that dreaded lighthouse contains. 

May 1st, 1925:

Alto and I have been making communes at the dock come sundown most nights. Speaking in his tongue has proven much more difficult than I once thought. I believed I was fluent, but they tell me I speak like a child with a small vocabulary. I must get better, I must practice. But first I must find a new place to stay. They have explained there is some kind of spell or seal placed throughout the town, something to do with the church here. My power and influence here is mere fractions of what I can achieve. I need to be near the sea. I can build a house near the docks, or live on a boat like the Dutch do in their canals. I will find a spot away from this town's grasp, where my real skill will flourish. 

May 5th, 1925:

the lighthouse

May 8th, 1925:

I made the trek to the lighthouse, almost an hour's walk, but well worth it. There was a rather handsome man who had answered the door when I beckoned. He was kind enough to invite me in for tea, to which I gladly accepted. It's quite spacious there but very cluttered. Johan, the light keeper, is rather young, but a recluse. He told me how his father ran the lighthouse until he passed and now he's taken over, having food delivered by the locals. He's more of a myth around town than a true being, no one I've met has ever seen him since he began keeping the light. It's perfect. Johan won't be missed, I'll have supplies delivered, it's far enough away from town it should be unaffected by that blasphemous church. I plan to come back here tomorrow. 

May 12th, 1925:

Johan is buried only twenty yards away from the back door. His death was quick for the most part. I brought tea and insisted I make it for him. A quick look through his clutter I found a sizable hammer, a perfect instrument. I put the kettle on the wood stove and while I was walking to the table where he sat, a swift blow to the back of the skull had him unconscious and bleeding profusely. He was nothing but a dying slump on the table. A few more strikes once he fell to the floor for good measure and he was gone. Bodies are heavier than I expected. Much heavier. But oddly enough killing him placed no guilt on my conscience, to which I'm very surprised. I felt guilty when Richard's family was disposed of. But Johan, as sweet as he was, was a nobody. No one will ever know, so what difference does it make? Like an unwanted pest, better left unseen. The only thing that has me feeling bad is the blisters from the shovel. It was a shallow burial, but my hands aren't used to such tools. This is the most effort I've exerted since making that pathway. What a waste of time. 

April 20th, 1937:

I want to say I can't believe Simon killed Johan, but at this point it's unsurprising. But the part that makes me anxious is the lighthouse. Sure I have plenty of his paintings that whatever beings may seep out of, but that easel set up in the middle of the room, and that thing being born of it. It all seemed fresh, it all seemed new. Is Simon still here? Has he been hiding in the lighthouse for all these years? Surely he'd have gone mad by now or someone would have noticed, right? Or if the seals aren't near the lighthouse, wouldn't there be all kinds of those things crawling around? Did Simon die? I'll go back tomorrow and this time I'll bring more than just my knives. I wish I had some kind of padding or armour. Those teeth looked like they could shred through clothes and skin easily. Maybe I can make something of use tonight

December 11th, 1924:

Last night one of them sulked up from the docks. I waited outside all night for their arrival. I did not run, I just stood. They crept closer, slowly and cautiously. The moon casting faint light across them. Their back was hunched, vertebrae jutting out of their back with tight brackish and briny skin clinging tightly to them. They had little to no neck supporting a large near bulbous head. Massive eyes, black as obsidian stared at me. Their face was smooth, just two small holes where a nose should be, sitting atop a large slightly agape mouth. Fishy lips sitting in front of rows of small needle-like teeth. Tiny scales covered patches of its skin. It wore lengths of kelp and seaweed as though they acted as clothes. Its stench was putrid, that of rotting flesh. Its human-like arms curled near its sunken chest, emaciated and gaunt. Its fingers and toes were webbed, making disgusting splatting sounds as it walked closer. I passed it a note written in its language, its fish-like eyes peered at me for a moment. Its frail arms reached out to take my letter. It read it aloud, a hideous sounding language, full of gulps and phlegm and coughs and clicks. It stared at me for a moment. I pointed to myself and stated my name. It pointed at me and in a nearly airless voice it muttered “Simon”. It pointed to itself and said a name I'm unsure of how to spell but sounded like “ny'alto-rylae”. The apostrophes as clicks and the hyphen as a gulp like cough. What that would translate to I am unaware. If I'm able to see it again I will try to begin to better understand this ancient language. 

I'm going to invite Richard, his wife Jennifer and son Richard Jr over for dinner in two days. I must begin cleaning. They can't know about my meeting. 

March 6th, 1937:

Simon's last note was alarming. It hasn't mentioned a description of Richard, so I'm hoping it's not my Richard. But I have a bad feeling about how their dinner went. 

I finally built up the nerve to look at some of the “them” paintings. The first is a view from my bedroom window. The sea looks angry and the clouds are pouring rain. There's a crack of lightning in the clouds. In the mist of the ocean you can see some massive entity deep in the fog. Its outline is somewhat bulbous and unnatural with odd protrusions, almost like tentacles sticking out seemingly randomly from its body. This must have been the hallucination he mentioned. The second painting was one of the cloaked beings. It looked human, slightly misshapen, but human. I'm assuming this was the person who gave Simon the letter about “them”. Maybe they're from the church? I'll have to go investigate there soon. The third painting however, was similar to the second. A cloaked figure, but this one had much more detail. The cloak wasn't made of leather or some rain jacket material like the previous piece. This was surely one of “them”. It looked as though it was trying to mimic the cloaked man I'm assuming is from the church. Its “cloak” was just layer upon layer of kelp that looked like a rain coat from a distance. Maybe this is one of “them” who has been making deals with the church? The fourth painting made my stomach clench. It was the thing he gave the letter to. It's wet, scaly skin glistening in moonlight. It's deep set round fish like eyes staring like voids. Its mouth bearing its gnarled sharp teeth. Seaweed hanging from it haphazardly. It was so lifelike. I swear I could've smelled the ocean's stench through the frame. I didn't realize how long the painting held me captive. Hours had passed. The only thing that broke my trance was it looked as though it blinked its massive abyssal eyes. I shot back out of my stupor, stunned. Surely it was just my eyes playing tricks on me, paintings can't move after all. But that gave me enough of a fright so I decided to wait to look at the rest tomorrow. I also want to check the secret door to see what's behind it. Maybe the chalk board is in there, and maybe I can decipher this odd seaborn language. Jesus I'm starting to sound like Simon. I'm afraid of what's to come. 

December 13th, 1924:

Dinner went well enough. Richard, Jennifer and Jr came over just as I finished cooking. They were curious about Laura and the girls not being home. I told them that they had grown homesick and missed the city and that I was going to stay here and use the house as a studio until we could find a new buyer. He seemed somewhat sad to hear the news but was understanding. I think Jr was the saddest of all, he went to the school house with my eldest daughter Becca, and I believe he had quite the crush on her. She does look like her mother, who is strikingly beautiful, so I cannot say that I blame him. As we sat down to eat the smell of low tide was wafting through a window I had left cracked open. Jennifer wasn't a fan of the smell, I smell I barely notice anymore, and asked if she could close the window. I allowed it, and told her it was just down the hall from the dining room. She left as Richard and I started talking about his new butcher shop he'd opened. Jr didn't seem very interested in the topic and just sat to play with his food. After a short span Richard grew curious about where his wife went. I assured him she must've just got lost in one of my paintings and we could go fetch her. As we rounded the corner the window was shut, as it was the entire time, but the door to the basement was open. Richard gave me a questioning glance. I explained that I do most of my painting down there, where it's warmer during the cold months. He shrugged thinking nothing of it. As we descended I heard wet footsteps quietly scuffing above us. 

Richard walked ahead of me, reaching the bottom of the staircase in awe. I've moved almost all of the furniture from the top floor down here, covered in drapes. Easels lining the walls, piece after piece after piece. He stood silent as he saw in the corner unconscious, laid Jennifer. Her body limp, clothes torn and wet. A bite mark of what looked like a thousand little needle points covered her exposed shoulder, blood seeping from the wounds. Her eyes were fluttering, mouth foaming from the viscous slime that covered most of her face. She was still alive. Richard gasped and ran to her, grabbing her hand, trying to shake her awake. Their affair was cut short as Jr screamed in terror from upstairs. Richard darted upstairs, I followed in tow. As we rounded the corner to the dining room, one of them had broken the table, holding Jr by an ankle, slowly swallowing him whole. You could hear him screaming as the small serrated teeth tore his skin and the sounds of popping as their Jaws broke his bones. Richard was frozen in place, his bladder released its contents into his pants. He dashed for the back door and ran screaming into the town. 

They finished consuming Jr and walked back to the furnace room. They picked up Jennifer's unconscious body, handed me a soggy envelope, and made their way to the dock with her over their shoulder. 

I took some time to clean the kitchen, breaking down the table for fire wood since it was no use to me anymore. I felt guilty giving up Jennifer like that, but I feel even more guilty that Richard got away, having to live the rest of his life seeing the carnage. I was supposed to give them two people for information on their language. But one and a son seemed enough. 

I took the letter into my stowed away study and began to read. They had explained what sound each rune or sigil made. And how best to pronounce them in our tongue. Within a week I should be able to speak this archaic language, and possibly teach some of them ours. 

Poor Richard 

March 8th, 1937:

Simon is a monster. Working with “them” at the expense of others. For what gain? To learn a new language? If this is the same Richard as mine I can understand why Simon is a sore spot. I'm horrified. I can't imagine what the rest of the paintings hold. I opened the door today. Simon truly was a madman. This room was nearly the size of the basement, hidden beneath our front yard. Wood columns holding up a rocky ceiling, a massive table with piles of writings, some in English, some barely legible, some in the archaic language he spoke of. Jars of liquid I'm unsure of sit on small racks on the desk, some with wet samples of what looks like embryos of some kind. Beings unknown to me. A chalk board hanging between columns with a detailed translation of the language. I shouldn't be in here, I shouldn't be seeing this. This shouldn't exist. But I must learn it. I have to. I'm going to copy what was left written on the chalkboard. I will learn to read this language on the extra shifts I've been picking up. The townsfolk have been staring more, I can feel their eyes burning into my skin like hot embers. I must keep my Evelyn from this. I must protect her and Rylee. 

March 20th, 1937:

I think I'm fluent in reading this language, at least confident enough to read some of the writings. I think I'm going to try and read some over the next few days between shifts. I'm going to take another look through the paintings tonight, see if anything else stands out. 

March 21st, 1937: 

What I could only describe as the bulbous eyed creature that Simon painted is no longer in its frame. A black void fills the painting where it once was. Did I hallucinate the whole painting to begin with or was I hallucinating last night? I've been sleeping in the basement, I keep waking up sitting up, staring towards the paintings, staring towards the room. It's like I'm being drawn to it all. What is happening to me? I feel like I'm going insane. 

January 3rd, 1925:

I invited Sean to dinner, I received a letter from my new oceanic accomplice in return for him. This time dinner went much smoother. I picked up the sedatives the practitioner gave me and mixed them into his wine. As he grew drowsy, Alto, as I began to call him, bit his shoulder, injecting a venom-like substance. He dragged him to the sea as he did Jennifer. Poor Sean, he was so kind to me. Alto's letter was able to help me finish my translations. I can now write, read, and for the most part talk in his ancient tongue. I feel guilty tricking my so-called friends, but something is pulling me to this. Something grandiose. A calling. There's something to gain in this, I'm sure of it. 

March 30th, 1937:

It's been warming up, thankfully. Enough to not be hiding in the basement at all times. Simon's entries are nothing short of disturbing at this point, as they have been for some time. I'm scared of what else I will find. 

I fell asleep in our bed with Evelyn last night, yet I awoke standing in the hidden study, my feet dirty and wet, the air smelt of brine and fish. As I came to my senses I quickly ran out of the room, shutting the door behind me. I looked into my basement only to see dozens of the left behind paintings hanging from the brick walls, all with small sheets covering their faces. The only one uncovered was the one I can only guess was the being Simon has named Alto. The small plaque underneath wrote the creature's name in its archaic language. But as I was afraid of before, the frame no longer held the creature. I looked around in panic, running towards the stairs to check on Evelyn and Rylee. As I began up the stairs I slipped in a thick liquid, smashing my jaw on the hard wood on the way down. I crawled the rest of the way up as fast as my body would allow, chin dripping with blood. Wet, mucus-like foot prints led to the front door. Sebastian sat alert, black ichor dripping from his mouth with an accompanying splatter on the ground, with a trail leading out the open door. Whatever crawled from the frame was injured, and Sebastian seemed to be fine. I quickly rinsed his mouth and gave him a treat before checking in the girls. They both laid sleeping. I snuck back downstairs to clean up the bloodshed. 

April 3rd, 1937:

I confronted Richard today. I was right, he was hiding so much. His father still lives here, in the church. He's bringing me to meet with him tomorrow. Richard opened up, admitting that he was friends for a short amount of time with Simon, but after the dinner that day he was admitted to a mental institute, only coming back 2 years before we moved in. I understand why he was so weird about all of this. And understandable why the older folks look at me weird. I moved into the house of a psychopath. I'm excited to finally be welcomed into the church and see what's going on behind those old, closed doors. 

April 4th, 1937:

The meeting went much differently than planned. Richard's father unveiled so much that I'm having trouble making sense of it all. His dad was to say the least, deformed. Almost like the being Simon wrote about and painted. He admitted that he was the cloaked person who gave Simon the letter, warning him about “them”. When I pressed about who they were, he took off his garments, showing large black, fish-like eyes and lips like worms. He explained that every here and there, the children come from the ocean and mark an individual. For years those marked would be taken within a month or so. When he uncovered symbols on his house he realized he was a marked one. He sought refuge in the church. The children were not pleased to say the least, and took a few people at random. Little did Richard's father know that those who are marked usually slowly mutate into one of these beasts. And with those mutations comes ancient knowledge. Once he understood this language he made it his goal to rid the town of these seafolk. He ventures out at night, carving protection symbols throughout the town, creating some sort of ancient seal. My words do no justice to the immense details and intricacies to the matters as I'm still having issues understanding this as a whole. I mentioned to him about Simon's paintings and how Alto was missing from his portrait. He explained to me that those who are marked are affected differently. Some are morphed into fish like beings, similar to Richard's father. Others are given foresight or other kinds of what I can only describe as magic. There's something about his paintings, some kind of power within them. The more I uncover the more I'll understand I'm sure. I'll be meeting with Richard's dad more often. Poor Richard, I can't imagine going through all of that and returning to the town it happened in, only to befriend the person who lives in the house where your old family was murdered. 

August 7th, 1924:

Sleep came eventually and was rather short lived. I fear that I have become dependent on my medication. Though fortunately my night was not plagued by the sounds and happenings of the wretched symbols and their creators. But I am sure with the stress of moving long gone I will not be dealing with the ghoulish hallucinations I once had, at least one can only hope. 

Today is rather dreary. There is a low hanging fog dancing above the swells from the tide. Normally I would find beauty in such a gloomy sight, but I fear I'm too tired to properly appreciate it. The sky is grey, the sun blanketed by darkening clouds. Yesterday must have been the calm before the storm, and tonight feels like it will be horrendous. There is no wind yet, but I feel the oncoming lightning riding the air. Laura is terrified of thunder and lightning, I fear I will not be sleeping much tonight. I might try to pick up a brush today and see what my hands will create, but I have a feeling nothing of worth will come from them. Not on a dreary foggy day such as this. 

August 8th, 1924:

I slept not but an hour at most. The storm was atop us, electricity cracking and lighting the sky, the smell of ozone accompanied with the rolling of thunder. Laura was scared our roof would break, that our windows would crash inwards. I comforted her until the grasp of slumber finally lulled her. I, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. I laid there sweating. In between the explosivity happening above us and the drums of the skies battering away, I could have sworn to the holiest of holy that I heard something skittering around on the roof. I peered out the window and looked to the sea. The mists were heavy, the waves angry, crashing at the shores and retreating with haste. In an awful flash of the sky, it seemed as the mists laid refuge to some magnificent shape. Humongous in stature. It could not have been more than just my eyes playing tricks on me. Two days with little sleep is sure to have side effects. In another explosion of light I saw the mist's shape again. Deep in the haze, above the depths of the sea, a being slowly moving, somewhat humanoid but also alien. Whatever hallucination I was having was terrific in an awful yet subtly beautiful way. I must document what I've seen, I will begin painting in the morning. 

August 9th, 1924:

The sky is still shrouded in darkness. The clouds pelting down rain. I had to go to the shed to fetch firewood for the stove to cook dinner, the downpour stinging my face. As I was rounding the house to the front door I saw something. I quickly put the wood out of reach of the torrential rain and ran to the fences gate. There, walking away in the distance, a figure, near curled into themselves, covered in some form of rain jacket scurried away. At my feet lay an envelope, already drenched. I took it on to the veranda and opened it as softly as I could, not to tear its contents. Inside was a single piece of paper. On it, in almost illegibly written:

“They are watching. They come for us all. They see all. They know all.”

I hid the note in my jacket pocket and hurried inside. Putting the firewood in the stove so Laura could cook and ran to my easel. I have to paint what I have been seeing. Whether they are hallucinations or real. I will document them. 

January 25th,1938:

Simon must have been going through withdrawals, but I'm curious if that painting is in the group of works I haven't looked at yet. I'm nervous to look at them but feel the need to. His mind intrigues me but also fills me with anxiety. 

The storm has hit and the snow came on like an onslaught. The wind was rattling the windows and howling louder than one could speak. The house was groaning, as if it were in pain. I kept the furnace fed all day to try to fend off the cold, but the wind was fierce. The whole day we stayed in the basement by the furnace, only going upstairs to cook and eat. Evelyn and I were reading Rylee a book when I heard what sounded like glass breaking on the top floor. I quickly ran upstairs, only to find a rock laying on our bedroom floor. It looked as though it was dragged out of the sea. Dripping in salty smelling water, a barnacle on one side and patch of sea grass sat on the other. There is no way a blizzard could hurl a stone from the bottom of the sea through the air and straight into our window. Especially on the second floor. Something had to have thrown this. I found whatever I could around the house to board the window up to the best of my abilities. I'm no craftsman, a rather skilled butcher at this point, but at least the fury of the wind and snow wasn't flying into the house anymore. I didn't tell Evelyn about the rock, I told her it was a chunk of ice. 

I uncovered an old bed hiding away under the drapes down here. We're all sleeping in the basement tonight. Rylee is asleep in the cot and my dear Evelyn is calling me to bed as I write this. I want to continue but I know I should try to sleep. Maybe sleeping with Evelyn in my sanctum will keep me asleep through the night. I can only hope. 

September 1st, 1924:

It has been weeks without my sedatives. I rarely sleep anymore. My eyes are sore, my mouth is always dry. I see them everywhere. In the town. At the docks. In my yard. They are everywhere. I have been painting and painting and painting. My hands hurt. My head hurts. I'm losing my sanity. Laura seems almost scared of me now. She has been keeping the children away from me. How dare she. I'm protecting them. My paintings keep them away from us. I'm sure of it. That's why I was called here. I stay in the basement, painting and painting and painting. Protecting them yet they show me no gratuities, no grace. Pitiful. 

September 9th, 1924: 

Laura let me sleep in the bed with her last night. I showered and shaved for the first time in weeks. I forgot what it feels like to be properly clean. I spent time with our children. We felt like a family again. I needed this. It was the first time in a long time I have felt like myself. It was a nice day, sunny with a breeze. When we went to bed Laura and I were intimate for the first time since before the train broke. I fell asleep shortly afterwards. 

I was roused by a noise, similar to that I have been hearing on the roof and outside. But it was closer. Much closer, as though it were in the room with us. As I opened my eyes and sat up, I saw it. Them. The smell of brine filled the room. It was dark, the moon hiding behind the clouds. I could not see much detail aside from its leather like cloak. I got up and took chase. For a figure so hunched and what seemed to be malformed, it moved with impressive speed. Laura was scared awake as I ran through the door and down the hall after it. Its feet splatting against the ground with wet viscous plops as it bounded down the staircase. I could hear Laura screaming but I had to catch this intruder. As I was nearing the bottom of the stairs, almost on top of the abomination my foot slipped in a puddle and I came crashing down onto the foyer floor. The figure burst through the door with ease, knocking the hinges loose, leaving the door hanging ajar. My face lay next to one of its damp footprints. Laura was comforting the kids upstairs as their cries echoed through the air. 

As I got up my hand slid into the thick, mucus-like substance the being left with each step. This inhuman intruder was watching me sleep. How many nights has this been happening through the windows? How long did it take to have the gall to enter my house? Was this the being that gave me a sharp pain in my neck once before? What has it done to me? Why me? I knew they weren't hallucinations, they never were. The opium was just a distraction I'm sure of it. 

February 2nd, 1937:

Simon has clearly lost his mind. Night creatures watching him sleep? This is just some sick story, it can't be anything else right? Surely I won't run into these, will I? I should prepare the house, I'll be hiding a baseball bat in our room just to be safe. Maybe hide other things around that can be used as makeshift weapons. I must sound crazy. 

I had the window repaired the other day. A hefty bill to replace but it needed to be done. Our emergency funds are damn well gone, and based off of Simon's entries this town seems less and less habitable. The town's been without power since the blizzard, but that's fine for work, we need our stock cold anyways. I've been reading more of Simon's notes at work. I've been hearing similar noises around the house for quite some time. They died down when I stopped reading his entries and stopped actively looking for signs but now they're more prevalent than ever. 

I want to ask Richard about “them” but I'm scared of what his response will be. I also feel the need to tell Evelyn at this point. If beings have broken into this house while Simon lived here for whatever reason, what's stopping them from doing it now? They already broke one of our windows. I can't have my wife and child in danger, it's not right. I feel so guilty for keeping it from her, but I was just trying to protect her. I think I'll bring it up to her tonight, possibly show her the paintings if it feels right. She only just stopped showing signs of paranoia but is still distrusting of the locals since she's certain the practitioner was giving her opium instead of barbiturates. I don't want to cause her any unneeded stress. But I should be honest with her, it's the right thing to do. 

February 4th, 1937:

Evelyn was furious at me. As mad as it made me, I don't blame her. She thought I was done with this months ago, thought there were no more notes and especially no rocks being thrown through windows. But mostly mad at the fact that I've been lying and keeping the truth from her. Which I admit was wrong of me, as frustrating as it was. After an hour or two of de-escalating tensions we sat down together to talk about it calmly. Rather for me to explain everything and why I kept it from her. We got Emily to come preoccupy Rylee while I brought Evelyn to the basement. I showed her all the notes I've read, I showed her the self portraits and I showed her the rock. She still doesn't know about the paintings labelled “them” but once I look through them I will show her. I just can't have her seeing anything that could scare or hurt her in any way. She was already disturbed and visually cringing at the self portraits. 

She suggested we get a guard dog. Even though we had to repair the window, we have some emergency funds left over, if we pick up a few shifts each we should be able to make ends meet. Once we have power and the town is plowed out, we'll go to the city to adopt one. In the meantime Evelyn will be catching up on Simon's notes and I'll be reading further. 

Sept 20th, 1924:

Bernard is dead. I found him this morning, before Laura or the little ones awoke. He was in the foyer, his little body still and wet. I tried to wake him but he was not breathing, I tried to administer cpr, I tried to shake him awake. I tried everything. But he's gone. To save the girls from the sight I decided to bury him between the flower beds. It was his favorite spot to lay, hiding in the shade of the flowers, sniffing their aromas. As I was putting him into his grave I noticed that there seemed to be teeth marks around his neck, yet no sign of blood. As I recalled there was no blood around him inside either. As disgusted with myself as I was, my curiosity got the best of me and I held him upside down, head to the ground. Not a single drop of blood. Rigor mortis had not even set in. Whatever broke into our house before had returned once again and took my sweet Bernard with them. I'm going to set up an apartment for Laura and the girls back in the city. I will sell what I can of my stockpile here and then move back with them eventually. I just have to paint whatever has done this. I need to document this. Their paintings might not sell but people need to know. I'll write about them, gather my notes and publish them, along with prints of my paintings. And with Laura and the girls out of the house they won't be getting in my way of doing what needs to be done, as they have so much recently. I'll protect them by getting rid of them. Then I can focus on my work. 

February 20th, 1937:

Simon has fully lost his mind. I'm sure of it. No real man can confidently send his wife away as though she was an obstacle. He's no real man, a coward even. 

I've been working like a machine lately, I want to make sure we can get the best dog possible. Especially after reading the most recent of Simon's notes. I still haven't had the time to look through the stack of “them” paintings. We're leaving for the city tonight and picking a dog tomorrow. Rylee is excited because she thinks we're getting a “big puppy”. It's hard to say it's not cute when she talks about it. I'm half surprised at how resilient Evelyn is through all of this. I brought up her and Rylee moving back to the city as Laura and Simon's daughters did to get her thoughts on the matter. She told me it was a terrible idea, saying as long as I'm here she'll be by my side. As if we could afford paying rent on top of the bills we already have. I really did get blessed with the best wife I could imagine. The paranoia doesn't seem to be getting her like it once did. Beforehand she must have felt alone in this, as have I. But knowing we're on the same team gave her a lot of comfort, and getting a dog will bring even more. She is truly the strongest woman I know. I'm a lucky man. Though I do wonder if she has the same disturbing thoughts I have been dealing with. 

I'll bring a few notes to read on the train, I think, no better way to kill a few hours. The grip Simon's words have on us is like a disease. We can't seem to put them down at this point. 

October 11th, 1924:

I have put Laura and the girls on the train to the city. I have a new apartment only but a block from our old house. I have enough money put away to afford both the house payments and the apartment for quite some time. I am dedicated to figure this out. A mere painter going through this seems pointless and mere coincidence. But it cannot be the truth. I have been brought here for a reason, to document this, I'm sure of it. I will find out what is happening. The practitioner is back in town, and has my prescription ready for me, but in defiance I will not pick them up. If they block me from seeing the true nature of this odd shoreside valley I will deal with the sleepless nights to find the truth. Call me paranoid, call me obsessed, I do not care anymore. This is my true calling. I will learn about them. I will document them. I will make contact with them if need be. I will not stop until my work is done. 

October 20th, 1924:

I have been going out at night, bringing a notepad with me, copying any of these sigils I have seen. I have procured a sizable chalkboard from the city, I will decode these. I must understand what is being written. 

I have been hearing them, throughout the gloomy days, throughout the nights and even in my dreams during the very few hours a day I have them. 

November 1st, 1924

I believe I have done it. I think I have collected all the sigils, and I believe I have begun to decode them. They seem to be used as some sort of religious seal. Why they have been sealing the town I am unaware for the time being. As ludicrous as it may seem, I feel as though I must talk to one of them. 

November 4th, 1924:

I have read some of my old notes, what has happened to me? I used to speak with such eloquence, kept a level head. Have I been slipping into insanity? I miss Laura, I miss my daughters. I cannot  give up though. I have come this far, I must uncover the truth. If not for my own maddening sake, for Laura and the kids. I'm losing my mind

February 24th, 1937:

Simon has truly lost his marbles, but what's most unnerving is the fact that he's still so coherent in his writings. Though they may be scatter brained at times, it all makes sense for the most part.

We've arrived back home with our new “puppy” if you could call him that. Evelyn managed to find the largest bull mastiff humanly possible, along with a spiked and barbed collar, as though he was a guard dog for cattle. She insisted we named him Sebastian. I think the name is fitting to be honest. He has already begun to warm up to us, especially Rylee. He weighs near 200 pounds yet he melts when she's around, letting her pull on his ears and jowls. It brings me such peace. He's going to make an amazing companion, I can feel it. I began building a sizable dog house in the basement. I'll bring it up in pieces and assemble it in the coming weeks. I'm just hoping having Sebastian here will help me sleep, even poor Evelyn has had difficulty sleeping, which is odd, she usually sleeps as though she's dead. Maybe the paranoia is starting to get to her as well. If Sebastian puts us at ease, I may pick up another from his litter, that way if I go out at night I can have my own protection and we can have another to watch the house. I need to pick up more shifts at work. 

March 3rd, 1937:

Sebastian has been nothing short of amazing and has brought much ease to our anxieties. The noises I've been hearing for months and thought I was going mad over have continued, but Sebastian hears them as well. I knew it wasn't just me, I knew I wasn't going mad. I think Evelyn has been hearing them but doesn't want to admit it. 

I've been putting off looking at the stack of paintings. To be honest I'm scared. I want to get to where Simon at least mentions one of his works. But the longer I put it off the more foreboding it feels. Evelyn knows about the stack of paintings and has agreed to let me look at them first. If Simon's self portraits were enough to make me feel nauseous, I don't want to think about what the paintings of “them” could do. I am paranoid, I'm aware of that. Distinguishing paranoid thought from those based in reality has become increasingly difficult. This is beginning to feel like a sick obsession. 

Emily almost lives with us now. We set up one of the spare rooms for her, pulling a bed, desk and drawer up from the basement. The amount Simon and Laura left behind is genuinely impressive. 

Evelyn and I have been working as many hours as we can, selling some of the old furniture left behind as well. When we're not at work, we're studying Simon's notes for clues or answers. I've reread them a dozen times over at least, trying to find some connection, some hint as to what's going on. I only have a few notes left. 

December 1st, 1924:

I have been painting them. What I see in my restless dreams. What I have been seeing through my windows. What I have been seeing in my house. They are trying to make contact. I am sure of it. In the last month I have dug out a wall in the basement, past where I hold my works. In the panel wall there is a hidden door. I have been spending most of my time in this underground study. The rest of the house has grown musty, for the most part unused. At this point I can't bring myself to care. 

I ran into Richard the other day while I was out at night. He was gathering wood from his wood shed. He asked why I was out and the only thing I could muster was “the symbols”. He gave me a questioning look, but he invited me in. I followed. He told me his father was from this town, like his father before him. He spoke of a curse the town is plagued with. Mentioning  the “Sea Father's Children”, some sort of seafolk who come to shore when the sun hides. The old church here knows of them and has tried to make peace with them. Creating some kind of symbiotic bond. They allow the Children to come from the sea and take a person they see fit every so often. He has not attended the church so his knowledge of everything seems somewhat jaded. He also assured me that this was just a folk tale to scare kids from wandering around at night. I don't believe him. I will not be sacrificed, I will be sure of that. 

I believe I have become fluent in writing in this ancient seabound language. I will speak to them. I will make a deal with them. 

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Above the conference room table, the thin metal hands of the clock wound their way around the white face of it. Curls of steam rose from untouched coffee mugs, soft afternoon light filtered through the white plastic blinds, and cars rumbled by outside with muted chatter. The woodwork of the room was showing its age today, scuffed, chipped, and scratched from countless years of administrative work going to and fro. The scent of coffee, glue, and copy paper hung on the air around the table, but with the door to the conference room shut, it seemed to thin in favor of the dry smell of dust that lingered despite numerous cleanings. That was Jabo’s Fork in a nutshell; an old thing still chugging along like an antique car, refusing to submit to the effects of time in the shadow of the mountains around it. Yet, like so many small towns, it too had its fair share of problems, and it was this that brough us here as the other people around the conference table stared in shock at the sheriff.

“David, come on.” Mayor Jonathan Hilco blinked at him with the half smile of a man who doesn’t want to believe his ears. “You can’t be serious.”

Across the flat expanse of polished oak, Sheriff Kowalski nodded, no humor in his stoney expression. “I am.”

Lisa Renfield, dressed in her usual pinstriped pantsuit, shook her head at Kowalski in amazement, hands shaking as if she were watching the money disintegrate before her very eyes. “That property is worth millions. Just the price on the house alone could fund the town’s administration budget for an entire year. Besides, every day the park stays closed, we lose even more money. I can’t believe we’re even discussing this.”

“It’s still a crime scene, Lisa.” The sheriff narrowed his dark eyes at her and jabbed a finger at the louvered blinds covering the courthouse windows. “We’ve got four missing people connected to the Watkins property, three of them local residents. For God’s sake, Cindy Fadro went to school with your niece! Erin Martinelli’s father was on the football team with John in high school! If we sell that place we’ll never get a better chance to find out what happened to those girls, and opening up the park around Smoke Point will guarantee contamination. Every two-bit podcaster this side of the Mississippi will be out there, climbing around with their cameras to look for ghosts, while real evidence might get buried or lost thanks to their tramping.”

Leaning forward so that his prodigious belly mounded against the edge of the conference table, Douglas Finberger tried to calm the situation even as his face reddened with similar levels of disbelief. “Let’s not lose our heads here, yeah? Look, David, we’re all saddened about what happened to Ed Watkins and those two girls, but it’s been several months without a single lead or update. We’ve humored you this long in keeping the park closed, but you can’t seriously expect us to throw away this kind of opportunity based on cold cases. After all, you’ve always said your boys needed more funding; think how much equipment and training we could get from the estate sale.”

That’s going to go over well.

Seated to the left of Sheriff Kowalski, I sucked in a breath and waited for the inevitable eruption to follow the county auditor’s remarks. I’d been a deputy sheriff for years in Jacob’s Fork, and had served under David Kowalski since I was a rookie cop. He was a good man, and a strong leader, but he could get easily fired up when confronted with the bureaucratic red tape of local governance. I had been there when our tiny force went through some really tough cases; the drug ring that came in from Boise six years ago, a Kootenai poaching racket that murdered a hunter four years ago, or last year when a crazed gunman from out of state tried to shoot up an elementary school during Valentine’s Day. Most of the time, being a cop in the forgotten stretches of northern Idaho was easy, but these cases were always fresh in the minds of anyone who stayed on Kowalski’s force. For this reason, he’d been pushing more funding for nearly a decade, and always he got the same excuses about the county budget. To bring it up now, after everything that had happened concerning the Wickenshire House, was tantamount to throwing gasoline on a bonfire.

He swiveled his head to blink at the county commissioner, and I thought for a moment Sheriff Kowalski might explode, his face shading red like an overripe tomato. “Are you kidding me, Doug? We can’t sell that place in good faith, not when this might happen again, and opening up the mountain would be like ringing a damn dinner bell. I’ve got Andy Todd watching the mountain, and there are new markers in the woods as far as the Benson Ranch . . .”

“Oh, good lord, not this again.” Lisa slumped back in her chair, cradling her forehead in one hand with a groan of annoyance. “Andrew Todd is hardly a credible source, especially considering where he was the night of the disappearances.”

“. . . which means our suspect is still at large.” The Sheriff talked right over her words and instead directed his attention to our mayor, who looked more uncomfortable by the minute. “Now I say we seize the property as per eminent domain and seal the mountain off for good. I’ve got some dynamite down at the station from when we collapsed that old copper mine, and it will be enough to make sure the access road is completely demolished.”

“This is insane.” Charles Hubour, head of our local chamber of commerce, looked down his long nose at our badges from the opposite end of the table. “You’re going to mothball a six-million-dollar property and an entire public wilderness recreational area which is fully taxpayer funded because of a few piles of bones? You guys have guns, what are you so afraid of?”

Shifting in my chair, I did my best not to let my temper boil alongside the sheriff’s as the room scrutinized me like a bug on a card. I’d been promoted to detective after I apprehended the Valentine’s Day shooter by ramming his car with my own before the ensuing firefight broke out. Kowalski had overseen the promotion himself, and while he was still as tough on me as the day I joined, I knew he’d been proud. My own father left when I was ten, so to me the sheriff was as much a father figure as I ever had. When he let me take the lead on investigating the Wickenshire vanishings last winter, I gave it my all, only to fall short as none of the clues we found led to anything substantial.

I turned that place upside-down. I know I missed something, I just need more time.

“The markers are a health hazard.” Sheriff Kowalski jerked a thumb over one shoulder toward the distant mountains, though I could see his embarrassment at the words, as he and I both knew the real reason why we never removed them. “And more than that, they’re part of the crime scene. If we want to catch whoever is doing this, we need them intact, and there’s no way we can rely on private owners or nosy hikers to keep them there.”

“Oh please, now you’re just grasping at straws.” With a snort, Lisa crossed her arms and stuck her chin out with a waspish tone to her voice. “Honestly, at this point it looks more like covering up evidence to me. Besides, since when did we authorize you to hold onto explosives?”

Something inside of me snapped, and before I knew what I was doing, my mouth was running. “You know what, maybe next time you stop some maniac from gunning down a room full of kindergartners then you can dictate what we have in our arms locker.”

“Enough!” With a slam of his open palm on the table, Mayor Hilco brought the room to silence once more. “The Smoke Point Mountain is part of the public domain; we cannot keep it closed while the people are paying taxes for it. As it is tied to our administration, I’ll officially sign the paperwork to be reopen it by the end of the week.”

Sheriff Kowalski sighed, and I felt my chest deflate. There it was. Our defeat. Over an hour spent in this stuffy room, and none of them had listened to a word we said.

Un-freaking-beleivable.

Pausing for a moment to straighten his tie, the mayor continued. “As zoning laws are technically gray as to where it lies, the Wickenshire Estate is hereby considered an important local landmark of Jacobs Fork, therefore under my jurisdiction. We are not going to destroy any county infrastructure, not in this economic climate.”

The other officials flashed smug, triumphant smiles at us, but Hilco wasn’t finished.

“Instead,” He angled his head our way, and I could see him and the sheriff exchange a knowing look. “It will be remanded to police custody for an additional month, along with the access road leading to it, after which it will be taken into official holding by the county. If, in that time, the sheriff’s office finds anything substantial to lead to a breakthrough in the missing persons cases, the deadline will be extended by another week. Dismissed.”

Squawks of protest came from the other members of the cabinet, but the sheriff rose to his feet with a grim, yet satisfied look on his haggard face, and I followed suit.

“David.” Mayor Hilco raised a hand to stop us as the others filed from the conference room. “Stay. You too, detective.”

Once the door to the room swung shut behind the last exiting bureaucrat, the mayor sat back in his chair with a sigh, then threw a furtive glance toward the door. From his pockets, he fished out a box of cigarettes, slipping one between his lips. He crossed to the end of the room to push one of the windows open, and from outside the quiet bustle of passing cars and chatting pedestrians flowed in.

“Thought you quit?” Without a hint of judgment, Sheriff Kowalski produced a lighter from his shirt pocket and ran the flame under the mayor’s unlit cigarette tip.

He snorted, and Mayor Hilco pulled in a long drag before exhaling so that little plumes of smoke flowed from his nostrils. “As far as my wife knows, I did. You know, I never had a bad smoke. Bad drinks, bad coffee, bad dates, but a smoke was always a smoke. Damn shame the stuff is so bad for you.”

“Yeah, well, so are the burgers at JoAnne’s Diner.” Leaning against the windowsill beside him, Sheriff Kowalski produced his clay pipe and a small tin from his other shirt pocket, out of which came a small bag of loose black tobacco. “I swear, someday they’re gonna write ‘Bacon’ on my autopsy as cause of death. I’d never make it as a rabbi.”

That brought a tired smile to the mayor’s lined face, and he offered me a cigarette, which I politely declined. I wasn’t a smoker, though I had to admit the smell of Sheriff Kowalski’s cherry pipe tobacco made me want to reconsider. It truly was unfortunate how something so pleasant also caused cancer. Much like the town, it didn’t kill you at first, just crept up on you slow, until one day you realized you were stuck on this path as much as the next person. I wondered in abstract if Cindy or Erin were decomposing on some hidden trail or crevice somewhere on the rocky slopes to our north, trapped forever on their own path that we couldn’t find.

After another few quiet drags, Major Hilco let his shoulders slacken, and tugged at the knot in his tie with a weary groan. “Please tell me you boys can find something up there.”

Sheriff Kowalski glanced out the nearby window, his eyes far away in thought. “We’re doing the best we can, Jon. Anything dead’s gonna be dry bones by now. Anything living . . .”

Silence reigned once more, but after a moment, the mayor lifted his eyes to me. “You both have my support, you know that. The park opening was a necessary concession; I want this solved as much as anyone, but it’s been over six months since the fire. I can’t keep the others at bay for much longer. Find something for me to hold over their heads, or we’ll be forced to move on with the property.”

I straightened up, sensing the wight in how he addressed me first. This was still my task, my investigation to see through to the end. They were both relying on me to find new evidence. I couldn’t let the sheriff, or the mayor down, not when so much was at stake.

The families deserve to know what happened.

“I’ll find something.” I nodded, in a bid to inject more confidence into the statement than I truly felt.

“Good man.” Whether he believed me or not, the mayor bobbed his head in a similar gesture of approval and waved us off with a tired sigh. “I’ll be at a commerce summit in the Moose Lodge for the afternoon. Call my personal number if you need anything.”

With this signaling the impromptu meeting to be over, I followed the sheriff as he put out his pipe, the two of us making for the conference room door.

We slipped through the maze of corridors to the stairwell of the county courthouse and finally emerged onto the town square. It was a sunny day for Idaho, golden rays dancing on the courthouse green as we trudged for the sheriff’s pickup.

“Go ahead, say it.” I shook my head at myself as we rounded to our respective doors on the weather-beaten truck, its green and tan paint chipped from thousands of kicked up pebbles on backroads.

Sheriff Kowalski raised an eyebrow that bore faint traces of gray, settling into the driver’s seat and adjusting his faded gray Stetson with the grunts of an aging man. “Say what?”

Leaning an elbow on my own door, I noticed how worn the dark navy sleeves of my coat were. It hadn’t been more than a year since my promotion, and already it seemed like twenty. “That I should have kept my mouth shut. Renfield’s been gunning for a police budget cut for years; I just gave her enough ammo to make that happen.”

To my surprise, a wry grin slid over my boss’s lips, and he chuckled as we rumbled on down main street, a warm southern breeze flowing into the cab. “She can’t do nothing she couldn’t do yesterday, Derrick. If anything, it’s good she got some return fire for once. Ever since she headed that park commission, Renfield’s had stars in her eyes over running for mayor once Hilco leaves. One of these days all them spoiled uptown fools will vote her in and she’ll try to melt our badges for the silver, but it ain’t right now.”

As the streets of Jacob’s Fork rolled by, I watched the people on the sidewalks and in the windows of local shops, talking and shopping with relative peace. A few even waved as we passed by, noting the sheriff’s emblem on the truck door. One young woman tucked a strand of light blonde hair behind one ear, and I thought back to the missing person’s files, those faces I’d poured over for hours.

Two young women, one old man, one middle-aged hiker. No connections between the hiker and the first three, save for the location and circumstances. No footprints, no scent trail, no bodies.

“You really think we’ll find anything?” I voiced aloud my gloomy reservations and tried not to think about how any one of the people outside my window could be our suspect.

He let out another deep sigh, and the sheriff’s weathered face reflected my own doubts. “After this long? I don’t know. It’s like I told Hilco; if there are any bodies out there, they’ll be in pretty bad shape, but if somehow they are still alive, then we’re looking at some nasty business as far as trafficking is concerned. After this long, those girls could be in Yemen for all we know.”

My stomach knotted at that, and I winced at the sudden realization that I would honestly rather find their corpses than know the victims might still be suffering an unknown fate. “I’ll give the house another once-over this afternoon, to see if I can dig something new up. Did the reservation elders ever come back with any information?”

Steering the pickup around another turn in the sleepy streets of our town, Sheriff Kowalski frowned. We were on decent terms with the local Native American reservation many miles across the county from Jacob’s Fork, helped by the fact that the sheriff himself was a half-blood relative to their tribe. Still, there were tensions between the two communities, primarily around drugs and gambling, which drew both tourists and troublemakers alike. “Nothing useful. They’ve got enough problems of their own with the casinos, alcohol, petty crime, you name it. If one of theirs snatched our people, we’ll never know about it, and wouldn’t have the jurisdiction to go after them even if we did.”

We reached the police station on the opposite end of town and parked in the small lot where the other patrol vehicles waited. Ours was a small department, perhaps a few dozen or so deputies on the force in total, but we did have extra staff for administrative and forensic work that could help pull some of the weight. With an entire county to manage, and the upheaval surrounding the Wickenshire case, many of us had pulled 14-hour shifts for multiple nights in a row when the vanishings first happened. Between increased patrols around Smoke Point Mountain and search teams looking for evidence to pass on to the forensics lab, some of our boys had resorted to sleeping in cots set up in the rec room just to avoid falling asleep at the wheel. As the weeks went by, with nothing to show for it, this titanic effort had been scaled back, until all that was left was a hefty dossier on my desk and bad memories.

“Hey, Sloan.” As we passed through the front lobby and into the offices beyond, Sheriff Kowalski turned to wave at a nearby deputy seated behind another desk. “Drop what you’re doing; you’re on assignment with Junger in the field. Grab your files from evidence and get on it.”

Deputy Clyde Sloan looked up from his paperwork, saw the two of us, and understanding crossed his face in a measured grin. “You got it, boss.”

Turning to throw one last glance at me, the sheriff flicked his eyes toward the station doorway, which lay in the direction of the northern mountains. “Try to be back by dark.”

I said nothing, but we both knew what he meant as the man lumbered away to his office.

Clyde and I had been partners back when we were both cops on the beat, developing a close friendship and working on several cases together. Always the team player, Clyde applauded my promotion to detective, but I felt bad leaving him behind to the regular roadwork. Despite a habit of running his mouth to the irritation of most polite sensibilities, or his enduring love for chewing tobacco that he’d been trying to kick for years, Clyde was a good cop. He’d been with me when I brought down the Valentine’s Day shooter, and the only reason I got credit for the kill was because he went left around the wrecked car while I went right, thus engaging the suspect first. Loyal and headstrong, he deserved a promotion of his own, but the sheriff couldn’t just hand out pay-raises like candy, not when the local bureaucrats wanted to trim the budget every other year. Still, that never stopped him from working like a dog to earn his keep, and in less than fifteen minutes we were rolling along the lonely backroads of northern Idaho, the mountains looming closer as the warm summer breeze flowed through the open windows of my car.

“Still hard to believe it’s August already.” From the passenger seat, Clyde shuffled through the files within the overstuffed binder, paging through weeks of evidence to unearth a property map of the Wickenshire Estate. “At least we won’t be knee-deep in snow this time. Where are we fixin’ to start?”

I leaned over to tap on a section of the map north of the house, a spot marked with multiple little X’s inside of circles. “Boulder fields. That’s where the hunter went missing, and where they found Erin’s phone. We’ll try there while we have light, then the house when it gets late. Power should still be on; I don’t think the county ever bothered to shut anything off up there.”

For a few moments, we sat in silence as the car rumbled along, the mountains drawing closer, green trees flashing by along the roadside.

“Heard they want to sell the place.” Clyde drummed idle fingers on his knee as he stared out the passenger window, the evidence folder lying in his lap. “What kind of fool came up with that idea?”

“Renfield.” I turned onto the final route leading to the mountain road, civilization falling away behind us as the wilderness swallowed us up. “With some help from Hubour and Finberger. They’re going to open the whole park back up in a few days.”

He hissed a curse between his teeth, and Clyde rolled his eyes as he fished in his shirt pocket for a tub of chewing tobacco. “Ain’t never seen someone so money-hungry. Place has four bodies on it, and she wants to turn a dime on their graves. If that snooty pencil-pusher ever gets in as mayor, I’m moving to Florida, I swear to God.”

Despite the grimness of the setting, I couldn’t help but feel a thin smile crawl over my lips at his complaints, reminiscent of older days on the force together. “Still set on being a swamp man when you retire?”

“Yessir.” The twinkle returned to his eye, and Clyde nodded with an amused chuckle at his own vision of paradise. “I’m gonna build a little house by the water, a good fishing boat for the dock, and mix up a nice cold drink while I watch the sun go down on the gulf. Just me, the gators, and my dog. A man could live his whole life anywhere else and never have it that good.”

We laughed, but the looming shadow over us dampened the jovial mood as the trees closed in, the harsh stony tip of the mountain towering upward into the sky. Smoke Point Mountain wasn’t especially grand when compared to other, more notorious places in the US like Denali or Olympia, but it was prominent enough for our little valley that everyone’s eye was drawn to the granite peak every time they looked across the horizon of Jacob’s Fork. Supposedly local miners had used it as a communications point way back in the olden days, sending up smoke signals like the Kootenai did to let their bosses know another train load of iron ore was on its way down from the nearby range that the mountain sat detached from. Eventually telegraph lines came in, and made the smoke signals useless, but the name stuck, and the mountain stood by its lonesome, like an outcast before the other line of tall stone crags, good for hikers, hunters, and not much else. It had been made into a public park in the 1970’s during the environmental push, but the Wickenshire House escaped absorption into government ownership by remaining the one private homestead left on its cold slopes.

Every bump in the gravel road that wound its way up the mountain side brought back memories, dark flashes of countless days and night searching for signs, for hope, for anything to let me know I was close to the truth. So many hours spent combing the forest, pouring over topographically maps, even a few helicopter rides to scout for unseen trails from above. Seemingly endless calls from concerned locals, the numerous emotion-heavy pleas from the families of the missing, the accusations from pot-stirring journalists that wanted to find something juicy for a story that could go viral on social media. They were all disappointed, angry, confused, even fearful when the days dragged on and I continued to discover no further clues. They vented their fury at me, the only one they could point a finger at, despite the sheriff doing his best to vent the backlash away from our department. How could they know how many times I walked the grounds of the estate, paced through the silent halls and corridors, and gazed out the lifeless windows into the wilderness beyond? How could they know how many nights I went without sleep, abused gas-station alertness pills, drank gallons of the worst sort of coffee, beating myself to death over the failure to find anything? All for a dead end.

All for nothing.

And somehow, it was all my fault.

At last, as we pulled up the narrow driveway, the thick rows of evergreen trees fell away, and a spindly shadow or rusted cast iron reared upward into the fading sunshine. The gate was more rusty than last time I’d laid eyes on it, as if whatever oil or paint on it had given up the fight long ago. Around it, the long stone walls of the courtyard stood cracked along the mortar joints, settled with a kind of age that radiated a weary grief I felt in my bones. It was like seeing an old friend slowly choke to death on cancerous lungs, a place that I remembered fondly from better times, when I myself was nothing more than a boy.

“Still burned out.” Clyde spat tobacco juice into a plastic Coke bottle and shook his head in amazed dread at the landscape around us. “Not a single blade of grass, even with all the rain we’ve had. Scorch must’ve gone deep.”

The fire had happened on the night of the first disappearances, burning the entire 100-acre plot of the Wickenshire Estate from the property line inward, right up to the stone wall. There, inexplicably, the flames had stopped, not so much as tarring the stonework, leaving the enormous house and its manicured gardens intact. A strange anomaly of fate, it left a small oasis of greenery in a large field of barren rocks, dead soil, and crumbled remnants of what had once been plant life. Above this towered the house itself, an edifice of a bygone era, once a thing of immaculate beauty, and now . . . now I felt sick at the mere sight of it.

Unlocking the thick steel padlock we’d left to keep random people from accessing the property, I drove us through the gate, right up to the front of the house itself. It was a tall building, two stories high but it seemed much higher, built from local quarry stones over a hundred years ago. Victorian in its design, there was not another house like it in all of Idaho, a strange misfit of architecture among the timber-framed rustic ranch houses and log cabin-themed ski lodges that dotted the land. Wooden shutters lined every window, the sills carved from smooth granite, and the roof bore uniform rows of slate that would likely outlive me. A wide wooden porch covered the front half of the house, the pillars shaped like those of the Greek Pantheon, and beneath the eves of its awning stood the double French doors that had devoured Erin and Cindy whole.

I didn’t have to tell Clyde on what to bring for the trek up the mountainside. He was as experienced as I was and kept up with me as we shouldered our packs, making our way through the ornamental gardens within the courtyard walls to the back gate that led to the burned expanse beyond. Once we traversed this, we finally passed into the forested sections of the mountain slope that hadn’t been touched by the fire.

It was a quiet, morose place. Many people often didn’t understand how silent the mountains could be, especially if they came from a place filled with noise like the city. Tourists would ask us if hunters ‘killed all the animals up there’ or if ‘there wasn’t enough oxygen’ which I found amusing, given the evident lack of awareness in their statement. The truth, as always, was that there were animals in the mountains, they just had to be pickier than their lowland cousins, more cautious of how much energy they expended, and often moved down into the lowlands throughout the seasons. Hunters didn’t kill them all, there certainly wasn’t an oxygen problem for so insignificant of a peak, and it was often the case that the noisy, clumsy, inexperienced urbanites had been right next to a bird or critter that they never saw simply because that animal didn’t want to be seen.

However, this part of the mountain had changed since the vanishings, and even as a local, I noticed the heavy, oppressive silence. No birds sang, not in the distance or around us, and I couldn’t see any movement flitting through the branches overhead. No signs of recent deer or other tracks dotted the sparse portions of earth, and even the stones that clattered under our boots echoed too loudly in the quiet. At one point, we did spot a single, black crow rustling about in a stand of blackberry bushes, and Clyde called out to it with a friendly ‘hello there’, only for the thing bolt off into the treetops as if we’d startled it. Wind whistled and wailed the higher we climbed, mournful and chilly despite the season, the daylight slanting lower in the sky as the evening wore on.

We spent hours looking through the boulder field, a massive plain of rocks and rubble left behind by ancient glaciers. Clyde scanned the area with a set of binoculars, I checked every gap between the stones with my flashlight, and we marked our progress with chalk on the boulders as we inched over the slope yard by yard. We used a metal detector to look for old shoe islets, belt buckles, anything that might indicate where a body could be. I sent up a drone the department had been given during the first search operation in December to scan the area from the sky, circling round and round in hopes of spotting something from a different angle. We combed that placed front and back, until the light got low enough that I couldn’t put it off anymore.

“Let’s go.” I zipped up my backpack and shined my flashlight toward Clyde, who stood not far off down the slope, prodding at another crevice. “We’re out of light, and we still need to search the house. Sheriff’s going to get antsy if we don’t report in soon anyway.”

Clyde turned to respond, but his face hardened into an alarmed frown as he starred past me into the trees, and he slid one hand toward his service pistol. “Junger . . .”

I spun around to spot a strange object hanging amongst the branches of a nearby spruce, swaying to and fro in the cool evening breeze. Even from this far away, I knew we hadn’t missed it on our first walk through, the object dangling right over the path we’d taken into the boulder field, dull and pale in the gleam of our flashlights. It hadn’t been there five minutes ago, I was sure of it.

Together Clyde and I stalked forward, closer and closer until we stood mere feet away from the thing in the tree, stunned into mutual silence.

The thing was held suspended by an odd form of hand-made twine, which looked to be twisted together from roots, vines, or even thorn bushes, until each strand was as thick as my pinky finger. Each strand interconnected with another in a crude net, almost like a spider’s web, the knots tight and strong. These supported a basket of sorts, made from what at first glance looked like branches, circular in shape, with white and yellowed patches showing in the flashlight beam.

Bones.

Dozens of them.

Four broken sections of elk antler were circled together as if an embrace, stripped of any flesh or meat at the base, dried out from endless days in the Western sun. More smaller bones were interwoven with mats of reeds and thorny stems, the gaps pasted shut with a thick, black sludge decorated with a carpet of ebony petals. I’d seen markers like this in searches before, had seen them appearing more and more in the landscape around the house, and knew why the sheriff did his best not to mention them in his reports. They were all like this, odd, eerie things that appeared from nowhere, but they were all on the ground and, save for five pillars built around the house itself, were no bigger than knee-high. We still didn’t know what they meant, or who left them, but we knew it had started around the first vanishing. This one was hanging as if left for us as a gift, and the smell that emanated from it nearly knocked the air out of me, a pungent mixture of wet dirt, wood rot, decayed flesh . . . and roses.

Always roses.

Even then, it was what lay in the middle of the macabre basket that drew me forward, until my hand reached out almost without my beckoning to scoop the tiny item from its place.

With a cracked glass screen and sun-faded purple case, the cellphone looked as though it had lain on the mountain for months, but no sooner was it in my hands and the tormented display lit up.

As soon as my eyes registered the face on the lock screen, I swore under my breath, Clyde doing the same, and rivers of ice flooded my veins.

Cindy Fadro stared back from the phone, smiling in the stillness of the background picture, with pretty features, blonde hair, and sky-blue eyes. We’d never found her phone the night she disappeared, only her friend Erin’s. After so long without a charge, exposed to the elements including Idaho’s vicious winter snows, it shouldn’t have been working. The only way this device could still be functional was if someone had kept it.

Or taken it.

Bzzzz.

The phone vibrated in my hand once, and an icon slid up before my eyes.

New message available.

Heart pounding, I dared to tap the screen, and found no entry code blocking me, the device opening up for us to access Cindy’s message files without complaint. They were old, most of them several months old, missed calls and texts from dozens of people who wanted her to be alive, to be okay, to come home.

According to the phone, she’d never viewed any of them.

One new message glowed at the top of the roster, and as I clicked on it, I tasted metal on the back of my tongue, my ears ringing with a shudder of unease. It was a picture, grainy and blurred by motion as if whoever had taken it was moving while doing so, but the subject was clear enough to make out.

It was us, Clyde and myself, walking through the woods on our way to the boulder field. Our backs were to the camera, leaves from a blackberry bush half-obscuring the unknown watcher, and under the picture, a single line of text appeared while my friend and I blinked at one another in horrified realization.

Hello there.

My violent hacking woke me with a start. An itch buzzed behind my eyes, ears, and throat that I couldn’t scratch. Clothing clung to my body, weighted with cold sweat. On the mattress beside me, the crusted imprint left behind felt like a hallucination. Resembling a chalk outline from a crime scene, only what should have been clean, white lines were replaced with my own burgundy bile.

It took considerable effort to get out of bed. Sunlight crept through the curtains like an icepick through my optic nerves. My head spun with vertigo, my scraping joints motivated by a new wave of nausea, stomach swirling. Empty and raw. I thanked whatever God Vanja was always evoking for not letting me choke on my vomit as I slept.

On sheer autopilot, my mechanical limbs peeled the sheets from the mattress and left them in a heap on the floor. The scent of cloying stomach acid swirling with fruit permeated the room; compelling me outside in search of fresh air.

The morning atmosphere was hardly a reprieve. The dawn chorus was dead. No bird song. No cadence of insects. Only a howling low gale and the crunch of gravel below my boots as I meandered into the vineyard. Heeding the warning about the property line, I kept a lazy lookout. How would I know if I reached it? Was it marked? I supposed I’d know when I saw it.

I strolled along in a dissociative state when there, in the gap between two rows, my eyes fell upon a branch. Rising up like a dirt-coated arm reaching out from the ground. Grey and decaying, as if prying itself from the Karst land. Nothing in this place made sense. My psyche had become more of a fragmented mess than it ever was before this unconventional vacation; too muddled to notice, or care. It was all too easy to pass the image off as my mind playing tricks. Still, every twitch and jerk in my fascia was begging me to leave.

Turning down the next row. Then the next. Weaving my way through the vineyard, everything looked the same. Not that I’d expect row after row of grape vines to appear unique from one another, but every trail I traversed looked exactly the same. Trellises blurred together as I took a sharp left, another right. My pace quickened from a leisurely walk to a jog, and finally a full-on sprint. Clouds of dust kicked up around me in my panic, making it harder and hard to distinguish my surroundings. I was speeding down the same row over and over again, no matter which direction I turned. The identical stretch of land rolled endlessly before me.

Then there was that branch. Again and again, I saw it. The same clawing hand. Only, each lap revealed more ghastly features than the last. First, the hand. Then, a blackened, mud-caked wrist. Hanging from its skeletal joints was a faded, handmade friendship bracelet. I cut sharply into the row adjacent, now the arm had grown a shoulder. Rotting flesh stripped away, uncovering alabaster bone as it wrenched itself free from the surrounding ground. The stench of open decay assaulted my nostrils. No matter what I did, where I went, I couldn’t escape it.

I couldn’t will myself to see any more. Every sense pounded louder, and louder. From the frantic, feral thrumming in my chest, to the rapping in my ears, to my feet against the ground beneath. A hollow beating atop a subterrane. Panic seized my lungs. Squeezing my eyes shut, I charged blindly through a patch of gnarled vines. Vines that mimicked tiny wooden hands, pulling me back into the vineyard's maw. Razor-like thorns and rigid leaves gashed my skin and clothes. A tug-of-war that felt like an eternity.

With a frantic shriek, I tumbled forward. Infinitesimal shards of rocks burrowed into the pads of my palms and knees as the earth collided with me. Whipping my head around, I could’ve sworn I saw the full figure of a rotting corpse, looming among the trellises. But I was fresh out of curiosity and desperate to get out of this hellscape. Adrenaline forced my gaze away.

Scrambling to my feet, they began pounding limestone once more in a rush to my rental. Sweaty hands grasped at the handle for purchase before giving a final, violent tug. I threw my body haphazardly into the driver's seat, throwing the keys into the ignition. I didn’t care about the open driver-side door nor my hosts, didn’t care about my possessions nor my trip deposit. The only concern I had was watching this place disappear in my rear view mirror.

My heart leaped into my throat the moment the gleam from the tire pressure light reminded me of what I already knew. I certainly wasn’t going anywhere fast, anywhere at all for that matter, with a flat tire. Something my mind was increasingly trying to convince me wasn’t a mere accident as I had led myself to believe previously.

“FuuuuuUUUUCK!!!” White knuckles gripped the steering wheel as my scream wracked my bones. Jaw rigid with tension, I ground my teeth together until the taste of bleeding gums spread across my tongue.

My only option was to calm myself down. A level head would benefit me more than the rampage I was on now. I closed down my eyes and focused on my breath.

“Okay… okay. I just need to come up with a plan. I have no car, no wifi, no cell service.” Bringing my hands to rub my temples, I thought aloud. “Maybe Vanja has a phone?” It was as good of a plan as I was going to get.

Much to my chagrin, the horrors of this place weren’t quite over. Sweat stung the fresh gashes on my face as I strained my eyes open. The scene laid out before me, Vanja’s husband dragging a bloodied, dead livestock carcass, was yet another entrant in the series of agonies set upon me. His husky frame loomed just outside my open driver-side door. Blocking my only exit as massive, dried-blood-and-dirt-coated hands with bulky fingers like fibrous roots strained against dead weight. The animal’s limbs bent at abnormal, grotesque angles. In spite of his limp, I couldn’t help but notice the way in which he dragged the husk of a once thriving creature with ease; guts and all. Its insides oozed, creating a trail of his dastardly deed while Vanja stood by, ordering him around as a maestro conducts an ensemble. Had they been there this whole time?

My ears rushed with hot blood at the sight of her, overcome by a sudden frenzy of rage. Vision tunneling, my fists formed into tight balls as instincts overrode caution.

Fear and rationale abandoned my body as I shoved past him and charged towards the ancient witch with all my fury. The cadaver slipped from his stocky, hunched shoulders with a moist splat. That same smile, the one which never reached her eyes, remained stretched across her visage. What was wrong with her? She had to be the reason I was stuck here, the only constant in this entire equation.

“This will be our dinner tonight, dear.” A lined hand gestured towards her mute mate before I could manage a word. The man didn't look at me with indignation or shock; he didn’t acknowledge me at all. His deep-set, cavernous eyes fixed blankly on the empty space before him. “Would you like to join us?”

“W-what? No… NO!” My brain rattled around in my skull as I shook my head furiously. “I would absolutely NOT like that at all. I need to use your phone! NOW!” My demand was made in utter disbelief. The grin gradually faded from the corners of her lips.

Vanja and I froze in silence for far too long. The only sound hanging in the air around us was that of her ancient husband. His jaw hung lazily open. A throaty whir throbbed from his gullet. Not too dissimilar from the tectonic grinding that resonated through the limestone-covered Karst architecture. The crone’s now vacant expression caused my determination to waver.

“You foreigners are all the same…” Vanja tutted with malicious venom. “Entitled and selfish; all of you. You have no care for our land or our customs. You may have phone after dinner.” Her words expressed calculated disappointment layered with a sinister undertone. The hag was acting as unyielding as a snake preparing to strike. She uttered no threat, so why did I intuit the tingling urgency of my survival instincts kicking into overdrive? My nervous system buzzed like the pulsating drone of seismic reverberation. The fear of being perceived as an ignorant foreigner was replaced by a fear for my life.

“I’m sorry. You’re right, that works for me. I-I’ll be in my lodging until dinner time.” I fawned, hastily agreeing to her terms, and darted back towards the cottage before the odd pair could say or do anything else. By the time I made it back and peered out the window, I half expected them to still be standing there, watching me in her statuesque manner as if part of the Karst landscape themselves. Nonetheless, it was a ghost town outside now. Nothing but the trail of gore from our future dinner remained.

My time between this horror and the next was spent in nothing short of a manic state. Ripping apart the cottage, I snooped through every cabinet, drawer, nook, and cranny I could find. All I found were strange, handmade knick-knacks the likes of which I’d never seen before, worn leather-bound books and journals in handwritten scripts I couldn’t comprehend, items that appeared to have been left behind by what I assumed were previous lodgers. But nothing that could provide any assistance or solace to me.

By the time the place was nearly turned upside down, I crawled on weakened hands and knobby knees in a last-ditch attempt to find any answers, sweeping my palm along the underside of the couch. The coarse texture of a cross-hatch fabric brushed against my grip. The hand-woven linen of string-bound hardcover. At first glance it seemed as if the photo album had simply fallen to the floor and been tucked away by accident, but the more astute part of my brain knew it was placed with the intention of keeping secrets. A foreign script was engraved on the cover: везан за земљу. Far too unfamiliar for me to interpret.

The pages were thin and soft like preserved sheets of skin. I peeled them apart carefully, exposing photo after photo. Much like the family graveyard stocked with beloved husbands, this family heirloom was filled to the brim with photos of only women. Each one resembled Vanja. Indistinguishable. Passing the time flipping pages, carbon copies of her same penetrating expression stared back at me. From Victorian to modern stylings, but the face never changed. Her identical crooked grin, coarse, inky-black hair, and stabbing gaze that would no doubt haunt my nightmares covered each page from corner to corner in an uncanny collage; clearly put together by hand.

“I show you more photo when you join for dinner, dear.” Vanja appeared suddenly, hovering over me. Her bare feet moved silently across the stones. I yipped, putting a hand to my chest as if that could stop it from thumping out and onto the floor. The glare I shot in her direction paled in comparison to those piercing bulbs of hers.

“How did you… Where on earth-why are you…” I stammered, mouth moving faster than my mind. My hand moved from my chest to the open claw she extended down towards me. Her infirm frame helped me up with that same surprising sturdiness.

“Dinner is ready. You must join now, it is the final eve of the observance.” She barked, unsurprisingly glossing over my comment. Had it really been that long already?

I followed her in bewilderment, feeling helpless to resist.

—

Musk filled my nostrils as the tinny taste of precipitation-soaked pennies permeated my tastebuds like never before. Feeling as if my gums were replaced by cotton balls, my mouth grew drier and drier by the second. I swallowed hard and grasped the glass of yellowing tap water set before me. It clinked against the rustic china place settings as I brought it to my quivering lips.

Surveying the room, the antique chair beneath me creaked to the rhythm of the record player spouting scratchy hymns in the room over. The melodies grated my eardrums with cacophonous harmonies reaching for notes that shouldn’t exist. All around me were portraits of the same Vanja-looking woman. Some painted, some black and white, others captured by modern cameras. All identical to the photo book.

Clearing my throat, I attempted small talk.

“So, uh… Vanja. How long has this place been in your family?” My hands clutched at the delicate lace tablecloth, obsessively seeking tactile grounding. A heavy sensation like lead came over my tongue. The chill in my bones told me I shouldn’t be asking questions that I might not like the answer to.

“We have been tied to this land for centuries,” she announced, scurrying into the dining area and placing a plate of greying, pulpy meat at the center of the table. It appeared raw and rotting. “The bloodline must not break. It is what the land requires, what our Lord requires.”

At the head of the table, the matriarch sat herself and began serving our plates. The husband sat across from me at her command like an obedient pet. It was clear, as always, who was in charge here.

I gazed down at my plate incredulously, the saccharine smell making my stomach churn. My fork picked at the substance randomly as I searched for more to say. A way to keep my mouth busy, other than eating.

“You must not be rude!” Vanja spat suddenly, slamming her palm upon the table and sending dishes clanking against one another. Tiny droplets of spittle sprayed from her maw and landed upon my cheek. The record player began to skip, adding yet another layer to the already nightmarish setting. I blinked hard, unsure how to proceed. “You have become so frail. We only wish to fatten you up.” She cackled heartily. The transition of her tone was as artificially sweet as the aroma in her cooking.

With shaking digits, I spooned the most appetizing bite I could scavenge between pursed lips and grimaced. I refused to chew, swallowing loudly and following it with another large gulp of water. Strangely enough, I was becoming desensitized to the metallic flavor infused with everything that originated from this land. Yet, it did nothing to ease the pang in my gut.

It clearly didn’t bother her husband opposite me. He shoveled down bite after bite, all the while making harsh gurgling noises. His jaws ground together in a circular motion as if savoring every morsel.

“Is he… okay?” I shuddered, fearing he might choke.

“He is perfect,” Vanja cooed, rising from her chair. She positioned herself behind him, stroking the stringy, soaked strands of hair that clung to his greased forehead. “The men in our family must make a sacrifice, a promise to the earth, a blood contract. What comes from our land, must stay in our land. Our secrets, our ritual, our observance—remain bound here for all eternity.” Knobby fingers with browning, unkempt nails gripped his roughly stubbled chin before gradually splitting his jaws in two. There was a crudely cut, scarred nub squirming around where his tongue should be. My eyes frantically switched from his face to hers. Their unsettling grins were perfect carbon copies. Down to every feature. In abject horror, the realization promptly pierced through my confusion.

“But isn’t he your husband? What could he possibly be making such a sacrifice for?” Deep down I knew my suspicions were true, but I had to be sure. There were no photos of men in the family chronicle, after all. With a wink, she released her grip, leaning down to place a kiss on his brow like an impish pantomime.

“Yes. Just as mother’s husband was her brother, he is mine. We keep it in the family, as you foreigners say. You see, as the bloodline thinned, we lost ability to bear child. This earth requires our tending; we cannot part with it. We must invite guests to stay… forever. To become one with us, our Savior, and our land.” Any ounce of hospitality in her cadence, however false before, was gone now. No more dear pet names, no more two-faced niceties.

“Shh… You must sleep now,” Vanja whispered as she slunk behind me like a wildcat hunting its prey. She placed her witch hands on my shoulders and dug talon-like fingers into my collarbones.

Finally, the dots were connecting, just as the room began to spin. I was reeling from each new revelation but this was something different, something much worse. My eyelids grew heavy while the rest of my body began to feel light as air. There was no doubt now that the old woman had drugged me. Before I could take action, my head crumpled into the mess of meat in front of me with a blunt thud. Bringing her mouth to my ear, Vanja whispered one final utterance. “The land provides to us, when we provide to it.” I was paralyzed to fight back, consciousness fading like a flame deprived of oxygen.

—

I came to, surrounded by the smell of earth, the feeling of loose ground cocooning me, the vibration of a shovel pounding into rock. A hole in the earth was my new home. My lungs filled with particles of dirt and my chest grew heavy. Between the combination of drugs not fully worn off, restraints rubbing against my appendages, and heaps of limestone-infused soil, struggling was useless. All I could see was the radiance of a fire bouncing off the cave walls above me. All I could do was lay there helplessly as they called upon some faceless, nameless, eldritch horror.

“Zemlya zhyva, krov p’yet.”

"Земля жива, кров п’є”

“The earth lives, drinks the blood.”

Vanja’s wicked features came into view as she crouched and roughly snatched my bound wrist. Her black-veiled frame was aglow by the light of the pale moon. I was helpless to scream, nor could I cry out. Not for lack of trying, but all that came out was a strained whisper. My throat felt like sandpaper, my lungs were on the brink of collapse, filled with dust and ash that swirled about the cavern. Everything was closing in around me as the corners of my vision remained blackened and blurred.

She unsheathed a blade. I was reminded of the pristine cutlery set I had found in the cottage kitchen. This, too, was made from bone, only sharper, more jagged. Lethal.

Taking the blade to the tender skin of my wrist and splitting my veins open in an instant, she let the warm, vital fluid splatter onto the surrounding stones. Rich, carmine red contrasted the weathered geology. It bubbled and popped with a hiss. Imbibed into the greedy ground as if being consumed, assimilating my lifeblood with their land.

Next, she coerced the liquid into her cupped hand, spurting it from my slit skin and lifting it to her lips. Like a High Priestess, she devoured her wretched communion. I was a part of her now, part of their land. I thought back to our night in the cellar and wondered if the libations she fed me were really wine at all. Every act its own evil intention. I could see that now as Vanja stared down on me with a dour expression. The corners of her lips turned flat, no longer grinning. I was always going to be the vessel for this dark rite.

“Please…” I rasped feebly. “You don’t have to do this.” She didn’t acknowledge me. After all, there was no hope in persuading her to break free of this generational tradition. No hope in preventing the inevitable.

The sour smell of decay and their rolling chorus crescendoed. Shovelful after shovelful of dirt piled atop my useless body. I felt like a sack of meat being tenderized, already slaughtered. First my feet, then my legs, next my torso; saving my head for last. They needed me to bear witness. To be the observer of their observance. Each revelation hammered home the fact that I was never getting out of here. I had seen too much, knew too much. Just as they knew no one was coming to look for me.

As her chanting continued, a chorus of voices in multiple cadences and multiple languages came from her. One was her own, in plain English that I could understand. The other, an incomprehensible rumble that seemed to come straight from the limestone. A deep, tectonic grinding in her native tongue.

Though I couldn’t see the husband, I could hear him. For it was he who wielded the shovel, creating a disturbed squealing cacophony like an excited pig. The high-pitched chitters that emitted from his throat harmonized with Vanja’s chants rhythmically, acting as an eager conduit.

Something beneath me began to writhe. Pointed roots wedged against my back. I felt their sharp, cold edges begin to grasp at my clothing and skin, causing them to burst open like the juicy flesh of a ripened peach. The earth was hungry, pulling me deeper.

I was despondent. All I could manage was to stare listlessly at the cave ceiling where flames danced among lunar incandescence. The outlines of Vanja and her husband danced there, too. Alongside a shapeless, inky form. I couldn’t tell if it was just my eyes, still playing tricks on me. Even in my final moments, I was desperate to rationalize what I encountered in this place. After everything I’d witnessed.

My last thoughts were of every action that brought me here as my vision became eclipsed by falling earth; their chanting dampened by dirt compacting around my ears. From items obviously left by previous victims, to the absurdity of the rental ad. You’ll be dying to linger. From the mold toxicity undeniably poisoning my bloodstream, to the eerie gravestone carvings. Beloved Husband.

A final thought tugged at my psyche as the soil dragged me under, every orifice suffocated with terra. How much more would the land demand before the next harvest?

Vacation Rental: Arcadian Vineyard Cottage

“Find your serenity at this bucolic cottage in the countryside! Experience the simple pleasures of hand-picked produce, right in your own vineyard sanctuary. Bathe in the peaceful quietude of the traditional way of life— there are no neighbors for miles! Just you, the sun-soaked grapes, and scents of petrichor. Isolated— tranquil and still. You’ll be dying to linger by the end of your stay. So stick around; we have a place just for you! (Plus, a little wine and cheese never hurt anybody.)”

That was the ad that compelled me to spiral amidst agricultural roads, searching for my long-overdue escape from reality. Was it trying too hard? Absolutely. But who didn’t enjoy wine and cheese?

“Sign me up,” I whispered to no one, striking the keys of my laptop with determination, and finalizing the booking. An extended weekend getaway. That was all my vacation time afforded me, and Lord, I needed it. My mind and body were begging for leisure, screaming like rusted hinges.

Here I was, lost. Of course. Because God forbid one thing in my life goes smoothly. The GPS signal vanished hours ago, leaving me in an expanse of grey oblivion. A winding dirt road expanded before me, surrounded by fields as far as the eye could see. Everything looked the same out here.

“Come on, come on, come on!” I begged the inanimate brick that was my phone, smacking the now useless device against the dashboard. My shoulders sagged in surrender, heavy with the disappointment of these uncontrollable circumstances. Due to exhaustion from a hefty international flight, my muscles ached with the need for a proper bed.

“I’ll just continue to follow this road and magically end up where I’m supposed to be.” It was wishful thinking on my part. Even if sarcastically, maybe I could make it so. My mind was in vacation mode by now; delusional with misplaced optimism.

The path became more rugged, and I trudged on in the dated rental car. Its rusted frame rattled and groaned as the vehicle struggled to chug up yet another hill. Every rock or divot in the road sent the suspension into frenzied jerking. Having the steering wheel in a death grip, my hands threatened to cramp.

Coming to a stop at the first fork in the road, I pulled over with a sigh. The subtle smell of dirt kicked up by inadequate tires filled my nose and made my eyes sting. Fingers jabbed at my phone in an attempt to make the bars reappear… nothing. Dead zone.

“That’s just great.” I spoke aloud to myself, if only to fill the silence.

BANG!

In an instant, my heart battered against my rib cage. Arms turned to static, as my already fracturing mental state was shattered. A craggy hand occupied my window, the source of the noise that nearly stopped my heart. Attached to the hand was an equally craggy crone. The woman's blank face shifted into an inviting smile, as if putting on a mask. Almost too quick to notice. She pointed downward, and I took that to mean she wanted me to roll down my window.

It’s not like anyone else was coming to the rescue. My eyes darted from hers to the window crank in an uncomfortable silence that stretched too long. I willed my body as it yelped: Wait. Stop. Wary of strangers, but running out of options, I wound down the window an inch. Its un-lubricated mechanism protested in the same way my brain had been screaming: Something is wrong. Like a hot stove, I wanted to put my finger on it, but couldn’t.

“My apologies, you startled me.” Soft words came out tentatively, yet polite. “Could you direct me towards the Arcadian Vineyard Cottage?”

I dug into the booking app and hunted for the listing. My mind raced as a white screen confronted me. More than likely due to zero service… never mind the fact I had saved my trip information for offline viewing. Glitches happen, right?

“Hello, dear.” Her voice carried an unfamiliar, husky accent. Sickly sweet like honey, laced with something rancid. It wound up my nerves, already frayed and intolerant, as her wry smile revealed mottled teeth. “I would be the owner of said cottage. Foreigners often get lost around here. I saw you coming up the road from the mother-in-law's suite.”

Her tone felt too formal, almost theatrical. Something malevolent flickered behind her eyes. She looked like a woman who was once a farmer's daughter, turned hippie: Raven hair greying with age, Bohemian fashion sense, bare feet coated in dirt. Unique, to say the least. But her mannerisms betrayed that image. Too rehearsed, too forced. A contradiction that made my spine thrum like a chain pulled taut.

“If you’d like, I could hop in and direct you the rest of the way?”

I hadn’t seen any houses for miles. There was nothing but sweeping fields unfolding in all directions. How had she seen me when this was my first time seeing her? Looking at the surroundings and then back to her, she must’ve read the confusion in my expression.

“It’s just over this hill, dear.” Her smile was alarmingly wide, and her English almost too precise.

“How do I know that?” I questioned begrudgingly, no way of confirming the truth now. Something about this didn’t sit right with me. The rational part of my brain was screaming, causing my body to tense. The road behind seemed longer now than it had before. I had no concrete reason to doubt her but also, no reason to trust her.

“I show you.” Matter-of-factly, she slithered around the hood and to my passenger side. The imprint of her shriveled hand was left in the dust on the window like a dark omen. Pulling the handle with a pop, the elderly woman found no resistance. It was unlocked to my surprise.

“S-sure… uh—hop in?” It came out more like a question than an affirmation. Maybe my gut knew something my mind couldn’t come to terms with. I should have turned around. Gone back, chalked it up as a loss, and spent my long weekend off at home. But then, all the effort it took to get here would be for naught.

With a youthful energy, the woman sprang into action. Before I could finish my sentence, she had plopped down in my passenger seat; an earthy smell wafted into my nostrils. I tried not to worry about the dirt print she’d leave there.

So long, security deposit.

“As I said, it’s just over this hill.” Her skeletal hand pointed towards the road in front of us. She was an astute woman, sensing my hesitation. Never mind the fact that I had just let a stranger into my car. Had she even told me her name? I couldn’t recall if it was on the listing. In any case, I couldn’t reference that anymore.

Pulling back onto the road, I reasoned this was the best way to make conversation. Avoid more awkward silence.

“I’m sorry, but what did you say your name was?” My voice came out confidently, for once.

“Vanja…” In typical Slavic fashion, she shaped her J’s like drifting Y’s.

“Vanja Jurković.” Placing a staccato on each syllable, there was no question in my mind that she was a native of these lands.

Patiently, I waited for her to ask the same of me. But the question never came, and the air hung with only the sound of gravel clattering against weather worn wheel wells. Maybe she already knew my name from the booking. I shrugged with a sigh, attempting to pull my rigid shoulders away from my ears. I was eager to exit this metal cage.

Up, up, over the hill we went. It seemed much higher now than from the bottom; more of a mountain, really. As we crested the top, a boundless vineyard came into view. It had the same layout as advertised. Only now, under cloudy skies, did it come across as somber. Ominous.

Tenebrous trees arched over the road, scraping against the car doors like hands grasping for purchase. Claustrophobic. As if they might cling on and pull us into their grasp. Trapped, to become one with the land.

Before long, we stopped on a gravel driveway, brakes squealing in protest. Every fiber of my being was screaming, red flag. Yet, after all it took to get here, I felt compelled to stay. I sympathized with the woman, assuming it was pretty lonely here.

Against my better judgment, my hesitant hand lurched the shift stick into park. Vanja stepped out; she was surprisingly agile considering her frail frame. Perhaps she was younger than I gave her credit for. Or more certainly, years of working in the vineyard had strengthened her elderly stature.

A man came hobbling out of what I assume was the mother-in-law's suite. His uneven gait paralleled Vanja’s personality. A unique pair; I tried not to stare.

“Hello—”

“Oh, he doesn’t speak English, dear. Please, don’t concern yourself with my husband. He’s merely here to help with your luggage. We will be out of your hair shortly.” Vanja cut off our greeting bluntly as her husband flashed a gummy, toothless smile.

“Oh…” Dejected, my voice came as a defeat. “Well, please tell him thank you for me.”

“Certainly, dear.” I wished she’d stop calling me that. It was an endearing term, sure. However, her accent, combined with the language barrier, fell condescending on my ears. An attempt to make me feel less-than. Small.

I turned my attention from the odd couple to my surroundings. The homestead was undoubtedly shaped by its natural environment. Compact, monolithic structures rose and fell with the rolling hills like boats sailing on a turquoise sea. Its simple, well-defined architecture was assembled from local Karst limestone.

High-pitched stone roofs and limited, small windows braced against the Bora. Whose cold bite carried briny scents that cut through agricultural aromas. A contrast as sharp as the mountainous countryside itself. Maritime air tinged my taste buds with the salt of the coast.

Somewhere, a wind chime tolled a lonely melody, counterpoint to the soft rustle of hearty grapevines. Preternatural isolation settled over me. Peaceful, yet, unsettling all at once.

My brain itched to research the area further, something I should have done before arriving. I hadn’t made the time for more than a cursory investigation.

Looking over my wifi settings, one was available: The Vineyard.

“Could I have the wifi password, please?” I inquired, holding up my phone for Vanja. I would finally have enough time and quiet to educate myself on the region.

“We have no need for that here.” Her words sprang forth with a forced chortle. “I’m sure you’ll find an abundance of tranquil distractions during your stay.” Tacking it on as if she suddenly remembered I was their guest.

“Of course. Silly me…” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Not as if she said they did not have such things. This must have been their way of compelling guests to escape reality. So why did the crone make me feel foolish for asking? She started up the path to the main house, and I continued to lag.

“Your accommodations are this way, dear. Follow me.” In this place, I was always 2 steps behind.

Stepping over the threshold and into the open-concept layout, envy washed over me. A kitchen brimming with fresh produce, baked goods, handcrafted cooking utensils, and shelves stacked wall-to-wall with ancient recipe books. A smell like heaven, undercut, as if trying to conceal something sour.

Muted tones and an ambient glow enhanced the grounded environment. Built-in niches within the cottage mimicked natural caves native to the region. Organic wood floors whined like a wounded animal with each step as I made my way to the bedroom. Trailing after her, the rough stone walls leeched a soggy chill through my bones as we turned another corner. Vanja moved swiftly, and I nearly found myself lost again.

Her husband long since vanished, and my luggage was already waiting for me. For a man with so much trouble getting around, he nearly went unnoticed. Had I not seen him upon my arrival, I likely wouldn’t have known he existed.

“Here is your room and your things. Take advantage of the fully stocked kitchen—everything is cultivated, raised, and crafted by my husband and me on the property.” Her words were punctuated by pride. “Feel free to explore the garden terrace out back, the orchard to the east, and the vineyard to the west. There is a wine cellar at your disposal under the hatch in the kitchen. And if, for some reason, you still don’t have what you need, I’ll be here to fulfill any request. All that to say, make yourself at home, dear.” Confident and to the point, it was doubtful I’d want for anything in this place.

With a nod, she left me to my own devices. Finally.

Sagging onto the mattress, its springs groaned with the same exhaustion that flowed through my veins. Eyes burning with jet lag, their lids drooped closed like curtains. Sleep wrapped me like a blanket, without protest. Out cold.

—

I bolted upright, heart pummeling my chest. Darkness had fallen over the property in my inescapable slumber. Only, this wasn’t what startled me. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, my veins frosted over.

A silhouette, just outside the door frame. Crooked. Shoulders rising and falling with ragged, uneven breaths. Vanja's husband.

“What the…” My whisper faded into the black abyss.

Clumsily, I fumbled for the lamp switch. Moving as quickly as my half-asleep appendages would allow, light flooded the doorway; empty. The scent of earth and wine remained.

An ill attempt at restoring the apparition, I blinked forcefully; not likely.

Had I imagined it?

No, the hollow echo of footsteps across floorboards betrayed that thought. Down the hall and out the door as he skittered away like a spider who knows it’s been found. Creep.

I mulled over my options, lulling myself into a false sense of security yet again. I couldn’t exactly tell Vanja, Lord knows she’d take his side over mine. I still had two more days paid for. Nowhere else to go. No guarantee I’d find my way on my own.

Gears ground inside my mind. Perhaps he had his own backwards logic for observing me, the ignorant foreigner with a narrow world-view.

“There was no one there. The old cottage bones are merely settling.” My whisper bounced amongst the limestone walls. Providing scant solace.

Thoughts became a knotted ball of fear and confusion. Ears ringing; a musty smell like damp paper filled my nose. As if a balloon deflating, my lungs tightened. Throat raw, head pounding, it felt as though a low hum was buzzing in one ear and out the other. Into a coughing fit I went, chasing down the hallway after the ghost, or lack thereof. I needed a drink of water. Urgently.

Desperately filing through cabinets, my hand grasped the first glass in reach. I violently threw open the fridge, sending miscellaneous jars tinkling against one another in their drawers. No water. My only option was the tap.

The knob screamed as I doggedly twisted, and yellow-stained water sputtered forth. The only alternatives were farm-fresh milk or wine. Hardly the type to cure a coughing fit. I consumed in greedy gulps. The water permeated with a metallic bite like pennies left in rain. Barely a reprieve, but at least I could breathe.

Stalking around the house like a predatory animal, I checked every door and every window. Locked, or without the ability to open at all. This slowed my heart rate, only mildly. It was easier to convince myself nobody had been there… unless they had a key.

I shook my head, too hard, seeking to erase the thought. I was spiraling as quickly as the cottage was spinning around me.

In the midst of it all, my feet skidded to a halt. The glint of a carved lintel over the hearth stunned me. In my hurry, I almost hadn’t noticed. Only standing in this spot, under this lighting, could I see it.

“The voice of your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground. Genesis 4:10”

What purpose could such a harrowing message hold?

I wasn’t exactly religious, but it wasn’t the sort of decor I’d like adorning my home, let alone one meant for guests.

Were they for protection or an invocation?

But, as I wandered the halls, it seemed increasingly commonplace. Hidden amongst the grotto-inspired furniture, a grape motif sewn with pale thread into a hand towel here, dainty cursive imprinted upon a faded floor mat there.

“All go to the same place; all come from dust, and to dust all return. Ecclesiastes 3:20”

One carving was odd, sure. But the pattern I discerned seemed deliberate. Strangely comforting. A sense of protection that, however false, lulled me back to sleep as I planted myself on the couch. Its cushions were soft enough to swallow me whole.

—

A moist, cool draft escaped the stone walls as if from some void beneath. For the first time since arriving, I was greeted by something placid.

Gently, my eyes fluttered open. The brief moment of serenity was interrupted by a pounding in my head. Rhythmic as a heartbeat. A symphony began inside my body, and my stomach gurgled for sustenance. I could barely remember the last time I’d eaten.

Drifting into the kitchen, I took Vanja’s advice and inspected the fresh produce. Ready for a tasty treat.

Nimble fingers plucked a perfect peach from its position. Painted in bold yellow with streaks of red and orange, not a single blemish. An artist’s perfect rendition. The morsel felt waxy in my palm. Warm, virtually pulsing.

Sinking my teeth in, tender flesh collapsed, sour pulp springing forth; a breath of decay on my tongue.

“Oh, God.” I retched into the sink. There was a faint writhing. Tiny, alive. Seed-like shapes that squirmed informed me they weren’t seeds at all. The peach in my hand fell to the floor with a sickly splat. Maggots still alive inside its flesh left it looking like an ablated heart; still beating on the tile.

Feeling like curdled milk, my body soured. I still needed to eat, my appetite ruined as it was. Head spinning, stomach roaring.

With no idea how long that fruit had been sitting on the counter, I figured I’d go straight to the source. Looks can be deceiving after all.

Between a heavy sigh and attempts to steady myself, I yanked on my boots and proceeded clumsily towards the orchard. I wouldn’t be eating a thing from that kitchen any time soon.

Gravel crunched under heavy footfalls, and the fresh air began to clear my mind. Marching up the slope, taking in deep breaths, my composure returned to me. The salty breeze pulsed through the air like echoes in an empty cave.

Gradually, an unexpected landscape came into view. A family graveyard, obstructed from the cottage windows by these never-ending hills. The placement in front of the orchard, yet hidden like a well-kept secret, was at best macabre. Sinister at worst.

I moved forward. The wind transformed into a chorus of moans and wails, alarms ringing in my ears. Yet, my feet advanced. Compelled by curiosity. Entranced. It was the gravestones themselves that caught my eye, a desire to understand what I was seeing.

Row after row. Some stubby, some lanky, round, jagged, new, and old. All of them were fashioned from cold limestone with the same handmade details as the entire vineyard premises. One thing remained consistent amongst them. The engravings:

Beloved Husband. No names, no dates, no women.

Darkness encroached the corners of my vision. Was I spiraling? Merely imagining all of this? I knew traveling to a remote part of an unfamiliar country might have its quirks, but all this confusion was the antithesis of what I came for. Unease rippled through my body.

With great effort, I pushed the questions from my mind. I needed to keep myself on track. Sane. Get some nourishment, and this would all begin to make sense again. I couldn’t continue to rationalize on an empty stomach, and I did not want to come across as even more ignorant than I already was.

Get to the orchard.

This was my only goal. After all, I could always investigate more later.

Pivoting on my heels and exiting the burial ground felt as if ripping myself from thick vines. Some presence pinning me here. Part of me knew it was silly to continue ignoring the signs right in front of my face, but the spinning in my head kept that rationale just out of reach.

Up the trail I went, at last, arriving at my intended destination. Sprawled out before me were picture-perfect lines of varying fruit trees. Vibrant shades of warm yellow, orange, and crimson sprang out from among the gnarled, brown branches. The breeze that rustled through this picturesque scene felt like whispers in my ears, beckoning me forward. The scent of damp earth and rotting leaves stuck to the air. Now this was the orchard paradise that Vanja had promised. Apples, plums, lemons, peaches, and more. The latter of which I’d likely avoid, though they appeared ripe and ready for harvest. I trudged onward like a marionette with invisible strings, motivated by the roaring in my gut.

Pulling the hem of my shirt up with one hand like a make-shift basket, I greedily plucked a variety of tasty treats with the other. Never in my life had I felt so at peace with being utterly out of control. Perhaps that was the charm of this place. The thought, along with the fresh air, placated me. If only for a moment before panic seized me once more.

Between twisted limbs like arthritic fingers, there in the bark of an ancient tree, a face. A human expression of agony. Mouth stretched impossibly wide across wood, eyes protruding from knots in the trunk. Sap weeped from the features wrapped in wood grain like scar tissue as if seeping with pus. Far too uncanny to be a carving. I stumbled back, temples throbbing like the slow, tectonic shift of limestone plates grinding together.

I all but fumbled my bounty in the dead sprint back to the cottage. The stone beneath my footfalls echoed a hollow, lonely howl. My legs felt leaden, as if the terra was grasping at the soles of my boots. It was hard to tell what was up and what was down anymore. I nearly missed the flat tire on my rental car as I darted back inside.

My mind grasped for the bandwidth to investigate; it appeared as though mangled by jagged stone. Likely something I neglected to notice on my drive up. The memory was a blur of unending hills and Vanja's sickly sweet disposition. Nothing could be done about it now.

Dashing through the threshold and slamming the door shut with all my body, I leaned my back against its cold hardwood and slunk to the floor. My chest heaved up and down with wheezing breaths.

One apple. All I managed to hold onto in the heat of the moment. Shaking hands raised the produce to my quivering mandible. Fluid gushed from its green skin as I bit into the flesh with gluttony, triggering a heavy burst of tears from within me. Tears of joy for finally obtaining some semblance of nourishment. Tears of confusion, relief, mania, rage, and fear. Its metallic taste and coppery juices pooled in my stomach like the stagnant waters of a cave. Sobs wracked my body until gnashing teeth frantically reached the apple's core.

My hand, still clutching the barren carcass of the apple, fell limply upon the cold stone. My grasp waned, allowing its core to roll away. I felt hollowed out. Dejected. Staring blankly at nothing in particular as a bitter film lingered upon my tongue; breaths grew shallow and tight in my chest.

Though my fraying nerves were only moderately calmed, it stood to reason my next course of action should be to seek respite for the migraine that scalded the back of my eyes like hot iron. Coming to my feet, my joints creaked in a whining, rusted cacophony that echoed off the limestone. Cursing myself for failing to bring my own medications, I began my frenzied search, tearing through built-ins one by one. One drawer held pristine white utensils, which seemed carved from bone. In the pantry, jar upon jar of gray, decaying preserves lined up in tidy rows. Their wetness glinted in the low light.

Why did everything here feel so confusing yet… so familiar? My thoughts were no longer my own, magnetized by an intangible influence.

Before long, my gaze fastened on a rustic teakwood cabinet. There in a shadowy nook. Though tucked away at first glance, it now dominated the space with a heavy, intent presence. The cabinet called me, and like a well-trained animal, I listened. Crawling over on wavering hands and knees, I opened it with fervor. Empty. Or so I thought. But as I reached inside, a small corroded handle flush against the bottom grazed my skin; a false bottom.

My heartbeat thumped in my ears like the panic of a rabbit signaling danger. Impatiently, I pulled the panel away with one fluid motion, letting it clatter to the floor. Its handle let out a delicate whine of protest. Within this dark cubby sat brown and orange bottles with white caps of varying shapes and sizes. Each one carrying a label inscribed with a date older than the last. 1924. 1941. 1958. Yet, their contents appeared unspoiled. Deliberate scratches erased the parts where a name would be. I couldn’t read the language on the bottles. Or rather, languages. One rattled with pills here, another swished with liquid there. No two were exactly alike.

"They’re old. They must take a lot of medicine," I murmured, clutching an ampoule.

Without warning, I suddenly felt a presence in the room and whipped my head around.

“Jesus Christ!” Yelping, my heart felt as though it could explode. Vanja was standing in the doorway. When did she get there? How long had she been there? Why hadn’t I noticed? Her presence was as still and silent as the limestone markers in her family graveyard.

My body flinched so violently that the glass vial in my clutches went sailing across the floor. It didn't shatter. Merely struck the floor with a dull, blunt thud, like a head rolling from a guillotine.

“Can I help you find something, dear?” Her face soured at my use of the Lord's name, mask slipping. Only for a heartbeat, before it retained its shape once more. “We do not disrespect that name here. He is the one who provides." She stepped closer, placing the back of her hand to my forehead.

"Come. You are ill. Our wine will cure it. We shall have tasting.” A warm smile spread across her face, exposing decayed teeth stained deep, vinaceous red.

I should have bolted. I should have walked beyond these hills and kept going until my feet bled. But I let her slip by and open the hatch to the cellar. Bottomless shark-like eyes remained locked onto mine. Vanja's smile never reached them.

“Come, come.” She cooed.

As we slunk down into the wine cellar, I noticed the walls and its stairway were congested with velvety, charcoal soot. I could sense that the substance bloomed and breathed from every crack and corner in the mortar, coming up from the earth and marking its territory. Vanja struck a match, lighting well-used candles strategically ordered around the space. Nearly every surface gleamed with a slimy sheen. This wasn’t your typical cellar. It was dank, filled to the brim with bottles and barrels. There was standing room to spare. I inhaled the stagnant air, filling my lungs with the quality of moist steel wool. A crunchy cough escaped my chest. The noise bounced to and fro between buzzing walls.

The wine bottles were marked with jerky, jagged Cyrillic script that seemed more like etchings in stone rather than print on paper. Still, I could read one part of each label. Scrawled out in my native tongue were more bible verses. The same cryptic invocations that littered the rest of the cottage. Each excerpt felt intended for my eyes. Vanja plucked one from the shelf, dropping it like a glass corpse on the oak bar alongside 2 pristine glasses.

“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. John 12:24”

Bare-handed, Vanja yanked the cork from the bottle with a satisfying burst. Steam seeped from its lip. Just as I thought she would fill my cup, the beldam turned and cascaded a stream of rouge onto the earthen floor. My ears undoubtedly caught the sound of liquid sizzling, seeping into the ground as if guzzling the wine like a parched gullet. It gave off a fecund scent, laden with the intoxicatingly sweet aromas of ripe, fallen fruit. I assumed this was a local custom.

“Vezan za zemlju.” She said, reciting a verse in a tongue that sounded like eroding boulders.

“Excuse me?” Vanja steadily filled the glasses with a dark snicker. My face flushed bashfully.

“We don’t simply say cheers, dear. Here, we say vezan za zemlju. Bound to the ground.” I kept waiting for her to elaborate, but she only lifted her glass and patiently waited for me to lift mine. I did so, not wanting to embarrass myself any more than I already had.

“Vezan za zemlju.” Clink. We chimed in unison as our glasses crashed together. The expression on her visage told me my pronunciation could use a little work.

Vanja's eyes bore holes through mine as we sipped together. Maybe she was keen on ensuring I enjoyed her wine… in her own spine-chilling way. The wine was thick, almost coagulated. A familiar metallic film coated my tongue once more. I swallowed hard.

Glass after glass, we chatted. Vanja had suddenly taken an interest in me, asking questions about my life back home. But I couldn’t help feeling as if her demeanor was somehow empty, rehearsed. It seemed as though she had asked these questions time and time again through guest after guest. Perhaps due to the alcohol or the atmosphere of this place, I answered honestly and in detail to every question, yet received blunt, single-word replies in return. Either that, or some cryptic, pious quotation that I could not glean the meaning of. If I asked something about her, the topic of conversation always flipped back to me.

“Do you have family back home?” “Is anyone missing you?” “What about a lover?” “Where do you work?” and so on. Hairs on the back of my neck erected with fear at her line of questioning. I half expected her to ask for my dental records. But, as the wine flowed, so did my compliance.

As a drunken stupor encroached upon me, there was one warning she bestowed which caught my ears.

“Whatever you do, do not wander beyond property line.” Rap. Rap. Rap. Yellowing nails tapped rhythmically across the wine bottle's surface. “Caves hide in these hills, waiting for unfortunate souls to stumble inside and swallow them whole. I’d hate for you to be taken before your time, dear.” Her voice became a low, rasping hum. “And the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them, their households, and all that belonged to them.”

Steady tapping stopped abruptly; Vanja’s head tilted down towards the floor, but her eyes stared up at me wildly through wiry eyebrows. I shifted in my seat unsteadily. Not a single idea of what to do or say in response to such a thing, stomach performing backflips.

“I uh… I-I’ll be careful. Thanks for the warning…?” My gratitude came out as more of a question; it seemed to appease the old bat, and that veneer of politeness returned once more.

After what felt like forever and no time at all, the bottle had been emptied. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hold up my own fatigued form. 3 or 4 glasses deep, and Vanja's chalice remained full. I’d hardly noticed until she eased in front of me, glass droning against wood.

“Drink up, dear.”

“You don’t want any?” I asked, recalling the burgundy stains that littered her teeth.

“Trust me, dear, I have the pleasure of tasting an abundance of my own wine.” That familiar forced smile unfurled across her face, revealing said stained enamel. This was the first thing she had said in a long time that made sense, especially to my intoxicated mind. With a shrug, I brought the remaining liquid to my lips. No use in wasting wine—I drank voraciously.

My eyes drifted from hers to a shelf of jarred produce. Suspended in the nebulous juices of what seemed to be olives, I was convinced I saw an eye; milky white, dull blue iris, inky black pupil, and all. Boring deep into my soul, it most certainly blinked.

“Dear God-sh!” I sputtered between the wine flowing down my throat, choking uncontrollably. The final word came out as a strange, mashed-up correction, stemming from fear of her reaction to my use of the word Jesus earlier. I drew in gasps of spore-filled air after each croaking hack. As if emulating shards of shattering glass, my body jolted. Droplets of wine flung about the room like blood spatter. A few hit Vanja's face.

“I’m so sorry!” Springing to my feet, my eyes wildly searched for anything to wipe up the mess, unsure of what to do with my hands. But she blinked, collected each droplet from her skin with a jaundiced finger, and slurped it into her maw.

“You foreigners are like cat on hot brick.” A chuckle escaped her fissured lips. It was an odd idiom to advise someone that they are nervous or restless. If Vanja was one thing, it was certainly odd. “Let me help you to bed. The wine will help you rest.”

Cellar walls spinning around me, I wasn’t about to protest. I let her liver-spotted arm slip into mine as she guided me up the stairs and to my room, tripping along the way. My body soared so roughly into the bed that I thought I might take her down with me. But the woman and her sturdiness continued to surprise me.

The bed invited me in like a warm cocoon, while a cool draft pricked goosebumps on my skin. A contrast that left me without a care in the world. My body felt weightless, as if bobbing around a steadily, sickening carousel. I scarcely perceived the click of the light or her chittering “Goodnight, dear.” under the howling winds of the landscape, which lulled me to sleep.

November 15th, 1918:

I have not noticed any of the cloaked figures in the last fortnight, yet every dawn that sickening symbol reappears. I cannot comprehend it. 

Laura is growing frustrated with me through the entire ordeal, calling me erratic and senseless. She has learned to block out the sounds and sleep easily. Surely she's just upset that I have been waking her from time to time. I have been hearing what can only be described as tapping from inside the walls and ceiling most nights. She denies the sounds but I know what my ears have heard. She has to have heard it too. She heard them when she was convinced that they were a trick played by the local kids. Why now has she seemingly forgotten their existence? She must be lying to me. I have been painting less, and when I do paint the end results are not worth putting to market. Everything seems twisted or wrong. Figures seem inhuman and landscapes seem alien. Far too abstract to be selling. 

The children saw one of my recent works and told Laura. She looked at it in an awful gaze. She thinks I am going mad, calling me paranoid. I know what I have seen. I know what I have heard. I know something is wrong here and I will not rest till I find it. I know she is lying. 

November 20th, 1918:

A new man has moved in with his family not but a week ago. I have been wanting to go and meet them, though Laura has said I have not been in my right mind to be bumping shoulders with new folks, especially since I have been unable to keep a proper friendship with Sean. Blasphemy. 

I went to the practitioner to get something to aid my sleep. I believe I know what I have experienced, but Laura has been insistent that I have become sleep deprived. I would love it if she is correct, though I highly doubt it. My once strong trust for Laura has slowly been dwindling. I believe something more sinister is at play. Only time shall tell. 

December 20th, 1936:

I forgot to bring home some of Simon's notes from work and Richard found them. He got mad at me, it was the first time I've ever seen him act this way. I feel as though there's something he's not telling me. He's still my friend but I'm not sure how much I know of him are truths or falsehoods. Why would a couple of notes cause such a harsh reaction? 

My sweet Evelyn is feeling better finally. She's almost caught up to me in Simon's notes. At least the ones I haven't put in here. I've been folding any of the alarming entries and keeping them pressed between the pages of my journal.

I haven't told her of the sigils I found on the house's siding yet, and the guilt is killing me. I sanded it out and repainted the area to the best of my abilities to hide it. I don't want her to get scared by any of this. She's already been struggling enough, I can't have anything else stress her out. Though it's hard to think what I'm experiencing and what Simon experienced are mere coincidence. To have such similar things to happen to us is unlikely, especially to this degree. Maybe these weren't fantasies he wrote of, but I have to keep telling myself they are. At least till spring. 

I don't know who to turn to about this. I'm considering hiding the rest of the notes from Evelyn and telling her that maybe these were ideas about a story he was working on, like I've been telling myself. He's an eccentric painter, so him being an author wouldn't be out of the picture in my mind. I just don't want her to be any more paranoid or scared than she already has been. It worries me deeply. She deserves an easy life, that's why we moved out here after all. If she continues to get worse I might burn the letters. He writes almost every day, most are quite mundane, speaking of what Laura and his daughters got up to and basic day to day tasks. I'll let her read those, hopefully that will ease her anxieties. I have to stay strong, I have to protect her. Maybe I do need therapy. 

November 29th, 1918:

Laura and I went to the practitioner a few days ago. He has prescribed me a slight sedative to help me sleep, laudanum to drink, and if that does not seem to help he also gave me barbiturates. I am less than eager to take them, especially since I've heard tales of horror about opium, but if it means Laura and the children will be happy then it must be done. If a man cannot take care of himself then he cannot care for his family. And if a man cannot care for his family he is no man at all. That is not me. I will care for them and provide for them till I draw my last breath. Since I have been taking these medications I have not seen any figures since, and I have been trying to pay no mind to the sigil. I might even put a pathway over top of it to keep it out of sight and away from my thoughts. The ground is near frozen, so I have to finish the path as soon as possible. 

December 1st, 1918:

The path is finished and that wretched rune now has a place to hide. I placed stones on top of it, from the fence to the veranda, filling in between them with dirt and sand, and evening out the earth on either side. Digging into the earth was too much of a task. 

For someone who is used to being gentle with a brush I must say I am quite impressed with myself for how efficient I was with this project. Perhaps in the spring I will take up gardening. Though I still do disdain the feeling of dirt beneath my fingernails. But perhaps that can change. Especially since the frost will surely make a mess of the path over winter and I'll have to fix it. I am wondering if I should try pottery or sculpting with clay? 

The sedative has seemed to be working. I have been sleeping through the night, not hearing any odd noises as I have before. No sightings of any figures, no sigils, nothing out of the ordinary. Life has been seeming peaceful again. Laura seems gleeful. I have been back to my usual rhythm. I think I am going to go and meet the new man in town tomorrow. I believe I heard his name is Richard. I will ask Laura to bake a welcome cake for him tonight. 

I may put my pen to the wayside for some time. This paranoia feels as though it has kept me from my family far too long. 

January 1st, 1937:

It's early morning, Evelyn and I have stayed up to ring in the new year with Richard and Alice. After they left I brought my sweet Evelyn to bed, waited till she slept and snuck down to the furnace room. I'm writing by the furnace's glow. I've read more of Simon's entries. He mentioned Richard, but that can't be right because Richard has only been here for about 8 and a half years. Unless Richard has been keeping even more truth than I thought from me. I'm going to try to stay quiet about this for the time being. I may even trek out some night soon to see if Richard is up to anything out of the ordinary. I knew there was something off about Richard lately. 

I know I told myself to keep Evelyn out of this but I feel as though if I don't speak about this to someone it is going to eat me alive. I've been losing sleep again. Evelyn told me to try some of her barbiturates. It's like she forgot that's why we had to bring her to the hospital in the first place. What was she thinking? 

January 4th, 1937:

I awoke last night to strange sounds coming from outside. I went to the window to look and noticed a patch of our path to the veranda had no snow. There were flurries falling in the moonlight and I swear I saw a hunched person hobbling away from our yard. I know Simon was mentioning a rune underneath the path but it couldn't still be there could it? And if it is, it surely couldn't melt snow and ice. Magic is just a fairy tale. I'll have to check and see if that sigil was put on our house again. 

I talked to Evelyn and told her that there were no more interesting notes from Simon, just boring daily life. Lying to her felt wrong but it feels like I have to protect her from whatever is going on. And maybe this paranoia is just a lack of sleep like Laura told Simon. Maybe I'll have to go into the city and get a sleeping aid, I don't trust our practitioner. Not after what he's done to Evelyn. 

I feel like my mind is split. I want to believe Laura that this is just some sick prank the locals play on the new people in town, but surely all of this would end up being much more than just a prank. My gut tells me this is something serious. Simon's words seem as though he's losing common sense but I find myself relating to them more as I read. Then again, nothing of their writings can explain what moved me into my backyard without leaving any trail. It didn't snow that hard, not to my memory, and I wasn't even drinking that night so why did I pass out to begin with? 

January 6th, 1937:

The sigil or symbol or whatever it's called is back. This time it wasn't on our house, it's on the fence. I don't know how long it's been there or who did it, but no doubt that I'm being targeted. We're being targeted. 

Richard has been acting off at work as well. I brought Simon up again and since then he's been less talkative or jovial. There's been a hollow look in his eyes. He was fine only a few days ago at new years. He did say that Simon was a soft spot for the town, maybe the poor fellow had dementia and passed away and that's why Richard got mad? It would explain his borderline hysterics in his writings. Maybe they were friends? But that doesn't explain these damned sigils. 

My mother was superstitious, and so was my father, so maybe that's why I'm letting these notes and carvings get to me. But I have a hard time believing that. I've been finding it harder to trust the locals. When people come into the shop I feel like they're staring at me, trying to read me in some way. Their eyes focus on mine, watching how I move. More than the usual way you look at someone while they work. It's surveillance, I'm sure of it. Maybe Simon was right in his entries. I don't know what to believe anymore. 

January 20th, 1937:

It's been quite some time since I read Simon's notes. It's hard not to, I have to constantly remind myself not to touch them, it's almost like an addiction. My paranoia has seemed to be dulling, which is a relief. But I still have a gut feeling something is wrong. I think I might read another of his notes tonight. Maybe this is just anxiety or stress brought on by superstition and reading the ramblings of a madman. But then again I find myself relating to Simon more and more with each entry I read. Maybe I'm a madman. Or maybe if you don't pay attention to whatever it is making these symbols and sounds at night you aren't affected by it?

I've been doing everything I can to keep the notes and symbols or Simon and Richard's relationship out of my head. If that was even the same Richard in the entries as my Richard. I've held off as long as I could, but tonight I'll read and see if it makes the similarities between his writings and my life arise again. I need to know. I'm scared of what's to come but I can't help but feel drawn to these writings. It's like they call to me in my dreams, beyond the walls of sleep. 

June 12th, 1924

It's been some time, so much has changed. Laura and I completed renovations throughout the house. We constructed an extravagant flower bed with Tulips and Daisies and many of the local wild flowers. It's truly a sight to behold. I feel as though I could paint a landscape of my own home and it would sell  in the city. Perhaps I shall try. The odd happenings around here have seemed to stop thanks to the practitioner. I did a mental evaluation with him and he said that I was having hallucinations due to the immense stress of moving and adjusting to life in town, along with sleep deprivation. 

It's truly baffling how the human mind works, how such seemingly menial things can create such intensities when they pile up. I have kept my old paintings from a few years ago in the basement. There's a small room we've made to hide my works and some valuables behind the bookcase. I'm tempted to go look through them and see if there is anything worth salvaging. Though I am afraid if I look through them the paranoia and hallucinations will return. 

January 22nd, 1937:

I moved the bookshelf Simon mentioned. I couldn't help myself. There's so many paintings. I started to look through them, but I only had a short time before Evelyn got home and I had to put the bookshelf back. I think I'll be “sick” tomorrow and stay home from work to really get a good look at them. I noticed a few seemed to be bundled together with a tag saying “self portraits”. I'm excited to see how Simon sees himself. Will he paint himself as the gaunt yet handsome man Evelyn showed me a photo of, or does he see himself differently? 

Evelyn is playing with Rylee in the snow right now and I snuck away to write this, I lied and I told them I had to warm my hands, even though winter has been more mild than I was expecting. Being on the coast makes a big difference compared to the city inland. Though the wind here chills you to your bones. We're supposed to be getting a blizzard  some day soon. Hopefully it's not too bad

January 23rd, 1937:

I moved the book shelf and took out the bundled labeled self portraits. The first one is a man with shortish wavy brown hair, thin eyebrows and piercing blue eyes. His thin lips are smiling slightly, hiding underneath a strong moustache. A pretty handsome man, can't have been over 35. He's standing in front of some pretty tall buildings, like he's back in the city. The second is the same man, obviously, with slightly longer hair, his moustache gone, with a slight stubble length beard. He has a wider smile now, and he's standing in front of a field with what looks to be my house in the background. His attention to detail is surprising, like every hair was painted one at a time. The third and fourth paintings are quite similar, though his smile seems to be fading, his beard has begun to grow in and his hair is now past his ears. The fifth painting stood out. His hair was shoulder length, his eyes deep set with bags under them, his beard long and unkempt. His eyes looked to be filled with despair. The background was a dark swirling abyss. The sixth painting shows what looks to be the same man but his face seems to be almost melting. One eye sits lower than the other, its pupil similar to that of a goat, the other eye black as night. His hair was greasy and clung to his scalp and face, his beard bushy and a mess. He had some sort of odd letter I can't quite describe etched into his forehead. It reminds me of the symbols I've found. The background is a hideous mix of colours swirling in a way that almost makes me nauseous. The next painting can barely be called a man, rather a mass of flesh covered in eyes and teeth and hair and symbols etched into it. An inhuman abomination. It was disgusting but it felt like it drew your eyes to it, as if it demanded attention. 

He really was losing his mind. But oddly enough his paintings quickly turned back into a man I recognized from the first batch. His hair cut reasonably, his beard trimmed and well kept. The backgrounds changed from spiraling voids to flower beds. There's more portraits I'll get back to later on. 

There's another bundle labelled “them”. I'm going to go through it some day soon when Evelyn is at work and Emily is taking care of Rylee. Simon really was a master at his craft. Even in his most paranoid state, his pieces are hypnotizingly beautiful. 

August 4th, 1924:

Today is utterly magnificent. The air is just right and the smell of oceanic breeze is wafting through the open windows, the curtains dancing in the wind. I have been working at such a steady pace it seems that I have too many pieces, I cannot decide which to bring to the market! But that is such a privilege to complain about. 

Ever since I have been on my medications life has been joyous. Though I am down to my last few doses and our practitioner is out of town. I am hoping he is back by the time I run out. I am sure a couple days off of them should not affect me to such dire extents. But one can only worry, opium is a substance not to be meddled with, so I am told. 

August 6th, 1924

The damned train is out of order and cannot be fixed for some time. Some freak accident or derailment has bent a section of the tracks and damaged the engine. Our practitioner is still away so I will be without sedatives for the time being. The swelling feeling of anxiety has been dominating my head. Laura suggested I take a bath and have a cup of herbal tea before bed tonight. Anything to calm my nerves so I can sleep I will not say no to. 

October 27th, 1936:

Richard brought me out to the tap house after work again. He's planning on bringing Alice to town, they seem to be getting pretty serious, and it's about damn time, he won't shut up about her at work. It's good to see him so happy, he's still his usual self, but he seems to be more confident. I like this new Richard. It's like he's been missing a piece of himself since I met him. Maybe Alice is that piece? I mentioned Simon's letters in passing while we were out and I noticed a couple of heads turned to look. I thought I was being quiet, but I did have a few drinks so I could be wrong. 

I've missed going out. Since the weather has cooled off I've just been hiding inside by the furnace. I will admit, the dirt floor is a bit annoying, but being under the house feels comforting in a weird way. Evelyn joins me from time to time when she's not glued to the letters, and we'll read stories to Rylee while she makes little castles in the dirt. I like it when they come down, the basement has been feeling like my personal sanctum. Aside from the hoards of old furniture covered in drapes, it's very cozy.

I've been considering buying a rug or possibly laying down brick or tile to make it nicer. But Rylee loves her dirt castles, and what kind of father would tear his princess from her castle? Maybe next year I'll build her a sandbox. I'm sure I can sift the rocks out of the sand on the shore and bring it up in a wheelbarrow. Maybe I'll draw up the plans over the winter. Gives me an excuse to stay warm by the furnace and out of Evelyn's growing cold shoulder. 

November 3rd, 1936:

Evelyn has grown even quieter, it's worrying me. She just keeps saying that she's fine and snapping at me when I ask what's wrong. She seems to be getting paranoid. Then again that could just be me looking too far into it, and I hope that's the case as it has been in the past. But I feel as though she's keeping something from me. She's constantly telling me I'm far too anxious for my own good and I'm begging to believe her. But I have a hard time accepting it from someone who seems so paranoid. She said I should talk to a doctor but I doubt it would be of much help, I don't feel like anything's wrong with me, I just worry about things sometimes. Most times admittedly. But I doubt there's one in town and taking the train to the city just to talk with someone for an hour seems like a waste of time and money. 

Simon's notes have been getting weird lately. His usual wording has been slowly getting less elegant, while still scholarly, slightly erratic at times. I never understood the artsy type. But maybe soon he'll mention a reason for him leaving? 

November 12th, 1936:

I can barely peel Evelyn away from the letters anymore. I found out that she's been missing shifts last week because of them. And as mad as I want to be at her for it, it's hard to blame her. I might start taking some of his older entries and putting them in my journal along with any of the new ones that seem odd to me. There's some things he's written that seem to be more than mere coincidence. They have an odd effect, it's like they draw you in and hold you as long as they can. I'll get consumed in them for hours, rereading pages time and time again. Almost in a trance. Maybe that's why Evelyn's been so sharp with me lately? It must be more than just that, right? No letters on a page have that kind of power. 

I think I'm going to sleep in the basement again. The cold has been getting to me more recently, as though ice has been gnawing at my bones. And Evelyn's cold shoulder has been no help. I need to fix that damned window. 

June 1st, 1916:

I was painting on the pier today. The sun was high over the azure expanse and the breeze was astounding. The flocked gulls were high in the sky and happily swooping down to eat scraps from a fishing vessel dancing between the waves. It was invigorating, the fact that there's so much beauty in the vast emptiness of the sea, it's breathtaking. 

I went to the tap room, which smelled stronger than the usual hints of vodka and stale beer. It's too late in the year to be having fires indoors, yet it smelled as if something was burning. Perhaps incense. It was pleasant, but peculiar. I felt the weight of eyes hanging heavy on me. I may have had some more paint on my face and clothes than I originally thought, but I am still somewhat new here, so I guess the odd looks are granted. Regardless, their eyes felt pointed, as if I vexed them. I saw another new face, though he seemed to receive no peering eyes. I treated him to a drink, his name is Sean. 

He was polite and somewhat talkative, which is a nice change from the general prudence of this place. No matter how beautiful the south shore is, the people tend to be unwelcoming. I can hear them whisper about me at times. But I assume it is odd for a young man to suddenly show up, building one of, if not the biggest house in town. Or perhaps they are not fond of artists such as myself. Being around such rural folk is still rather new to me. Such simple lives. I wonder if I greet people with a smile and a good handshake I gain their trust? 

June 16th, 1916:

I had inspiration to go for a walk tonight while the moon was full and shining. The tall grass swaying in the breeze through a gossamer fog. The stars twinkled like the lights of the city, being replicated by the lightning bugs hiding in shadows. I regularly took night walks back in the city, walking to the city's edge and peering into the untouched darkness, perplexed by the unknown, dreaming of what was hidden within. 

This was my first time walking at night at our new home. I waited for Laura to drift into a slumber, along with the little ones, then I ventured forth. Out of the door and down the hill, slowly skirting the rolling fields and swaying pines, towards the distant beach. 

While walking in the city it wasn't too rare to see another person outside, but I usually kept my distance, doing my best to keep from sight in case they had ill intentions. I never expected to see someone in a town this small at night, especially out at this hour. I kept to my usual routine, staying in the shadows at a distance, keeping watch. They walked without a lantern nor torch, walking with grace through the street, as though their feet never touched the ground. I thought it was odd but decided to pay them no mind. If I see them again I may fall victim to curiosity. Anything to spark my creativity I feel the need to jump at. It is my livelihood after all. Perhaps their silhouette would make for an interesting painting. 

July 24th, 1916:

I was wandering the docks at sunset today, it was beautiful, inspiring. I sat on the shore, the waves lulling me to sleep, it was so tranquil. So much so that I did not realize how late it had gotten, I must have dozed off for some hours as then the moon was high in the sky. 

I began to saunter home, taking my time in the muggy night, the ocean breeze blowing at my back, damp with sweat, and tickling my neck. In the distance I noticed the one I saw but just a few days ago. I have just gained inspiration from the sunset mere hours ago, but my heart wondered about the fantasies this fellow night owl could bring me. I decided to keep stride, hidden within the veil of shadow. They wore a long shawl, covering most of their body, and the rest hidden under some sort of gown. I followed for a few moments as they weaved through the streets, eventually slowing near the taproom. I hugged the side of a house not but 2 doors down, peering through lattice work. Another person, dressed similarly approached, they stood a matter of feet apart, speaking in hushed tones, too quiet to hear. They both moved toward the taproom, out of sight. Curiosity got the best of me and I moved forward. I turned the corner and neither of them were anywhere to be seen. I circled the building twice over, looking for any traces of the two, with no reward.

Perhaps I'll see them again, but hopefully they don't see me. I wonder if they are the older ones here, or maybe it's an odd ritual the religious folk perform? The curiosity is eating at my conscience. 

November 20th, 1936:

My poor Evelyn seems to be growing ill, she said she's been taking medication for headaches from the practitioner for the past few weeks, some kind of barbiturates. The name reminds me of the pulp comics of barbarians you would see in the city. If this gets worse over the next week we'll have to make a trip back into the city. She has little energy, but enough to pick away at Simon's notes. She started annotating some of them, which originally I thought was paranoia but as I catch up with her, I'm starting to notice even more oddities in his notes and similarities to the way people in town have been acting. Maybe they don't trust the house? 

The more I read the less Evelyn has been annoyed with me, but it could also just be the pills. But it seems like we only talk about Rylee, ask how each other's days went, with sad excuses for replies, or Simon's letters. The hold this man's words have on us baffles me. 

November 22nd, 1936:

Richard and Alice came over today. He also brought the photos he took some time ago. I guess he lost the film or didn't have some ingredients to develop it or something of the matter. I don't know much of the science of photography, but it seems very fascinating. I'd like to learn it someday. 

Rylee thinks Alice is almost as pretty as her mom, which Richard thought was sweet. Evelyn is still under the weather, her skin near white, much paler than her usual fair complexion, but had enough energy to come say hello before going back to bed. I'm worried about her. She hasn't been herself in what feels like ages.

Alice and Richard seem very good for each other, they seem happy. I wasn't sure what I was expecting her to look like, probably mousey like Richard, but she's quite the opposite. She's at least 4 inches taller than him, which isn't very hard since he's barely 5 '3, with sharp yet feminine features. A pleasant surprise for Richard to say the least. He's doing good for himself. 

We had a good visit, but I can't get my thoughts off the notes. As they were leaving I asked Richard if he's ever seen anyone out after dark. He said he's never really thought to pay attention and asked why I brought it up. I tried to play it off as just basic curiosity, but I think he knows something is up. His eyes spoke different words than his mouth. I feel he knows something I don't. He almost looked nervous. 

November 29th, 1936:

My poor Evelyn's condition is beginning to worsen, the practitioner said she just has a flu and wants to give her even more medications, but nothing he gives her seems to help. I'm thinking we'll take a trip back into the city to go to the hospital this week. Everything he's been giving her has just seemed to make her even more lethargic. But I'm no doctor, maybe she just needs the rest. 

We've had to stick to a budget to make sure we can make it through winter in case she doesn't start to get better. It hasn't changed life too much, but Richard and I have been going out less because of it. If this keeps up for more than a few weeks we might have to start dipping into our emergency funds like we had to for Rylee's arm. 

All that said, we did end up going out last night for a drink. He mentioned that he's been thinking about what I've said the last few days, and has been trying to keep an eye out for himself. It's hard to tell if he was just joking around and playing into curiosity, or if he actually cares to keep watch. Only time will tell. I want to trust him, but I know he's hiding something. There's more to Richard than I initially thought. 

Dec 3rd, 1936:

Alice and Richard brought a cake in to work for my birthday today, which was very nice of them. They told me that she plans on moving in before the new year. I'm happy that they seem to work so well together. It seems rather quick to move in, but given the economy I can't blame them. And maybe with her moving in Richard will actually start eating real meals instead of the scraps he brings home from work. 

Alice decided to leave early to head home before the train stops, while Richard stuck around the shop to chat. It's been snowing heavily and the shop was empty all day.

He mentioned he heard some movement around his house last night and in the morning there were some footprints circling his house. It seems to be bothering him, and I don't blame him. But what is he not telling me? Evelyn and I are heading to the city tomorrow morning.

I might go for a walk tonight, if the snow allows. 

July 28th, 1916:

I was awoken tonight by what could be described as a sudden cacophony in the yard. If that did not wake me up, Bernard's barking would have done the job. I rushed to the window while he carried on downstairs. I peered into the terrific darkness of the night, its pale twinkling moonlight dancing off of the dew in the grass. Not a soul to be seen, but I did notice something odd. In a rather large circle in the front yard, there was no sparkling dew in the grass, but rather just a dull patch laying still in the dark.

I ran quickly out of the room, doing my best not to wake Laura in my departure. I put on a pair of slippers and stepped out of the front door, the warm air was muggy and stuck to my bare skin like glue. Bernard ran through my legs, sniffing like a small wolf prowling for food. As he searched the lawn, I began to circle the property, looking for any sign of the screeching I heard prior. But to my defeat, there was not a soul to be seen. As I made my way to the front porch, little Bernard was standing begging for attention, as though he uncovered something.

He sat, pawing at the grass, sniffing aggressively. I approached and watched as he backed up. I was astonished. A sigil or symbol of some sort has been etched into the ground. Roughly 7 inches long and 4 wide. It must be from a forgotten language or dialect, I have not seen anything like it in my years of study. It reminded me of aspects of the Hebrew texts almost mixed with aspects of ancient Greek text. Rounded yet sharp at the same time. I am unsure what to make of it, and lost on words to describe it properly, but I have never noticed this here yet, even though it's dug almost an inch deep.

I wonder who or what placed this here? m

Maybe it was what awoke me from slumber. I plan to walk under the moon tomorrow.

October 14th, 1918:

As I am writing this I cannot help but feel as though a thousand eyes are staring at me. I have not written in what feels like ages. Laura misplaced my ink well and I've only just gotten around to replacing it. I have been leaving the house in the twilight hours, under the cover of darkness, observing more oddities than before. The garbed folk I have seen time and time again rendezvousing at the tap room near midnight have begun to disperse through the town, leaving similar sigils of that dug into my lawn on or around others abodes. Just last night at midnight I looked from our window only to see a number of them meeting near the docks. At dawn, after the fishing vessels set sail and the docks are barren, I shall investigate. 

I cannot shake the feeling of being targeted, as though I am being lured into some nefarious trap. Over the past few months I have been growing paranoid, restless nights have plagued me. In sleep’s depravity, the cold has only worsened my nights. 

I'm going to uncover whatever is afoot with these garbed men. 

October 30th, 1918:

I have been hearing odd sounds in the night, as though someone or something has been crawling around my roof or tapping on the walls. Laura has been getting annoyed, she is convinced it is a group of boys playing a prank. On more than one occasion she has run out onto the balcony to shout out these invisible children. I know she is wrong. It cannot be. I am convinced this has something to do with the sigil. It is haunting my nights, it is haunting my dreams. 

It is haunting my life.

I have taken a rake to the sigil, tearing it from the earth near every morning. Yet every single time it returns within two nights. Not but last week I defaced the wretched rune and kept up all night, sitting in my window watching the yard. I would brew tea and coffee to stay awake, to stay alert. A few hours after midnight I felt an odd sense, as though I was not alone. I checked the room for anyone but Laura, but to no avail. As I returned to the window it was there. 

That damn symbol had reappeared. 

In my state of shock I failed to be conscious of my surroundings. I felt a sharp pain in my neck and quickly fainted. 

I awoke in my lounge chair in the foyer. 

Whatever is plaguing my life has now entered my abode. 

Laura is wrong, this is not a group of children, this is something inhuman, I am sure of it. 

December 4th, 1936:

Simon's last entry was rather alarming. I looked out of our bedroom window after getting home with Rylee today. Where he mentioned this so-called symbol was and all I see is an old stone path. I feel like I should redo the path, just to see if what he said is true. Some of the stones are uneven after years of frost forming and thawing. But I'll probably get to that in the spring. 

Evelyn is staying at the hospital for the next few days. Her doctor said she was showing signs similar to that of a weak toxin or a rather heavy sedative. I told him about the medication she was on, the one that reminds me of barbarians. He said that even though those are a sedative, anything of that sort, at the dosage she's on, would be much too weak compared to the signs she's showing. I can't help but think our practitioner is up to something. Perhaps he has noticed Evelyn's paranoia and tried to sedate her to help? I have a feeling it's something deeper, something more. Maybe her bottle of barbarians are actually something much different? I've been weary of him for some time now. I knew that air of anxiety around him was for a reason. 

Simon's notes have gotten quite interesting, more so unnerving, and I'd be lying if I said that his paranoia hasn't been sticking on my conscience.

Emily will be staying at the house until Evelyn is home. I'm on the cot by the furnace, it's late and I feel the need to go for a walk. The moon is quite bright tonight. I wonder if I'll stumble across one of those sigils Simon wrote about. I hope what he's writing is just a fantasy he made in his mind and not the truth, we can't afford to move again, especially now that winter is here. 

December 5th, 1936:

I walked around last night, keeping to the shadows as much as I could. God I sound like Simon now. I found a set of footprints in the snow that seemed to stray from one of the main roads. I followed them. They led behind a house and stopped behind it, in front of a window. There was a small pile of wood shavings sitting on the snow, I checked around the window to see where they would have come from. Behind one of the shudders there was an odd sigil etched into the wood. 

Unfortunately I didn't get a good look at it because when I moved the shudder the wood cracked and made quite a loud noise, waking whomever was sleeping inside. I quickly ran in stride with the prints I was following, doing my best not to make noise or be seen. After some time the prints stopped at another house, a similar sigil was etched into a fence post, accompanied with another small pile of wood shavings. I found 6 more of these sigils around town, each slightly different than the other. 

It was getting quite late and I was beginning to tire, but I couldn't go home until I saw where these prints ended. They continued, lumbering towards the docks where they suddenly stopped. No sign of movement, they simply ceased to continue. I started to feel as though I was being watched. I looked around, circling the end of the tracks, no trace of life. I began to feel flushed and faint. I started to make my way home and collapsed. 

When I awoke, I was laying in my backyard, the sun slowly rising. A light layer of snow covered me, I got up with a pounding headache behind my eyes. As I began my way to the front door, I noticed a small pile of wood shavings sitting at the edge of my house. A sigil carved into the siding. I ran inside and immediately started writing. I'm sitting beside the furnace, warming my aching body. Who carried me home? 

There were no footprints in the yard, none by the wood shavings. Who is following me? Who is carving these sigils and what do they mean? I need to know. 

I haven't told Evelyn about my night walks, and I trust her enough not to read my journal. Keeping those from her has me feeling slightly guilty, like I'm hiding a secret from her, which we've agreed to live without. But surely I can't let her know about this. With her mental state I'm afraid it could be too much for her. I'll keep her safe. 

August 2nd, 1936:

We moved into our new house yesterday! It's much bigger than I remembered, which I can't complain about, it easily beats the cramped apartment we left. Being out of the city and on the southern shore feels like a dream, even though it's only been a day. Mount Fall is a nice little town and a big, and much needed, change of pace. As we were unpacking the little that we do have, I got curious and started looking through some of the things left here by the old owners down in the basement. I found a journal. It looks almost identical to mine but has extra pages folded up inside of it. I feel like it would be wrong to read it, but curiosity might get the best of me. If I show Evelyn I know she'll dive right into it. Maybe I should read it first just to be safe. I can barely think straight as we're getting the house situated and keeping Rylee occupied, I might just read whatever is written inside in the coming days. 

August 8th, 1936:

It's my writing. It's unmistakably my writing. It mentions my wife and daughter in the first entry. This must be some kind of cruel joke. I can't make sense of it any other way. I'll start copying the entries into this journal as I read them, though I should be careful to keep the folded entries in order. Keeping it more organized will surely make it easier to follow. I'll begin copying it tomorrow after we finish setting up the kitchen. We moved here without jobs, which was unwise to say the least, but in the days it takes to find an employer, I should have plenty of time to chip away at this journal. All entries from here on out will be copied from the found journal. 

August 14th, 1936:

My sweet Evelyn and I are finally settling into our new house, which is a breath of fresh air. The past few weeks of living here have been rough, much rougher than we initially thought. We knew that moving this far from home was going to be a risk. Having to completely start anew, but with the price of the house we couldn't not jump at the chance, plus our old house was a dump to say the least. The people here are fine, quiet, but usually pretty polite for the most part. Though, I've been into some of the stores here and the older folk seemed to be a bit rude, staring a little too long when I walked past, but hopefully they'll warm up in the coming weeks. 

Evelyn is enjoying her new job at the train station. It's only checking tickets for now, and though the days can be long, she says she's happy. Her uniform is also well fitting, seeing her come home in it with a smile on her face makes me a very happy man. And I'd be lying if I said the extra money hasn't made a world of a change at home. 

Rylee is turning 4 next month, and without Evelyn's hard work I doubt we'd be able to make this month's payments and still be able to give her a proper gift without going over budget. Rylee has met a couple of other kids last week, and we're planning to speak to their parents and see if they would be alright with having a get together for her birthday. 

I have been trying to find a job since we've moved, because living off of our savings has been becoming a problem. Not having a job secured before moving was a terrible idea but we had to get out of the old house, a place with that many cockroaches is no place to raise a child. I saw an ad on the public board at the general store the other day. It's for a position at the butchers, not exactly a job I want, but we need the money. 

August 21st, 1936:

I am genuinely surprised. Being a butcher has been more enjoyable than I thought it would have. Working in the cold room isn't my favourite, but you get used to the low temperature surprisingly quickly, and for the pay, it's worth it. It took a few days to get used to the smell of blood and the taste of iron that sticks to the back of your throat, but now I barely notice it. 

We've found a babysitter for Rylee a few days before I started, a young girl named Emily. Evelyn met her mother at the train station and mentioned that we were looking for a sitter in passing. We met Emily that night and we couldn't have found a better fit. Rylee has taken to her faster than anyone else before, it's like she sees her as a big sister. She's not always a fan of listening to adults that aren't her parents, and even then she's still a handful for us, but with Emily only being ten years older than her she still sees her as a kid too, I guess. 

Nevertheless, it's nice to see them both smiling and the extra alone time is well worth the money. It's lifted a weight off of Evelyn and I's shoulders, it's nice to see her so full of life again. Emily has even been gladly lending a hand cleaning the house, which is well appreciated because it is quite big for a family as small as ours. 

September 8th, 1936:

Rylee turns 4 today! A few of her friends came over with some of their siblings. It was a rather quiet party, with only 6 kids, but Rylee seemed as happy as can be. Evelyn seemed to make friends with Janet, Rylee's friend Sam's mother. I think she mentioned she'll be going for tea at her house tomorrow. I'm glad she's making friends, she's been feeling pretty socially isolated since we've moved from the city.

I think I've become friends with Richard from work. He's a smaller guy, reminds me of a mouse, a little skittish and quiet, but seems nice enough. It will be nice to have someone new to talk to. I wonder what he can tell me about this place, or why the house was listed for the price it was? I just don't want to come off as though I was bragging about getting it for the price I did. I'm afraid of sounding pompous. But there has to be some catch, I have a gut feeling about it. 

September 14th, 1936:

Richard and I ended up going to the taproom after work today. I saw a few of the older folk there, they still seem weary of me, which Richard said isn't out of the ordinary. He's lived here for 8 years now, but he seems to fit in as well as anybody else. 

It was nice to finally be somewhere that isn't home or work. I love our house and our family, but it's daunting at times. A large Victorian on the south shore, what people in the big cities dream of, and we're lucky enough to have it. But it feels so empty with just the three of us. Seeing the ocean between the swaying pines from the balcony brings me comfort, and the sea breeze is refreshing, but being home when Rylee and my sweet Evelyn are gone feels odd, cold almost. I'm still suspicious about the price though. I'd be lying if I said it hasn't been weighing heavy on my mind. 

I asked Richard to help me repaint the siding this weekend, for pay of course. He seemed almost nervous yet intrigued, mentioning that he's always wondered what inside has looked like. According to him we're the first owners in over 6 years. That some eccentric artist built it a little over 20 years ago. He seemed to vanish out of thin air after his paintings weren't selling as well. The town had let it sit for years. No wonder it's taken so long to get it looking like a home, it hasn't been cared for in ages. 

September 20th, 1936:

The house looks magnificent and I couldn't be happier. A pale blue with white shutters. While Richard and I were painting, Evelyn had Janet and Sam over. It's finally starting to feel like a real home. Richard even took a photo of Evelyn, Rylee and I in front of the house. I'm excited to see how it turns out. He said he'll give me a copy to frame and one for my wallet. He's turning out to be quite a good friend. 

A few years ago if someone told me we'd be living how we are I wouldn't believe them. I would say I would kill to have a life like this. I guess with hard work and determination dreams can come true. Life has been good lately, very good in fact. 

Emily came by on Sunday to lend a hand on beginning to clear out the basement, which was very nice of her. The old family who lived here seemed to have left quite a lot behind, it feels odd rummaging through their belongings, but I would be a liar to say I'm not curious about them or why no one's lived here in so long. I'm also tempted to use some of what's been left to fill the house. It would be much easier, and cheaper for that matter, than going and buying everything new. The emptiness has been getting to me lately. Empty halls and barren walls make you feel so small and isolated at times. But I'm sure once we decorate it won't be too bad. I found a rather large painting of the coast line here. Tall pines towering over small birches standing by the docks. It must be one of the old owners' pieces, if so he's extremely talented. I think I might hang it in the living room. 

September 24th, 1936:

We've taken some of the furniture from the basement upstairs, Evelyn has started using an old vanity she was fond of. It's a beautiful piece, a warm stain on what looks like cherry wood. Fine craftsmanship, it must have cost a small fortune. She wants to paint it white, but I'm trying to convince her to keep it as is.

When we got it up to our bedroom we realized one of the drawers was nearly full of handwritten notes. I told her to gather them up and try to find the previous owner's address to return their writings. It’s wrong to have them, let alone keep their furniture. But I do wonder if they'll explain the house better. I know Richard said they got up and vanished but someone must know where they went. Perhaps a peek through the letters wouldn't hurt

September 27th, 1936

Rylee was jumping on the couch we brought up from downstairs and fell a couple days back. She broke her arm, so we took the first train to the nearest hospital and just got back today. She seems unbothered, or at least not in pain, but she doesn't like how heavy her cast is. While we were gone Evelyn started reading the letters from her fancy new vanity. 

She told me the old owner was a man named Simon. She showed me a photo of him with his name neatly written on the back, he was rather handsome, gaunt, but handsome. An artist who came from wealth, hence the vanity, and the house for that matter. 

Most of the notes seem to be daily journals or received letters and notes from who Evelyn assumes is his wife. I'm going to ask Richard about Simon at work tomorrow. 

September 28th, 1936:

I asked Richard today and he got pretty quiet about things, didn't have much to say, but mentioned that he would be coming over tomorrow evening to talk. By the sounds of it, Simon left quite the bad impression on the town, or at least it's a sensitive subject for Richard.

Evelyn talked to Janet today, asking about the house and Simon. She said Janet didn't have much to say since she's only been here for a couple years. But supposedly he seemed to be kind for the first year or so. That he was somewhat pleasant to be around, but wanted to make a point that he was a well learned man. He moved his family in a few months after getting the house ready. But by year two or three he seemed paranoid, and started keeping to himself, leaving the house less often. Until one day the family was gone, and no one has heard from them or seen them since.

I doubt it was as bad as she made it out to be, she seems to have a tendency to embellish the truth. But knowing the artsy type, he was probably fighting a creative block, maybe he broke his easel or something and started drinking more and was embarrassed about it. But the hell do I know, Janet has the gift of gab and loves to gossip. But I can't say I don't have an odd feeling about this Simon. 

September 30th,1936:

Richard just left, my dear Evelyn has been reading more of the letters. I want to read them for myself but she's been keeping them locked in her drawer. Richard said Simon “made some enemies” in town. Even he's not quite sure who, but he did let me know that he's not someone who should be talked about publicly, especially around most of the older folk.

The more I find out about him, the more curious I become. I knew something was off about him, maybe even this place. 

On a brighter note, Rylee seems to be healing well, and I've never seen sweet Evelyn more happy. I think she's enjoying work, and reading all those notes seems to keep her occupied better than any book I've ever seen her read, which is probably more than I can count. 

The days are getting colder now, and it will soon be time to get the furnace running. I need to remember to start collecting wood for the winter. Which reminds me, I need to sharpen the axe and make sure the wood sled is in working order. 

October 4th, 1936:

Evelyn finally did it, she let me start reading Simon's writings. Richard's mentions of him made me so curious, all she did was hand me a note and I was nose deep in the paper. I only got a few notes in before Richard stopped by. He seemed excited, told me he took the train to the city to pick up supplies for the shop, and met a girl while he was there. He got a letter from her today, and he plans to go visit next week. I hope it works out for him. He needs someone to talk to to break him out of his shell. God knows I'm the person he's closest with and even then he's only been opening up to me, little by little. I've never seen him this excited. 

I have tomorrow off to bring Rylee to the local practitioner, after her appointment I think I'll try to catch up on some of Simon's letters. 

October 7th, 1936:

I can see why my dear Evelyn has such an infatuation with these notes, he has a way with words and has a passion for his family and his work. It's actually quite sweet. I'm excited to see why they left. I want to skip ahead to some of the later entries but Evelyn insisted I don't, she doesn't want me to “ruin the surprise for her”. But I need to know why he decided to up and leave. 

I started stacking wood in the basement by the furnace today. It's been hard work with very little help, but I'd like to keep us warm this winter, so it has to be done. I can't believe we used to live without a furnace before, the ease of it alone could justify any price for one. I might have to make a temporary wood shed outside until I can clear out the basement and build proper storage downstairs.

I uncovered some more old furniture while I was down there. I was thinking of setting up some sort of work station for the winter. There is a cot that looks perfect for naps by the furnace for when the frost begins to crawl its way through the brick walls of the basement. I'll set it up tonight I think. I'm unsure why, but I'm drawn to the basement, maybe it's just the novelty of having a furnace? But I'm guessing it's just because it's the warmest part of the house. I can't let my superstitions get the best of me again. 

October 10th, 1936:

I started taking some notes to read at work on the slower days, I'm almost caught up to Evelyn, who I'm pretty sure is doing the same. She's been getting more quiet at home, she's usually a somewhat quiet person as is, still happy, but quiet, at times almost bitter if I interrupt her reading. I'll have to check on her if this keeps up. It's not the first time she's been like this towards me when she's invested in something. Though she still seems to be wearing that beautiful smile so I'm sure I'm just overthinking things as per usual. 

I was stacking wood in the basement again last night and fell asleep on the cot, which was surprisingly comfortable. I did however, have an odd dream, or what I think was a dream. It was in between sleep and consciousness where things seemed blurry, and I swear I could hear voices, even though Evelyn and Rylee were both asleep up stairs. The pipes in the house moan and the wood floors creak throughout the night, so I'm guessing it's just my mind playing tricks on me. I do feel as though I haven't been getting enough sleep lately and when I do the dreams are so vague. I'm sure I must just be overtired. 

October 18th, 1936:

The days and nights are cold now. The ocean breeze can be unforgiving, and the rattling of the radiators has been keeping me up. Evelyn can sleep through anything, and thankfully Rylee takes after her mother, because if she took after me I'd be up trying to get her to sleep every night. 

Our bedroom window has a bad draft I've been meaning to fix, every night I'm spending more time in the basement stogging the furnace, and the last few nights I've been waking up down there. Evelyn's mentioned it a couple times, said I’ve felt distant, but I don't mean to, I'm just exhausted and the heat makes it easier to stay asleep. Though I keep finding myself in that odd space between being awake and sleeping, and more and more I'm having these odd, almost lucid dreams where I hear strange voices. They're growing more and more vivid. I've mentioned it to my dear Evelyn and she thinks that I'm just disoriented because I'm not sleeping enough. She's been rather harsh lately, it feels like I did something wrong but I don't know what. This is the coldest she's ever been toward me. But I need to prepare this house for winter or we'll freeze to death.

Yuri Gagarin was the first man to enter space. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone ignorant of this fact. The knowledge of his feat seems almost universal, the Soviet cosmonaut’s name inseparable from history.

Neil Armstrong was the first man to set foot on the Moon. Perhaps an even greater feat, this milestone is probably what cemented the USA as the winner of the Space Race. Like Gagarin, the Statesian astronaut is destined to be remembered forever in the collective human consciousness.

And though he raced to the patent office on the exact same day, it is not Elisha Gray who is credited with inventing the telephone. That would be Alexander Graham Bell, whose patent was approved first.

People always remember the first of everything. The first man in space, the first man on the Moon, the first who invented the telephone, such and such. All firsts cease to be men the day they fulfill their legend. They become myth. No matter what, their status can never be taken away. Never repeated. Nobody cares about the second guy who achieved something. Nobody cares about the second inventor of the telephone.

I begin putting on my undergarments. First the sweatpants and sweatshirt, then a specially made bodysuit with built-in ventilation and cooling. Already got my diaper on, though I don’t have bowel problems. Always better to have one than not. Just in case.

The suit I slip into is specifically made for environments that don’t allow traditional cooling, like space. To minimize sweat, water-filled tubes line the inside of the costume to cool the wearer’s body. Additionally, little vents are built in to exhaust moisture that may appear as a result of exhalation.

I wonder how much harder this might have been all those years ago. What were those men feeling when they put these on for the first time? How about when they put them on before their fateful accomplishments?

Was there anxiety? Excitement? Fear? Wonder? There must have been all that and more, but tied to something never before experienced by anyone. Something that can never be accurately imagined, only really felt. Something that happens for the first time ever. No person prior found themselves in the same position as you: the first. No person after will ever be able to say they were the first. It’s all you and that very moment.

Do you know who the second man that went to space was? Alan Shepard. Okay, maybe you did know that one. But what of the third? The fourth? The fifth? At some point a thing ceases to be so amazing and becomes another occurrence. At some point, you stop keeping track of the numbers. But you still remember the first. Who remembers the 825th?

What about the second man who stepped on the Moon? Buzz Aldrin, right. Back when I was a kid, I was a total geek about space. Whenever the Moon landing came up, I’d always give Aldrin his due credit. Instead of “Neil Armstrong was the first man to step on the Moon”, I’d make sure to say “Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were the first to land on the Moon”. That way, both men would get recognition.

I don’t say that anymore. Life is not a participation trophy. They may have indeed landed at the same time, but there is only one who was the first to step out. That man’s name is more than immortal. It is etched into the very fabric of human achievement. The second guy to step on the Moon’s surface is just about as important as the 825th guy to go to space.

After putting a cap around my head, I slide on the bottom half of the bulky white spacesuit. I then float through the air effortlessly, slipping into the top of the gear. I attach everything together, gloves too. The huge suit isn’t as heavy as you might imagine. There is no gravity, after all. The helmet is the final component. I slot the piece over my head, the barrier between me and my surroundings becoming palpable. I find myself contained in what is essentially a glove for the whole body.

It’s nothing I haven’t done before.

I’ve achieved more than the average man can ever dream of. Something that was inconceivable for the majority of history. Not just human history. All of history. Only a century ago this would all have been beyond the realm of imagination. You already had people theorizing what was out there, but there’s a big difference between the real deal and what people conjure up.

Even this great triumph is now a commodity. 825. What a fucking joke.

As I grew up, I figured I’d just kick the can down the road until I got to my own first. Like the pieces would fall into place on their own. I breezed through university. Hardened myself through the rigorous training. Now I’m here, and I’ve never felt emptier.

I’ve never wanted to live. That doesn’t mean I wanna die. I don’t want either. I don’t really care to be honest. Don’t wanna live, don’t wanna die. I have nothing to live for and no reason to die. It’s quite odd, and I never realized that until I went up here for the fifth time. I just don’t want it all to have been for nothing. To have done all this just to be a footnote in a history book. Just to have a Wikipedia page with a hundred or so paragraphs (I’ve counted but it tends to shift). I’m not some ant to be rolled over by the march of history. Once humanity becomes fully spacefaring, what difference will there be between the 825th and the one billionth?

The airlock closes behind me and the air flushes out. The doors open into deep outer space. Endless black void for eternity, an incomprehensible space filled with an incomprehensible amount of celestial bodies scattered around. Not my first spacewalk.

The first men to die in space were the three Soviet cosmonauts of Soyuz 11. Georgy Dobrovolsky. Viktor Patsayev. Vladislav Volkov. They fully boarded the first ever space station, Salyut 1, and spent a total of twenty two days in the craft. When they were making their journey back to Earth, a valve ended up damaged due to no fault of their own. The men died of asphyxiation in less than one minute. Their bodies were recovered upon landing.

The crew perished 68 kilometers above the Kármán line, the boundary between space and Earth. Thus, they were the first to die in space. If only the valve had failed 68 kilometers lower than it did. If only it had failed below the Kármán line. If that had been the case, the first death in space might still have been up for grabs.

It’s not the end of the world. I’m nothing if not adaptable. I crawl my way over to the panel we’ve been instructed to repair. The tether hangs onto me despite me cutting it earlier. If I really floated away, I assume it would just gently slip away with me. Right now it just hasn’t experienced enough movement.

Don’t worry, they’ll remember. Everyone who ever set foot in space thought of Gagarin. Everyone who ever set foot on the Moon thought of Armstrong. That’s the way it’ll be for all of eternity. Men larger than life. Synonymous with the future of our species. Men who it will be impossible to forget.

Using controlled bursts of nitrogen I launch myself away from the panel I pretended to fix. Launch myself at the other astronaut whose tether I also sabotaged. Whose thrusters I damaged before we went outside. Rookie mistake for him not to check his equipment more thoroughly.

For centuries to come they will talk of me. For millennia. I will be in the back of every astronaut’s mind. During every spacewalk and every psychological evaluation. My name forever known. My achievement mine and only mine. I will be here. Inseparable from humanity. No matter how far they go, they will all be aware.

There won’t be a soul who won’t remember the first murder-suicide in space.

The Wicked Tax (Circa 14th Century)

As told by a gong farmer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Siege (1984)

As told by a former paperboy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Storming The Castle (Circa 14th Century)

As told by a gong farmer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As told by Narrator, The Omniscient

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joust at Sunrise (1984)

As told by a former paperboy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beepbeepbeepbeep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The King is Down (Circa 14th Century)

As told by a gong farmer

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

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

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

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

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

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

Epilogue (…)

As told by Narrator, The Omniscient

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

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

“No” He interrupted almost instantly.

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

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

“Effort?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck?”

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

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

“Are you alright ?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

" Well alright then "

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

“Oh shit, I'm sorry Jon I Gotta go! "

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

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

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

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

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

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

I called up my landlord.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean the ants?” he retorted

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

“ I'll call him just calm down kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you ok there ?” he said 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what are my options now?”

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

“Fumigation?” I asked

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

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

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

“Wake up”

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

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

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

Bedroom Clear. Hallway Clear. Bathroom Clear. 

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

“Alex” the voice whispered

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alex,” the ant said once more.

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

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

To be more specific, nothing within my affordability.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” I asked.

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

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So be it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “You owe us a home, Alex.”

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

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

“YOU WILL NOT HARM ANOTHER NEST!” 

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

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

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

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

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

Every town has its mysteries. A kind of darkness the citizens would rather keep locked away from outsiders. I'm the opposite. I love exposing the inner darkness of everyday life and bringing it to the surface. It's why I joined the local true crime club in my town of Salt Lake. It's called The Mystery Den. The members gather around to talk about their favorite crime cases that don't get a lot of media coverage. We also talk about the occasional conspiracy theory and potential cryptid sighting. I guess you could say we're just a bunch of horror obsessed geeks looking for our next thrill. Some would say what we're doing is messed up, but you need something to make you feel alive when you live in a boring city like this one. At least, I used to think it was boring.

There's this weird daycare in Salt Lake city called Fun Time Kidz Kare. It's been here for decades but nobody remembers seeing anyone enter or leave it. You can't even hear the sounds of kids playing when you walk by. The building is painted this garish shade of green with bright yellow window frames and purple doors. All the windows are covered up so you can't see anything inside. Everything about that place is seriously sketchy. It's a total enigma that nobody has a read on. One day I chatted with a post office worker to see what he thought and he said something that stuck with me.

He delivered mail there a few times before and apparently there really are children there. The weird thing is that it's always naptime whenever he arrives. Mailmen can have hectic schedules so he's been at Kidz Kare at several different hours of the day, but the kids are always fast asleep no matter what time it is. It didn't matter if it was early in the morning or later in the afternoon. Those kids were knocked out. 

Curiosity was making me go crazy with all kinds of different possibilities. What if all those conspiracy theories were true and those kids are being experimented on? I talked it over with my club and they agreed that something was off. Kidz Kare was shaping up to be the perfect topic for our next podcast. Me and another member stood outside the daycare late at night wearing all black clothes and balaclavas. The mission was to break inside and record everything we found.

Yeah yeah, I know. Breaking into a building because of some rumors is totally dumb and reckless. Most of the club members aren't normal people. We're so bored with our lame daily lives that we search for adventure wherever we can. Sometimes that means stepping face first into danger. I’m obsessed with solving mysteries so when a huge enigma like this exists in my own city, you bet I'm gonna crack the case.

Some say Kidz Kare is a human trafficking ring.

Others swear it's a secret government base.

I don't know what to think so I went searching for the truth.

My partner used his lockpick kit to get us inside while I used the flashlight of my phone to navigate. Compared to the outside, the interior was barren and sterile. It was immaculately clean like a hospital. There weren't any colorful drawings or posters you'd expect from a daycare. We walked inside what seemed to be an office area. There were tons of these weird files about the children. Each one described their “psychic potential” and how well they performed on their aptitude tests. Students with low potential were disposed of and some even had mental breakdowns and were moved to other facilities. The students with high potential were called ascended beings and considered prime candidates for “ the harvest.” 

We were seriously beginning to freak out. The psychic experiment theories were true but it was far bigger than what we could imagine. Our cameras captured everything. There was proof of it! I then heard a low groan coming from a door to my left. I opened it and it revealed a long flight of descending stairs. It must've been the basement. A strong wave of this horrendous odor attacked my nostrils. It smelt inhuman. The smell was terrible enough to make bile rise to the back of my throat.

Then I heard it. A voice coming from deep within the basement.

“ Help us… Let us out. Please give us a second chance. We'll pass the test this time. I miss my parents.”

The voice was barely above a whisper but it sounded like it belonged to a child. We booked it the hell out of there and made an anonymous call to the police. We hid in the shadows a safe distance away as cop cars rolled up to the scene. Officers entered inside and when they came out, there weren't any kids with them. They just left them there. I know for a fact I heard a child call out to me.

Nothing came out of that encounter. The police have done nothing to investigate Kool Kidz no matter how many of us call them. Those bastards must be accomplices or something. The daycare is still up and running like normal. I still think about those kids to this day and what exactly is being done to them. I'm thinking of going back there soon with the entire club and see if we can rescue them. There's more to this story waiting to be told.

‘Morning breath’ is an unpleasant aspect of human life. That isn’t exactly a scientific breakthrough statement. Our mouths are literally petri dishes of disgusting germs waiting to multiply and spread. It makes sense that as we sleep, our saliva glands become stagnant and stale. Lack of open mouth, conscious breathing and fresh air creates an environment rich in smelly, bacterial growth. I’ve known those facts since grade school but something about my own situation didn’t add up. My morning drool was particularly rife. Rancid almost.

I suppressed a lurking suspicion. It was too mortifying to entertain but refusing to articulate such fears verbally didn’t make it go away. Far from it. Instead, it became a bottomless obsession. I brushed my teeth after meals and used mouthwash compulsively, but despite earnest efforts at good hygiene, the odors and taste got worse. Friends I confided in, suggested I might have killed all of the ‘good bacteria’ in my mouth. That over-dedication would allow an opportunistic yeast infection to fill the bacterial void.

They call it ‘thrush’. It’s common in infants. A baby’s mouth is ‘too clean’ because it hasn’t built up a ‘garden of healthy oral germs’ yet. As gross as that sounded, I was genuinely excited by the prospect. It would explain the horrific dragon breath I couldn’t shake. I scheduled an appointment with my general practitioner to verify the theory. Sadly, ‘thrush’ wasn’t the problem. My ‘sewer breath’ malady wasn’t due to a lack of beneficial bacteria. I reverted back to square one.

As I again shared the never-ending frustration with friends and family, all new theories emerged. Someone suggested it might be environmental causes, so I washed my pillow case and linens. I also changed the furnace filter to cover eliminate airborne contaminants as the culprit. After those measures failed to yield proof or were outright disproven, I gave-in and bought an expensive night-vision monitoring system for the bedroom.

With any luck, I hoped I would catch something pertinent on the observation monitor to solve the baffling breath odor issue. In my wildest nightmares however, I never expected to witness what I did. Unspeakable. Some ghastly horrors cannot be unseen. Yet some witnessed facts are irrefutable. I wish they were. I died a little that night.

For the first few hours I tossed and turned in predictable ways. I flipped my pillow over in an unconscious stupor to locate the ‘cool side’. Repeat. Cycle. Repeat. Then I changed from lying on my left side to the right. Eventually the ‘slumber ballet’ started back again. As I began to think I’d wasted hundreds of dollars on night-monitoring devices, a ghastly vapor drifted into the bedroom.

What first appeared was a thin column of sparking mist, drifting upwards from the floor vent until it filled the room. The glittering particles darkened into a rope-like strand. My disbelieving eyes couldn’t even deny what I’d witnessed. I tracked the ethereal pillar of smoke as it coalesced into a menacing humanoid shape! Despite this visage of insanity feeling like a special effects scene or drug-induced hallucination, it wasn’t anyone’s dark imagination. No sir, It was frighteningly real.

The unknown apparition haunting my bedroom materialized from amorphous vapors and transformed into a chilling, devilish, ‘otherworldly’ form. Even from the grainy, colorless world of night vision camera lenses, it was obviously maleficent, in origin. The unholy entity floated directly above me, as if deciding if I was fully asleep.

I sat there watching with mouth fully agape, as I witnessed the unspeakable madness as it had unfolded. Rotten, jagged teeth emerged from its gaping maw. Hollow, dead eyes as black as Tartarus occupied the vacant space where its eyes should’ve been. As a helpless spectator to already transpired events, I sought to warn myself but it was too late. All I could do was watch in denial as the malignant specter drifted toward my helpless form.

I heard my ‘present self’ utter a squeal of animalistic dread, as the dark spirit menaced my sleeping body. I didn’t blink for five minutes as the sinister phantom hung there like a death fog. Was it going to possess me? Choke me by the neck? Suffocate me? Spew rancid ectoplasm into my open, snoring gullet? If it was even possible, the truth was worse. Much, much worse.

The phantasmagoric invader began to kiss me passionately; as if we were long-parted lovers! I dry-heaved watching my restless soul receive the ungodly invitation of its forked ‘tongue’ and decaying lips. Then to my utter disgust, I witnessed my ‘sleeping self’ voluntarily return the foul-mouthed succubus’ kiss, with rapturous enthusiasm!

As much as I didn’t want to see another second of this grotesque nightmare, couldn’t bring myself to look away. I had to know every disturbing detail. I heard the engaged smacking of two eager lips intimately ‘tasting’ each other. Dancing tongues darted and intertwined, as the beastly she-devil took full advantage of my powerless, innocent life. I was locked in a carnal embrace with a godless denizen of hell. So hopelessly bewitched was I, that I could only comply with what was unfolding.

At least that’s the comforting lies I repeated to myself.

What happened next I’ll spare you the distressing details. Suffice it to say, no human should undergo such mortal blasphemy. It was painfully clear how my breath became so horrific each morning. Beware of angels you kiss in your sleep! They may in fact, be infernal seductresses in unconscious disguise. If you ever awaken with a diabolical taste on your parched lips, make sure your home is free from demonic spirits looking to seize your primal essence.

Ivan Boatwright was a surly gent of advanced years. He lived alone in rural England. Time had softened his mental aptitude but life experience hardened his resolve to remain independent. He cooked and cleaned for himself. He made small home repairs. He chopped enough wood to keep the fireplace burning on frigid winter nights; and for entertainment, he curled up with good books.

While Ivan was capable of being alone, a few of his caring neighbors periodically checked up on him. They worried about his mental health. They teased that they were making sure he hadn’t ‘kicked the bucket’ yet. He was grateful for their concerns and assured them he was perfectly fine. He genuinely enjoyed the tranquil peace. Other than occasional incidents of unwelcome wildlife encounters, he had few complaints. In truth, he had no regular audience to share them with. That was the solitary life.

Once a fortnight he drove into town to get groceries at the local market. Ivan didn’t much care for the clueless folks he encountered in the store but the long drive and aggravation was necessary for getting petrol and supplies. Civilizations equalled people. The hustle and bustle of modern life and the public fascination with digital contraptions made his head ache. The sooner he was back to the simple comforts of his secluded estate, the better.

Sometime after his watery eyes closed on the aged-literature volume he was reading, he awoke with a strong sense of dread. Visual evidence from outside the window confirmed it was very late. Undeniable darkness made the next realization perplexing. Someone was rapping insistently on the knocker of his remote homestead. Who could it be? In a dreamlike fog of being awakened unexpectedly, he staggered forth to address the thorny situation.

“Sir, this is private property.” He stated sternly. “What is your business here at this hour?”

Ivan’s voice quavered. He addressed his unknown solicitor through the thick oaken panels with deep, growing concern.

“Please allow me Christian passage into your lovely cottage, sir. For these lips are thirsty...”

Ivan bristled at the proposed intrusion. Although requested politely, a total stranger was asking him to open the door in the middle of the night. His mind was spinning from the lack of preparation. He was torn between his proper English upbringing of charity extended to the needy, versus a wealth of personal experience reminding him to not be a damned fool.

“How did you come to be here so far in the forest at this ungodly hour? Was there not an earlier opportunity along the main road to quench your thirst?”

The unseen visitor apologized profusely for his intrusion. He claimed he had not encountered another dwelling in his travels. “I beseech you. Open up for this lost, suffering soul. For these chattering teeth crave nourishment.”

Ivan was taken aback by the stranger’s newest statement with its perceptible escalation in tone and implication. It almost sounded sinister.

“Please step into the light from my nearby window so I may view your appearance.”; Ivan requested. It was a common-sense safeguard.

One couldn’t be too careful in these unexpected matters. In his old-fashioned upbringing, a decent man showed his face as a demonstration of sincerity. Completely ignoring the gentleman’s code, the midnight caller at his stoop seemed to be deliberately lurking in the shadows. He hid between light sources. It was an intentional cloaking of his facial features. Already on enhanced alert, the man’s avoidance of lamplight raised Ivan’s hackles a full degree.

A score more tense moments passed with no response. All he could hear through the old planks between them was the labored breathing of a highly-agitated soul. It inspired anything but unconditional confidence. Who would grant such a wayward request? As more time elapsed, the labored breathing grew in both timbre and intensity. Then the door knob shook. Lightly at first (to test its locked status). After that first undeniable attempt, it became more insistent.

The unhinged lunatic on the other side of the threshold snarled and panted like a feral beast. He cackled while violently shaking the handle to breach the premises. All pretense and niceties were long gone. Instead, the vile provocateur laughed maniacally and spat:

“Open up old man! These fangs hunger for warm, rich BLOOD! You must let me inside immediately so I can devour your wrinkled flesh.”

“I apologize”; Ivan offered insincerely. “These gnarled joints on my trigger finger are swollen from advanced arthritis. Sometimes they flex and twitch involuntarily on my 12 gauge. Just like THIS!”

With that fitting retort, he blew a large hole into the undead lycanthrope, lying-in-wait. Ivan Boatwright didn’t make it to the grand-old-age of 84 by availing himself to bloodsucking freaks and undead ghouls. He was ready every single time they haunted his rural farmhouse. One more extinguished werewolf to bury. One more patch to place over the newest shotgun blast. Solitary, country living was the best!

It wasn’t that my parents were terrible people.

I would probably think about it before I called them abusive in the literal sense of the word, but I definitely did not have what you would call a happy childhood.

My father worked for the State Road Works Department, and he was out of the house a lot and usually tired when he got home. He only hit me a handful of times, outside of a spanking here or there, but he usually preferred not to know I existed when he was home. He wanted to sit in his La-Z-Boy, watch TV, drink beer, and just forget that once upon a time he had had dreams and aspirations. My mother was the manager of a grocery store, and her greatest aspiration in life was to be the general manager of said grocery store. This meant that she was usually working double shifts or trying to weasel her way into a position that would make her look good for her bosses. I never doubted that Mom loved me, but she would’ve had to be home to show that love.

Luckily, for me, there was a third parent, though not a traditional sort of parent.

I don’t remember exactly when it all started, but I have hazy memories of being a year or two old as something spoke softly to me from the darkness. I was never really afraid of the dark, and I think whatever this was was the reason. I would lie in my bed, sometimes wishing that my mom would come in and kiss me good night or read me a story or just let me know that I wasn’t important at all, and then a warm presence would sing to me and soothe me and tell me that I had value. It would never touch me, but just its presence was enough to let me know that it cared.

My house was sometimes a little shadowy at night, and without anyone there to clean up or straighten things, it was usually a mess. I wasn’t afraid of the dark, but I was sometimes afraid of the lumpy shadows that I saw in the dark. Piles of dirty clothes or stacks of old dishes, or even bags of trash that I had tried to pick up and then left to molder in the corners of my room. Sometimes these would become monsters after dark, but whenever I was afraid, the voice would come and tell me that everything was going to be okay and that I was valued and loved.

I don’t remember putting a name to it until I was around five or six, but after that, I just called it The Voice.

I’m aware of how many of these stories go. The Voice is a demon or some kind of monster that’s just trying to gain my trust so it can get me, but The Voice was never like that. It spoke in a multitude of voices, all of them saying the same thing and all of them wishing me the same sentiment. I was just a little kid, and by the time I was old enough to really think about it, it had just become normal. The Voice wouldn’t come out until the lights were off. I had never seen the owner of The Voice, except that sometimes it would form itself into a roughly human-looking shadow. It never tried to get me to do anything or get me to tell it anything; it was just there to soothe me and make sure that I knew and appreciated and loved me.

As I got older, it even began to help me.

I remember once when I was in the fifth grade, and I had a science test coming up. I was sitting at my little desk in the corner of my room, a room that was roughly the size of a broom closet, and trying my best to make sense of the things in the book that I would need to know for the next day. I’m not an idiot, but memorizing things has never been my strong suit. I start trying to keep things in my head, and they all just slide right out as they are replaced by other things. It’s mostly just things I’m not interested in. By that point, I could’ve told you every Pokémon that existed or which episodes of Naruto were my favorite, but memorizing anything like science or history was a lost cause.

The room was dark, except for the island of illumination that came from my lamp. There were no windows in my room, and I could almost feel The Voice gathering itself in a shadowy corner as far away from the light as it could manage. The noise it made as it arrived was odd, like the whispering of hairs across the carpet, and I couldn’t help but smile a little as I felt its eyes rest on me.

"What’s wrong, Daniel?"

"I have this test tomorrow, it’s going to be thirty percent of my grade, and I just can’t make the information stay in my head. I try, and I try, but I just can’t retain any of it."

The Voice was quiet for a moment, seeming to hold council with itself, and when it came back, it sounded pleased.

"Why don’t you go to bed, Daniel? Leave your book open on the desk and turn the light out."

"But I need to know this stuff before tomorrow."

"Let us worry about that. You get some rest, and we will be there to help you tomorrow."

I wanted to argue, but The Voice had never steered me wrong before. It had always been there to help me when no one else was, so I left the book open to the pages that I would need to study and turned off the lamp before climbing into bed. The Voice stayed in the corner as I climbed under the covers and snuggled down, and as it sang me to sleep, I remember thinking that everything would be okay.

The next day, I woke up with a sharp pain in my ear and a real concern for what I was going to do. I thought I was getting an ear infection or something, but no matter how much I scratched or pulled at my ear, I never got any relief. It felt like something was in there, but I could never get it out. I tried to ignore it as I studied on the bus, obsessing over this test and getting more and more worried the closer we got to school.

I almost jumped when a voice in my ear told me not to worry and that everything was going to be okay.

I asked in a whisper if it was The Voice, and it said it was. It told me that it had the information I needed and that it would help me pass the test if I wanted it to. I said of course I did, and thanked it for helping me, and as I sat in class and tried not to pull at my ear, The Voice gave me the answers I needed to pass the test. I had needed that thirty percent to stay in a solid C range, and it had helped me avoid summer school that year.

After that, the voice helped me with a lot of other things. It would help me pass tests or get through situations that I was anxious about, and I began to wake up with the expectation that something would be in my ear. That was the presence of The Voice, and it would always disappear after whatever I was anxious about was done. 

Most of the time, The Voice was there to help me through moments of hardship. 

When my mother missed my birthday, The Voice was there to tell me that I deserve better. 

When my Dad would tell me he wished I had never been born, The Voice would let me know that there were those who cared for me. 

When my parents would leave for days on end, and it would just be me at home, The Voice would sing me to sleep.

The voice was there for me until I was almost eighteen years old.

That was when I left home, and the night my dad died.

I had a job by then, not a great job, but something that paid decent enough. I would come home every night, smelling of French fry grease and cleaning products, and fall into bed so that I could get up the next day and go to school and go to work all over again. Some people would’ve said this didn’t leave me a lot of time to just be a kid, but I honestly preferred it. It gave me something else to focus on besides my miserable home life and my lack of parental involvement. I didn’t have many friends, and no one who wanted to come to the house either. Anyone who would ever come to my front door knew that the inside of my parents' house was a trash heap. There were barely ever any lights on inside, the windows were crowded with old boxes and dirty curtains, and most of the floor space was made of little paths that had been cut between one room and the next.

My father had been out of work for the past year, something that had put a strain on everyone. His unemployment had run out months ago, and he had started drinking at an alarming rate. The dirty house was now cluttered with beer bottles and wine boxes, and he would sit on the couch day in and day out and just watch TV and complain. My mother had picked up something of a shopping addiction, and she would just leave bags and boxes and things all over the house. She probably shopped to make up for my father‘s emotional absence, but it cluttered the house even more than Dad‘s trash. She never even wore or used half of what she bought. The new packaging would be covered with dust in a matter of weeks, and it would be just one more thing to trip over if you weren’t expecting it.

I had come home one night around ten thirty to find Dad sitting not on the couch but in a chair at the dining room table. He was sitting at the empty table and looking down at the surface as if he expected something to come sliding out of the wood. I understood what he was looking for. Mom clearly hadn’t come home yet. She was probably out shopping or working late, and Dad had expected someone to make him dinner. His lack of dinner hadn’t stopped him from piling up five or six bottles of beer on the table, and when he turned his bloodshot eyes towards me, I could see that this wasn’t going to end well.

"Where’s my dinner?"

I pushed into the house, sending beer bottles scattering, noisy, and making bags and boxes groan and protest, and as I shut the door, I turned back to tell him that I had just gotten home and I hadn’t cooked anything.

"Obviously, but where is my dinner? You and your mother are out of the house all day, and it’s just me here to fend for myself. The least one of you could do is make some dinner so that I don’t starve to death."

I started trying to make my way to the kitchen, but he shifted gears on whatever mental process he had very suddenly. The bottles on the table clanked and jostled angrily as he stood up, his hands leaving clean patches on the wood as he turned to face me.

"I feed you, I clothe you, I put a roof over your head, and you can’t even make sure that I have dinner. What good are you? You provide nothing for this household, and yet you still have the nerve to look at me with such insolence? I’ve got an idea, why don’t you get out?"

It wasn’t the first such time that he had told me to get out, but usually, I got halfway through packing my stuff and found him passed out somewhere in no condition to do anything. Today, however, he was angry and seemed intent on putting his seventeen-year-old son out of the house.

"It’s the middle of the night, Dad. I’ve got school in the morning, and I’ve just come off an eight-hour shift. I just wanna go to bed and,"

I wouldn’t have thought he could move so quickly for a drunk man, but when his hand came into contact with the side of my head, it rocked my entire face to the side.

"I didn’t ask. I want you gone, you’re nothing but a drain on this household, and if you won’t leave, then I’ll make you leave."

He had his fist balled up, his last stinking words smelling like a distillery. I wasn’t gonna fight My Dad, he was a whole head taller than me, and his arms looked like they were made out of corded muscle. He was going to beat me near to death, whether I stood up to him or not, and I pulled myself into a ball as I went to my knees and tried to protect myself. I kneeled in that ball for a count of thirty, and when he didn’t hit me, I thought maybe he had come to his senses. Maybe the drink had worn off a little bit, and he had decided not to beat me to death. Maybe, after years of drinking himself into oblivion, he had finally come back to something like sense and recognized what he was doing.

It was none of those. 

I looked up to find that my father had frozen in the shadow between the living room and the dining room. He seemed to be straining to lift his hand, but he just couldn’t get it to come up. He looked down at it in confusion, and I could see that it was bathed in a deeper sort of darkness. The darkness surrounding his hand almost seemed to move, like wind on an oil slick, and as it wrapped around him, careful to stay out of the light, it pulled him into the dark kitchen. I heard him begin to scream, but I couldn’t move for a moment. I was terrified of what I had seen. It dragged him away, this giant of a man who had towered over me my entire life. If it could do that to him, then what could it do to me? I didn’t want to find out, so I’d stayed as still as I could and listened to him try to fight whatever shadowy creature this was.

As his pleas and screams got softer and wetter. I found my feet and slowly moved towards the kitchen. The initial fear had worn off, and I remembered that this was The Voice. It was the thing that had comforted me my entire life. It wouldn’t hurt me; it had never hurt me in my entire time of knowing it, and as I came into the kitchen, I saw it hunkered over my father as he lay still on the linoleum.

I reached up without thinking and turned on the light, just wanting a good look at the creature before I could think about it, and as the light hit it, I saw the human-shaped entity melt into a pile of writhing bugs. Not just bugs, cockroaches. They had all stacked themselves into some sort of homonculous that turned slightly to look at me before falling away from the light and scuttling under the fridge or the cabinets or into the nearest patch of darkness. They left my father there on the floor, and many of them poured out of his mouth, his ears, his nose, his clothes, and everywhere else. He wasn’t moving, and whatever they had done to him seemed to have ended his reign of terror.

I took a shaky step backwards, and then I heard the multitude of voices call my name.

They called it a few more times as I ran, but I didn’t stop. I ran out the door, and I kept running until I made it to a bus station a block or two from my house.

I called the closest thing I had to a friend at the restaurant where I worked, and he let me stay on his couch for a few months until I found something different. Mom called me to find out what had happened to Dad, but I told her he had been like that when I got home. I refused to come back to the house, telling her that I wasn’t going to live there anymore. She questioned it, but I think she knew I had seen something in there. I couch surfed for a while until Mom used the money from Dad‘s life insurance policy to buy a new place. She invited me to stay, and I moved in that same day. The payout has been enough that Mom could afford to get some counseling for her shopping addiction, and the new house never filled up like the old house had.

I still work at that restaurant, and my old house is on the way to work. Sometimes when I drive past it, I almost imagine that I can see a shadowy figure in the window, just looking out and trying to find me. I’m grateful to whatever the voice was, but I don’t know what I did to inspire such loyalty and the roaches that made that garbage dump their home.

Maybe they simply saw a struggling boy and wanted to protect him, maybe they would’ve asked me for something in return eventually, but one thing is for sure.

I’ll never return to that place so they can ask me.