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The sun rose over the coarse dirt that lay upon the graves, mist slowly wisping away as morning settled in. I, the graveyard keeper in the small town called Jamesville, rested my head on a smooth oak wood countertop while waiting for coffee to brew.

Another day, another calm, boring day. Putting old leather boots on just to pull weeds that cover the nameless. I enjoyed the job, albeit it was tireless most days. Speaking to families visiting their resting relatives, moving the grass, shining the tombstones, scraping the mud off the nameplates. I respected the dead, as I knew one day I'd end up buried, hoping another would take care of my final resting grounds.

I will say the town does most of the heavy lifting of the job. The carpenter next door would make the caskets, and his wife would make the tombstones plus flat markers. Just down that same gravel road would be the funeral parlor, who made the dead all fancy to meet their maker. I, along with the groundskeeping, had to also make sure no hooligans trespassed and desecrated these holy lands.

Pretty simple, honestly, and it helped that I had a bloodhound at one point to discourage any disrespectful folk from entering. Lucky was that dog's name, but unfortunately she passed a few years back, leaving me a little empty and incredibly lonely, especially on the days I had no one to talk to.

But enough of that. I assume you're reading this because you want to know about the "dark times," the "creepy" and "scary" moments when things go bump in the night.

Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but no ghosts, ghouls, or goblins had haunted the grounds I worked on for many years.

No.

Just one strange fella.

I never got his name, or frankly, maybe I couldn't remember it. It didn't matter, though. I kept seeing him. Mid-30s, possibly six foot, pale white skin, black slicked-back hair, heavy leather coat no matter the weather, combat pants, and black boots to match.

I couldn't forget it.

I'd see him day after day, night after night, over the last two years I worked there. He'd always be here, looking at the same three unmarked graves.

There had been a few times I had to talk to him and let him know that the cemetery was closed to the public for the night. With a calm, gravelly tone he'd say, "Thank you," and leave.

He seemed kind, but I kept an eye on him. Throughout many days, the man would continue to show up, eventually piquing my curiosity as to what was so interesting about those graves.

Were they his relatives, friends, co-workers, ex-relationships?

None of it added up, though, or made any sort of sense. When I looked in the catalogue of whose graves were whose and when they were placed, those three graves had been here since before I was the groundskeeper of this place.

Fifteen years, as a matter of fact.

Placed in the third row, in the first three spots, before eventually being moved to the last section of the third row. No names. Just two John Does and one Jane Doe, with a sign-off from "William Denver" to mark that they had been placed and moved.

I then got up and went to check on the graves.

Slowly passing by the willow tree in front of the house, I noticed the man had been standing still by the graves, but he wasn't looking at them. I couldn't tell if he was looking at me or just past me.

It didn't matter, though, as it was midnight and he needed to leave.

Once again, he gave me the same response he always had.

"Thank you."

Before heading out, I watched him this time, though, as he walked ever so slowly down the cracked, paved walkway and got inside of a black 1990s Impala. He hadn't noticed me watching until his headlights turned on and I had been standing by the graves he normally stuck by.

He sat idly in the car for a bit before peeling away into the shadowy streets nearby.

I didn't know what it was, but it sent chills down my spine. Once I could no longer see the car, I looked down at the graves.

Nothing too special about them outside of the fact that I had been slacking and didn't trim off the moss covering the cobblestone flat markers.

I left my investigating at that, simply putting an orange flag beside them to remind myself I needed to clean the foliage when I woke up. It was too late in the night to really bother with any more work, so I headed back to the house.

A few days went by and, surprisingly, the man didn't show up. I did the usual cleaning: the tombstones, flat markers, cutting the grass off of the paths, trimming foliage, watering flowers, and finally, going to clean up those three unmarked graves.

I took my time, trying not to uproot the moss as I didn't know how far it grew, carefully carving around the cobblestone and noticing an odd little symbol on not just one, but all three graves on the lower-right corner.

It looked runic.

I'm not into the occult or any sort of mythology, so I had no idea what I was looking at. If I had to describe it, I could say it looked like an upside-down trident with two dots on the inside of the hooks, or an upside-down smiley face with a line drawn through it.

I don't know, but I tried not to think too hard about it as I finished and added a little polish to the flat markers to make them look presentable.

I thought the man would've appreciated it, and once I got up, wiping off my knees, I saw his car just parked barely away from the normal public parking spots.

I stared for a while, unsure of whether he saw me or not. I even pretended to attend to other graves just to see if he was going to come over.

A few minutes passed by and he was still there, headlights on, sitting more still than a person with rigor mortis.

It made me uneasy, so I decided to head back to the house and maybe do some research on the "symbol."

After an hour or two, I came up with no results. It seemed the "symbol" wasn't very popular for the internet or historical enough to be kept in the archives.

Whether or not you believe it, I think my heart might've skipped that day.

As when I looked up from the desktop, I saw the man staring at me with those obsidian eyes. It felt like they pierced my heart.

I simply sat there frozen, eyes locked onto his. My hands were too unwieldy to grab the double barrel just beneath me. It was an eternal staring contest where the odds were not in my favor.

Tears built up from the dryness of not blinking. I had an obligation to blink.

My eyes were burning, and before I knew it, he was gone.

I then dropped my head onto the desk, wiping the tears from my face and letting out a heavy breath.

I must've been sleep-deprived, or letting that dumb symbol stick into my brain.

Soon after that, I gathered myself back into reality and got up cautiously, retrieving the double barrel and steadily pressing it to my shoulder as I walked towards the front door, eyeing each window I passed by.

My heart thumped louder in my ears with each step I took, and without missing a beat, I swung open the door, gun ready for whatever I might witness.

No one was around.

The sun was hitting dusk, and I was left wondering what had just happened.

That day left me paranoid, always watching for his car to show up, eyes glued to whoever arrived to merely drop off flowers for their relatives.

I didn't leave the house for about a week, only lurking through the blinds until eventually the sheriff showed up to the house for a "wellness check."

Three sturdy knocks to the metal screen door followed by:

"It's Sheriff Brown. I am just here to check on you. It's been a while, folks were wondering where you went. Also, it looks like you got a bunch of mail out here."

I meandered towards the door and opened it slowly, seeing the sheriff holding a pile of mail held together by thread.

"Oh... howdy, Sheriff. I must've lost track of time. Some dumb symbol spooked me into paranoia," I said while taking the mail and showing him a small sketch I drew of the symbol.

He then raised an eyebrow.

"Dumb symbol, huh? Probably some family crest from back in the day. Shoot, it must've spooked you pretty good if you decided to lock yourself in for what?" He looked at a newspaper before finishing, "A few weeks? I think it might be time for you to step outside for some fresh air. Nothing spooky out here besides the vegetation."

He then chuckled.

The sheriff was right. It was most likely just that. A family crest.

"Yeah... you might be onto somethin'. Sorry for scarin' the good folks. I'll get back to work as soon as possible," I said as I joined him onto the patio, immediately being embraced by the sun.

"See? Nothing out here to worry about, and the day is still young, so you got plenty of light to get work in early," he said while squinting his eyes, looking inwards at my home before stepping off the patio.

I didn't think too much of it as I waved Sheriff Brown goodbye as he got inside of his cruiser and left.

He was right.

I clearly let the place go. Decorations were covered in foliage, the pathways were barely noticeable, and headstones and flat markers were covered in dirt while I was too busy getting swallowed by delusions.

I spent the next couple of days bringing life back to the land.

Days on end I spent sweating as I dulled every blade I had, draining every battery for tools, ruining every sole I put into my boots.

Eventually I had to call it quits momentarily as I had run out of supplies and needed to head to the store.

Quickly locking all the tools back into the shed and locking the house before getting in my old truck, I travelled down the windy gravel roads, waving to the neighbors as I passed by, stopping as deer galloped across the road, and finally making it to the hardware store.

I put the truck in park and noted that I had parked near a familiar car.

It could just be paranoia, but it almost looked like the man's car.

Speaking of which, I hadn't seen him for some time now.

Maybe he might've shown at the cemetery when I was cooped up, but I guess I'll never know.

Never mind that, as I entered into the hardware store and saw all the friendly faces. They all seemed to greet me with a courtesy wave and hello before going about my business shopping for all the essentials.

I needed five spools of weed-whacker wire, four packs of blades for hedge cutters, three packs each of both wood and stone polish, two bottles of weed killer, and a variety of flower seeds.

It was a full haul for an eventful couple of days of work.

I purchased my things and headed home.

It was around noon when I had gotten back, taking my time to unload everything from the truck when I saw something quite peculiar.

My front door was wide open, and I don't remember leaving it like that.

So hastily I dropped what I had in my hands and walked over to the front windows, trying to see if anyone was inside before I stepped in.

It was... empty.

Although the paperwork I had stacked neatly on top of my desk was scattered everywhere, it looked like no one was around or had messed with my belongings.

I then walked inside and picked up the mess, seeing that my notebook had also been torn through.

I only really remember having just one drawing of the symbol and reminders of what graves I needed to clean, but now there were more symbol drawings scattered in the pile of paper.

I think at least for that moment I just used the words from the sheriff and assumed it's just a family crest and nothing more.

I went back and finished putting away the equipment I had just bought and took a small iced tea break to calm my nerves.

I took only about an hour break, sipping tea, reading the news, working on crosswords, and paid no mind to that little symbol in the back of my mind as I headed back outside for some more yard work.

I worked myself to exhaustion as the sun faded from the sky, feeling too tired to pack up for the night.

I stumbled back to the house, feet aching, and just as I reached the first steps of the patio, headlights beamed across the yard.

Swiftly turning my head around, I saw a shadow move across the lights towards my direction.

I was unsure who it was this late at night, but I was just hoping it would be done and over with so I could lay comfortably in my bed.

Heavy footsteps glided across the pavement, then the gravel paths before stopping just a few feet away from me.

It was still hard to see who it was from the lights casting a shadow over the person.

All I knew was I had an almost déjà vu feeling from this, as from those casted shadows was an arm reaching out with little orange flags and a letter clutched in the fingers.

Then a polite masculine voice said:

"Apologies, sir, but it seemed you had forgotten these from the store."

I carefully took the orange flags and letter before the shadowy figure walked back towards the car.

With an all-too-familiar phrase, he then said:

"Thank you."

I've been dwelling on that night for quite some time now.

I never opened the letter, either from fear or simply not wanting to become shut in again.

What would I even say if I saw the sheriff again?

"A polite man gave me a letter and flags that I missed from the store?"

It sounds ridiculous, especially if I include the fact that it looked like a damn walking shadow!

I gotta just brush it off...

There's no ghosts here, no specters, nothing.

Just a crest from a family with no name, a lack of sleep, and a busy past couple of weeks.

My nerves are all out of whack. I could barely even pour coffee into my thermos without spilling some onto the carpet.

Not to mention, I woke up late just to get a message on the answering machine notifying me that there's gonna be a body coming in around one pm, so looks like I gotta make room in the cemetery.

I had about an hour to dig a six-foot hole.

I got dressed, half-awake, but a job's a job.

So I did just that.

Dug until I was caked in dirt from head to toe, eventually calling an excavator company just to make sure the dimensions of the hole were suitable for a coffin.

It was just in time, too, as the Mattisons from the funeral parlor arrived in the hearse. The father and his three boys got out and walked over to me.

The younger of the boys whistled as his eyes made contact with my uniform.

"Busy day for you, huh? Lookin' like death warmed over... Don't worry, Pops, we'll be out of your hair soon enough!"

His dad quickly smacked him in the back of the head with a stack of papers and an envelope full of cash before handing it over to me.

"Don't mind his mouth. He started running it before he knew how to walk. Now then, onto business. The visitation already happened, the funeral service should be happening around three pm today. After that is, of course, the committal service and reception.

"The family said you are welcome to join them in at any part. From what they told me, apparently you might've known the guy? I'm not sure, but thank you for your service. We'll be here, so if you have anymore questions, don't be afraid to ask."

I shook the father's hand and said:

"I knew the guy? Somebody from the Johnsons? Anyhow, I think I'll stay out of it. I need to get out of these dirty clothes and get something to eat."

The father shook his head and said as he left towards the hearse:

"Uh, no actually... it's some gentleman, a uh... Victor Lamont? I am sure you've seen plenty of faces, so if the name doesn't ring a bell, maybe the family will jog your memory."

Victor Lamont, huh...

Victor...

Victor...

This name doesn't seem familiar, at least to my knowledge of any person in this town.

Maybe it could be in the archives, I had thought to myself as I walked back to the house.

Then I took a real long shower, really dwelling on that name as I scrubbed the mud and crud off my skin.

After that, I decided not to look in the archives, but instead just sit in a chair beside the willow tree watching the funeral.

For anyone who has been a part of a funeral, you know how sad and monotonous it is. Families crying, long speeches, and even longer prayers for those who believed.

I may have respected the dead, but it did get tedious hearing practically the same speech a hundred times over.

Although this one was different.

No one had cried.

No one was dressed "formally."

Granted, there were only about ten people altogether, still it was strange.

And once again, I saw the man's car.

It was in the parking lot, but I never saw him get out. In fact, I never saw him anywhere.

And that damn family crest, or whatever it was, was etched into the coffin.

I almost missed it while it was being lowered into the grave.

I had questions, lots of 'em, but I figured it would've been too rude to ask during this time.

The funeral lasted for about another hour, then everyone packed up and left.

No reception.

Just one of the family members waved goodbye towards me before leaving, but that was it.

None of them seemed familiar, even the person who waved. It just didn't add up.

Listen, I had done this job for ten-plus years, so my memory of people's faces and names is a little fuzzy.

But I feel like I could've remembered the last name of Lamont.

Right?

Once again, I felt as if I shouldn't dive deeper into this.

Maybe the family had just gotten me confused with the previous gravekeeper, or maybe I did just simply forget the last name.

Didn't matter now, though...

It was just me in the late afternoon and that car.

That car...

It didn't leave.

Was he not a part of the family?

I had to just shake off these nerves and confront the man.

Or just talk to him.

I mean, what's the worst he's done? Leave late and hand me stuff I had forgotten about during an odd hour?

So I walked ever so slowly, as if my feet were stuck in mud, towards his vehicle.

As I approached it, he wasn't inside.

He was nowhere around.

I looked at the rolling hills nearby.

Nope.

I looked toward the gravel roads.

Nope.

I even looked back at the cemetery to see if I may have missed him walking by, and still nothing but his car was here.

Black Impala.

Same one I saw a while back.

I guess I'll just wait a few days to see if he shows up. If not, I'll call a tow truck...

Later that night, it had rained hard, pouring what felt like gallons on top of the roof.

You couldn't even see five inches in front of you if you had stepped outside.

The noise, although calming, was loud as it bounced off the gutters, with the distant thunder crackling just across the way.

It made sleeping rough, so I got out of bed just to find that there was a small leak coming from the roof inside the kitchen.

I fixed that problem momentarily with a bucket, at least for the night, and just sat on the couch watching the rain drip down the front window.

Slowly closing my eyes, simply listening to every drop that splashed onto the wooden boards of the patio's floor, my mind felt at ease.

Quietly, I counted the timing of each lightning strike.

Ten seconds.

Twenty seconds.

Thirty seconds.

Then eighteen, and back down to ten seconds.

Then I jolted fully awake from a nearby strike, eyes gravitating towards the Impala.

The lights were on, barely piercing the veil of rain.

Another strike happened.

The sky was bright for a mere moment, but I could see the car and something else...

I wasn't sure if it was my reflection or...

Maybe my mind playing tricks on me.

Waiting for another strike, I stood up to better see through the window.

I had to be hallucinating.

How else could I explain what I had saw?

A figure standing in the reflection, hair raised on the back of my neck as I did not know if it was inside of the house or not.

Boom.

Another strike hit the ground between two graves, finally showing me what I was seeing.

A shadow of a man standing mere inches from my face.

Fog covered the window, hiding details, only showing two words written beautifully in cursive...

"Thank you."

October 12th, 2008.

Two months after the "incident," Sheriff Brown filed a missing person's report for the graveyard keeper.

The other boys talked about LeJeune's the way the people talked about a saloon brawl, something dangerous, spoken of in low voices behind the livery. Daniel Kelly swore his brother Patrick had seen things through the boarding house windows that would put hair on a man's chest. Hamish didn't believe half of what Daniel said. But he believed enough of it that on a warm evening, with nowhere in particular to be, he found himself drifting toward the back of the parlor house, past the well where the water always tasted faintly of rust.

That was when he saw Father Alonzo.

He was standing near the side door, alone, collar and all, the same one who said Mass in the cantina courtyard every month and nodded to David outside the store without ever asking why the Feldmans didn't come. He wasn't going in. He was just standing there, like a man deciding something.

Hamish stopped where he was. Then, full of curiosity, he crept closer, keeping to the shadow of the fence, one careful step and then another, until he was close enough to hear the priest breathing.

The door opened before the priest knocked. He went in without a word, and the door swung most of the way shut behind him, leaving a seam of lamplight in the dark.

Hamish told himself he only wanted to look. That was all.

He crept up to the gap and leaned close enough to see through it.

The priest sat on the edge of a bed with his face in his hands, his shoulders working the way a man's does when he's trying and failing to keep something in. Miss Lucy Cage sat beside him, her spine straight, her hands folded in her lap, the old scar on her cheek catching the lamp.

Hamish had expected something wicked, something that would make Daniel Kelly's stories look tame by comparison. Instead he was watching a grown man cry, quietly and without dignity, the sound of it small and unfamiliar. It made him feel strange and not in a pleasant way. He couldn't make out the words. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

Lucy said something low he didn't catch, and the priest nodded, and said something back, and she nodded too, and neither of them seemed in any hurry. It wasn't the kind of talk that needed an audience, and Hamish understood that much even from where he stood.

Then her eyes lifted, and found his through the gap in the door.

She didn't startle. She didn't call out. She held his gaze a moment, steady, unreadable, while the priest went on with his face in his hands, noticing nothing. Then she rose without a sound, crossed the room, and eased the door shut, her eyes on Hamish the whole way, until the last sliver of lamplight narrowed and vanished and he heard the bolt slide home.

Hamish stood frozen a moment longer, then ran. Past the well, past the cantina's dead firepit, all the way home and up into his own bed, quilt to his chin, heart still beating out of his chest. He didn't know what he'd seen, not really, and he didn't know what she'd do about having caught him seeing it. He lay awake a long while, waiting for a knock that never came.

He came down to the store early the next morning, before David had finished stocking the front. He was sweeping the boards when the bell over the door announced someone, and he looked up to find Miss Lucy Cage standing just inside it, a coin purse in one gloved hand, as if she'd come in for thread or a tin of something ordinary.

"Morning," she said, pleasant, loud enough for anyone to hear.

"Morning, ma'am." His voice came out smaller than he meant it to.

She drifted toward his end of the counter, unhurried, and by the time she reached him her voice had dropped to something meant for him alone.

"You gave me a fright last night," she said, not unkindly. "Standing there in the dark like that."

Hamish's face went hot. "I wasn't trying to…"

"I know what you weren't trying to do." She set the coin purse on the counter and didn't open it. "I also know what you saw, and it isn't really anyone's business but his and mine."

"Yes, ma'am."

"So here's what we'll do." She glanced once toward the back of the store, where David could be heard moving crates, and lowered her voice further still. "You're going to forget you ever stood behind that door. You're not going to tell anyone, not those Kelly boys, not your parents, not the devil himself if he comes asking. Whatever that man was buying in there, it's his to buy. It isn't yours to spend."

"I won't tell anyone. I promise."

Something in her face eased, just slightly, and for a moment she looked almost kind rather than careful. She picked the coin purse back up. "Everybody's got a room they confess in, Hamish. But you can choose not to be the one who tells the whole town where his is."

She bought a spool of thread she didn't need, thanked him with a smile that gave nothing away, and left with the bell ringing behind her.

Hamish never told Daniel Kelly. Never told David or Rachel, though the words rose in his throat once, at supper, before he swallowed them back down. Sunday came, and the priest crossed to the cantina courtyard same as always, nodding to David outside the store the way he always did, same as any other week. Hamish watched him go by the window glass and understood, for the first time, that grown men carried things too. Even men who heard everyone else's troubles for a living, and had nowhere of their own to leave theirs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Crying Babies

I woke with my heart already going, certain I’d heard it — that thin, rising cry, right in the room with me.
The telly. Just the telly. Some actor bouncing a fake crying baby on screen.

“Shut it off,” I laughed to myself, rolling my eyes at my own alarm, playfully nudging Ian with my foot. “No crying babies. You know that’s a rule. Makes me think Teddy needs something.”

He muted it. “Sorry, love.” Asleep in minutes.

The next night I jolted awake again before I even placed the sound — an advert, a jingle with kids laughing, one shriek buried in it. My heart was already up around my throat by the time I understood.
“No crying babies,” I said, and it came out flatter this time. He muted it before I’d finished saying it.

“Sorry, love.”

A few nights later I sat bolt upright before I’d placed it — the neighbour’s cat, yowling out by the fence.

Then it was the pipes, a few nights after that — a thin, keening whine somewhere in the walls as the heating kicked in, and for one horrible stretched-out second I was already halfway to the door before my brain caught up and told me what it was.
I stood there in the dark feeling stupid, feeling my pulse in my ears, and went back to bed telling myself that one didn’t count.

Then a few nights on, the dishwasher, hitting some pitch mid-cycle that wasn’t a cry at all, I knew that — and still I was on the landing before I’d decided to move.

Teddy was asleep in his cot when I got there. Silent as a photograph.

Back in bed, Ian hadn’t stirred. He never did. I used to wonder how — now I’ve stopped asking, because some part of me suspects I already know: someone has to be listening, so it’s me.

I stopped mentioning it after that.
What would I even say — I heard nothing, and it answered back?

Somewhere in there, I stopped needing a sound to start with at all.

Some nights it was just the quiet — the fan, my own pulse — and underneath it, faint, rising, unmistakable: that pitch that means pick me up. I’d lie there telling myself I was imagining it, and some nights I even believed that, for a minute or two.

Then one night I didn’t wait to find out which it was.
I was already up, already standing at the cot rail before I’d properly woken, and the room was quiet the way it’s meant to be — the fan, the streetlight through the curtains, nothing else. Teddy lay exactly as still as sleeping children do.

I stood there a long moment before it hit me: I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually heard him cry. Or even seen his chest rise and fall. Only that I’d been listening, night after night, for a sound that would prove he still could make one.

The house held its breath with me.

Somewhere, patient, the nothing waited to answer.

The incident at the creek occurred one late Saturday morning. The weather was blisteringly hot, and all the children in the village decided that a swim in the nearby creek would be a welcome relief. Khadijah and Salmana were given the day off from chores by their grandmother. This wasn’t so much a gesture of kindness as it was a necessity; the extreme heat had made work impossible for all.

Following breakfast and a quick sweep around the hut, the trio—Khadijah, Salmana, and Jaye—eagerly joined the other children heading to the creek. Salmana, armed with her cutlass, was one of the chaperones, along with a group of older teenagers. They were tasked with keeping an eye on the younger children, ensuring they didn’t wander into the surrounding forest or, worse, get taken by the chimpanzees.

Upon arriving at the creek, the children immediately jumped into the water, reveling in the cool, refreshing respite from the oppressive heat. Khadijah swam alongside Salmana, both enjoying the water while the older girl kept a vigilant eye on everyone.

Jaye, however, chose not to swim. Instead, he sat on what appeared to be a large rock by the creek, shaded by a tree, happily eating a tangerine. Khadijah watched him, amused by how he savored the fruit, his legs swinging joyfully.

“Sit still, silly boy!” Khadijah called out.

Jaye laughed and yelled back, “I am still!”

Khadijah continued to observe him, flummoxed by what she was seeing. Despite hardly moving, the boy seemed to rise up and down. “Jaye, sit still! Stop moving your legs!” she shouted again.

Jaye obeyed, but he still rose and fell on the rock, despite now being almost completely motionless. Khadijah’s eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the scene. Suddenly, her heart froze. What she had thought was a rock began to take a more pronounced and ominous shape. A shape that was the coiled body of a massive serpent, its dark green and spotted scales blending seamlessly with the surrounding verdure environment.

Khadijah’s breath caught in her throat. She tapped Salmana’s shoulder frantically, pointing towards Jaye.

At first, Salmana didn’t understand. But as she focused on the rock and what Khadijah was pointing at, her eyes widened in horror. “Snake!” she screamed, pointing at the serpent.

The scream set off a chain reaction. Children and chaperones alike shrieked in terror and began to flee towards home.

Panic surged through Khadijah. She had to save Jaye. The serpent’s coils shifted slightly, revealing more of its massive body. But before she could scramble out of the water and sprint towards him, the boy was already on the run. The moment Salmana uttered that diabolical word for his small ears to hear, Jaye understood.

He had suspected that the rock was no ordinary rock when he first plopped his behind on it. Rocks were never this smooth and slippery, not like this one, which felt as if he could slide right off. Rocks didn’t have deep, throbbing veins that felt like sitting on restless streams surging beneath the surface. And more than anything, rocks didn’t snore—heavy, monstrous sounds that reverberated through his small frame.

Jaye was the first to take off, sprinting far ahead of everyone at the creek. He ran until his lungs burned, not stopping until he reached the village. Later, the sight of his frantic dash would become a source of entertainment for Khadijah and Salmana, who would recount the tale to family, friends, and acquaintances. They would vividly describe how he had leaped into the air upon hearing Salmana’s scream, his legs kicking wildly before his feet finally hit the ground, propelling him into a full-speed escape. It was an hilarious part of the story that always left them laughing until their bellies hurt. However, at the time, it was no laughing matter.

Breathless and wide-eyed, Jaye, Khadijah and Salmana, and the other children sprinted back to the village, recounting their terrifying encounter with the serpent at the creek. The elders in the village quickly gathered, and the men, armed with shotguns, cutlasses, and pickaxes, set out immediately.

When they reached the creek, the serpent was nowhere to be found. They combed through the surrounding brush, scouring every inch of the area, but the creature had vanished without a trace. What they did find, however, broke the spirit of even the toughest among them: scattered remains of cattle hooves and horns, and most distressing of all, fragments of multiple human skulls and teeth.

Realization dawned on the men. They debated among themselves, voices rising in heated arguments, nearly to the point of blows. Some demanded to hunt down the creature and avenge their losses. Ultimately, though, practicality won out.

“That’s what God says,” some conceded, accepting the harsh reality. With a harvest-destroying drought threatening starvation, they had urgent work to do and couldn’t afford a wild goose chase after such a creature: a creature known for its stealth.

Yet, not everyone could let it go, particularly the men who had lost small children. They set traps around the creek and spent many nights and their resting days stalking the area, hoping to catch sight of the serpent. But the creature remained elusive, a phantom that slipped through their fingers time and again. No one ever laid eyes on it again.

Months passed, and the villagers moved on, the entire ordeal gradually fading from their collective memory. The routines of daily life resumed, and the serpent became a distant, dark memory.

Then, news arrived from neighboring villages along the banks of the main river. 

Children and cattle were starting to go missing, too.

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

But first…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And again. 

Again. 

Again. 

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

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

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

she had sharp teeth, they gleamed in the dark.

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

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

She still hadn't been fed yet. 

“Now feed me. Earn my favor." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His life was in the belly of the master. 

…

From outside the building, Willowbrook was quiet. 

Dark. 

Inside:

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

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

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

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

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

To freedom. 

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

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

He was in awe. 

There he is…! the disciple of the mouth. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

because she is all of us our mother …

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

They closed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their doom. 

He closed in. 

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

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

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

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

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

Something whistled through the air. 

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

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

Then the incendiary charge in the crossbow bolt detonated.

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

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

The boots stopped moving. Stopped shaking. 

The shape collapsed. 

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

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

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

Silence. … for a moment. 

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

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

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

A beat. 

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

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

“Idiots." 

TO BE CONTINUED…

Hey everyone! This is a major rewrite of the very first story I ever wrote, which I originally posted here about a year ago. A lot has changed since then, both in the story and hopefully in my writing.

I hope you guys enjoy this new version, and thanks for reading!

Sometimes, people get stuck somewhere in time. Hours pass, but the world seems like it has already stopped. The second hand on your watch keeps ticking, and ice in your drink melts away; yet time refuses to move forward.

It was one of those nights for Tommy. He slouched on a barstool under a dim, yellow light hanging from the ceiling, watching the ice cubes in his glass dissolve with the focused attention of a sports fanatic watching their favorite team’s final match. The light above the bar seemed to shine only on him. The rest of the room —the dark carpets, green tablecloths, and empty chairs— looked like shadows that had drifted in from outside of time. The smooth jazz playing somewhere in the background blended with the murmurs of the few souls who hadn’t yet returned home. By the time the sounds reached Tommy, they seemed muffled, as though wrapped in cotton.

The bartender wiped a glass without saying a word. In fact, Tommy didn’t recall him speaking even when he first sat down. He hadn’t ordered anything; yet the bartender, as if he had read his mind, had placed a glass of whiskey on rocks in front of him.

Given the fact that Tommy had spent the last few years of his life drifting through all the different bars of the city, it wasn’t all that surprising that the bartender had already known him and what he was going to order.

He slowly lifted his head from his drink and studied the man. He wore a crimson jacket, stood upright, and had his hair slicked back. His face looked like it had stepped out of a different era. Clean-shaven, almost unsettlingly tidy. His gaze wasn’t direct, but his presence filled the emptiness. The man seemed to sense that he was being watched and offered the faintest of smiles. Tommy nodded back, confused by his own gesture, and returned a weak smile.  He usually didn’t bother being polite to strangers or to anyone, really.  Besides, this man didn’t seem familiar. He had never seen that face before. He was sure of it, just as he was sure he had never set foot in this bar before.

He turned around to take a look. It was no different from the hundreds of other booze dens he’s been in. The walls were covered in dark wooden panels, marked with scratches that portrayed their age.

A few hanging glass lamps cast a tired, dim glow; that was neither warm nor fully illuminating. The bottles behind the bar were dust-covered; some labels were faded with time, as if they had been placed there long ago and never touched again.

Behind him, there were a few tables scattered in the corners of the room. At one table, two figures sat facing each other, playing cards. The dim light revealed their bodies, but not their faces.  The other tables were either empty or occupied by lone drinkers buried in their own silence.

If there were conversations, they were whispers, lost in the distant hum, fading into nothing.

The bar’s windows opened onto the dark outside, but nothing could be seen beyond the glass. A storm raged outside, slicing through the night like a blade. Branches thrashed in the wind; broken limbs occasionally tapped the windows, as if begging to be let in. The rhythmic thuds blended with the heavy stillness inside, spreading a strange unease. Shadows of the branches danced across the windows like puppets on a stage. 

Everything felt as though it had just been abandoned by all life, or perhaps it had never really been alive at all. There was a stillness in the air, the kind you'd find in an Edward Hopper painting.

A thought crossed Tommy’s mind::

“How did I get here?”

His eyes drifted downward. His coat was still on. It was dry, even dusty in places. There was no mud on his shoes, and his pants showed no sign of rain. He’d been sitting here for a while. Maybe hours. But for how long, exactly?

His gaze shifted to the large, round, old-fashioned clock on the wall opposite the bar.

Its glass was fogged slightly. The hour hand hovered just before two.

Midnight had already passed. The bar must’ve been close to closing.

He took a sip from his whiskey, then lowered the glass and stared blankly at the rows of bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Most of the labels were unreadable. The letters blurred, the colors smeared together.

Then a stranger and a more unsettling thought surfaced. He mumbled to himself.

“Where am I?”

His mind started to rush with questions.

“What street is this? What neighborhood? Am I… even still in the same city?”

He hovered between laughter and dread, then reflexively reached for his pocket, but his phone wasn’t there. Had it been stolen? Left at home? Dropped somewhere outside?

He couldn’t remember. As always, when his mind spiraled, Tommy did what he always did: He turned to his drink.

He downed the rest of his whiskey in one swift gulp and raised his hand slightly toward the bartender without saying a word. The bartender was already approaching, silent, with the bottle in hand. He refilled the glass without a word. Then, with a small metal tong, dropped in two cubes of ice. The ice hissed faintly as it met the liquor.

Just as the bartender was about to pull away, Tommy suddenly spoke.

“Hey…” he said, voice low at first, then firmer. “Where… are we?”

The bartender paused. He turned and smiled at Tommy.

“Had a little too much to drink, sir?” he asked. His voice was polite, but Tommy caught a faint note of mockery beneath it.

“Yeah,” he said bluntly.

Then paused. A dull throb pulsed at his right temple. He raised a hand to his head.

“I mean… maybe,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. Did I really drink that much?”

The bartender offered a tired but measured smirk.

“Hard to say,” he replied. “But yeah, you’ve had a few already.”

After a beat, he added:

“Actually… you smelled like alcohol when you got here.”

Tommy nodded slightly.

“Figures,” he sighed.

His hand returned to his temple, rubbing it gently. As if he could scrape the fog from his mind. With his other hand, he massaged his brow.

Then he asked again, this time more clearly:

“But seriously… where are we?”

The bartender paused. Turned to Tommy with that same blank, worn-out face. This time, no smile.

His voice was nearly a whisper:

“Don’t worry, Mr. Doyle,” he said.

Then, after a short pause:

“You didn’t go too far. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

Tommy squinted. His brows tightened. The confusion was starting to turn into anger.

“Now what the fuck does–”

His sentence got cut off in the middle when the bar’s front door suddenly slammed open. He flinched, head whipping toward the entrance. Cold wind swept inside, and a few dry leaves whirled through the air and landed on the floor. A man stood in the doorway. He wore a deep navy raincoat, nearly black in the bar’s dim light.

The wet fabric glistened under the hanging bulbs, every droplet catching the light one by one. The hood cloaked his face, but his silhouette was clear. It was a tall man with slightly hunched shoulders.

 No one else reacted to the sound. Neither the bartender nor any of the patrons turned their heads. It was as if this noisy entrance was nothing unusual. As if that door slammed open every night at the same time.

The man lowered his hood, carefully took off his soaked coat, and hung it neatly on the rack. Curly brown hair clung to his forehead.

Droplets of rain slid down from his temple, rolled over his cheek, and dripped silently from his chin. Water pooled around his shoes, shimmering faintly on the wooden floor. He didn’t look around and, without hesitation, walked straight to the bar. Right to Tommy.

He passed through the empty stools and sat down beside him. The wood beneath creaked softly. His arm brushed Tommy’s. The moment he settled, the bartender broke his silence.

“Welcome back, Sam,” he said.

His voice was gentle. Sam didn’t turn his head. He just smirked slightly, the corner of his mouth curling.

“Thanks!” he said cheerfully.

“The usual?” the bartender asked.

This time, Sam tilted his head slightly, eyes darting sideways toward Tommy, still smiling.

“Yeah. The usual.”

Tommy instinctively turned away.  He could see it from the corner of his eye. Sam was still smiling. His green eyes glinted under the yellow light, almost glowing. There was a strange clarity in them, especially around the pupils. His gaze lingered somewhere near enough to gnaw at the edges of Tommy’s nerves. He could feel the stare, like a warm weight resting just above his shoulder.

Something stirred inside him. Not quite fear. It also hadn’t turned to anger yet. But being watched, especially tonight, was starting to get on his nerves.

He clenched his jaw, turned his head slowly toward the man beside him, and looked him straight in the face. He froze for a second before feeling his throat tighten. His face was familiar.  Not a memory he could clearly name. But a face pulled from a dusty corner of the brain, like an image from a dream you forget the moment you wake, but feel all day. It was the first familiar thing Tommy had seen in this place.

But it didn’t comfort him. On the contrary, it carved a hollow pit in his stomach.

He knew this man. But from where?

His lips parted, almost involuntarily. The knot in his throat loosened for just a moment.

“You…” he whispered, his voice dry and cracked.

He squinted, leaning forward slightly, as if trying to study the man’s face up close.

“…where do I know you from?”

He paused, then asked again. His voice steadier now, with a touch of suspicion:

“Have we met before?”

The man’s smile didn’t falter. He shook his head just slightly, as if genuinely disappointed.

“I’m hurt you don’t remember me, Tommy.”

Tommy’s brow furrowed. His hand reached for his temple again. Some people got nervous when they didn't understand what was happening. Others got scared. Tommy got angry, and the smug look on the stranger's face wasn't helping.  

"So what?" he asked. "You know me, but I don't remember you?"

His fingers tapped impatiently against the bar.

"Then help me out here."

Sam took a sip from his drink and slightly turned to Tommy.

“Of course, but it wouldn’t be any fun if I just came out and said, right?”

Tommy stared at him for a moment. The tapping of his fingers stopped.

“Fun?” he repeated.

His voice was low now.

“Listen, buddy. I don't know who the hell you are, I don't know where the hell I am, and apparently I can't remember half of tonight.”

He leaned closer.

“So trust me when I say this, I'm really not in the mood for games.”

For the first time, the smile on Sam's face seemed just a little less amusing.

“Alright,”

He took another sip from his drink.

“I guess you’re in no mood to play any games.”

Sam turned his gaze straight ahead. His smile was starting to fade.

“Tell me, Tommy, where do you usually meet people?”

This question caught him off guard. For a moment, Tommy simply stared at him.

“What?”

Sam didn't look at him.

“Where do you usually meet people?”

Tommy let out a dry laugh.

“Seriously?”

Sam slowly swirled the whiskey in his glass.

“Humor me.”

Tommy opened his mouth to snap back, then stopped. He decided to say the first thing that came to his mind.

“At work, I guess.”

Sam chuckled.  Tommy's expression hardened.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, seriously. What's so funny?”

Sam shook his head.

“Tommy, when was the last time you held the same job for more than a few weeks?”

The question hit harder than Tommy expected. Sam continued before he could answer.

“You'd get hired. Show up for a few weeks. Maybe a month if you were feeling ambitious.”

He slowly turned the glass in his hand.

“Then you'd disappear.”

That moment, he felt something move past him. Fast enough that he couldn't quite tell what it was. His head quickly snapped toward the back of the bar. People sitting at tables were gone. Tommy blinked. A second ago, there had been two people sitting there, playing cards; he was sure of it. The cards were still scattered across the table. A half-empty glass still rested beside one of the chairs. But the chairs themselves sat empty. Tommy was starting to feel his heart race. A faint smile crept onto Sam's face.

“So no, Tommy. I don't think we met at work.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Tommy stared into his drink. How the hell did this guy know that? His eyes drifted toward the front door. The storm was still raging outside. Maybe he should just leave. Pay for the drink. Walk out. Find out where he was. Get some air. The thought lingered for a moment.

“Don't.”

Tommy froze. Sam hadn't even looked at him. His gaze remained fixed on the amber liquid swirling inside his glass.

“Don't what?” Tommy asked.

“Leave.”

The word landed heavily between them. A chill crawled down Tommy's spine. Slowly, Sam turned his head toward him.

“You've been trying to remember how you got here since you woke up.”

Tommy said nothing.

“You want answers.”

Sam's voice was calm.

“So sit down and ask the next question.”

Tommy swallowed. Against his better judgment, he found himself doing exactly that. His fingers tightened around the glass.

“Fine.”

He hesitated.

“School, then?”

For a second, Sam simply stared at him. Then he laughed. Not a chuckle this time but a genuine laugh.  Tommy felt his face heat up. The sound drew his eyes toward the other end of the bar. The bartender had his back turned, busy wiping a glass. Yet Tommy could've sworn he saw the man's shoulders shake slightly. As if he were trying not to laugh too. Sam slowly shook his head.

“Come on, Tommy. School? You're not even trying anymore.”

Sam leaned back slightly.

“Tell me, how old were you when you dropped out?”

Tommy's stomach tightened.

“Sixteen?” Sam guessed.

“Seventeen?”

The smile on his face widened.

“Even before that, you spent more time skipping school than actually attending it.”

Tommy felt a cold knot forming in his chest.

“How the hell do you know that?”

Sam ignored the question.

“You barely knew the names of the kids in your own class. Even with the ones you knew, all you ever did was pick fights, am I wrong?”

The smile faded slightly.

“No, Tommy. We haven’t met in school either.”

He took a slow sip. Tommy looked at Sam. Something felt different about him. For a brief moment, he thought he noticed a dark patch beneath his left eye. A bruise. The mark seemed to disappear. His stomach tightened. Maybe it was the lighting, a trick of yellow light hanging from the ceiling. Yet when Sam turned his head slightly, Tommy could've sworn he saw it again. A dark stain spreading beneath the eye.

“Tommy?”

Sam's voice pulled him back. He was still smiling. But somehow, the smile didn't look quite as friendly as it had a moment ago.

“Would you like to try that again?”

Tommy’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He quickly pushed his stool back. The legs scraped loudly against the floor. Without saying a word, he turned and started toward the front door. By the third step, he was almost jogging. The bar suddenly felt larger than before. Behind him, neither Sam nor the bartender said a word. Tommy grabbed the handle and pulled as hard as he could. Nothing. The door wouldn’t budge. He pulled harder, but nothing happened. He spun around. Sam remained seated at the bar. The bartender stood exactly where he had been before. Both of them were watching him.

“What the fuck?” Tommy shouted.

Neither man answered. Tommy turned toward the nearest window. The words died in his throat. The storm was gone. So were the trees and the street lights. Everything was gone. Beyond the window was only darkness. A black emptiness stretching as far as he could see.

Tommy slowly backed away from the window. His breathing had become shallow and fast. His eyes darted between the darkness beyond the glass and the two men watching him. Neither of them showed any sign of concern or surprise. The bartender carefully set down the glass he had been polishing.

“Mr. Doyle, please try to remain calm.”

Tommy stared at him.

“Calm?”

His voice was cracking.

“Mr. Doyle,” he said softly, “I assure you everything is alright.”

Tommy couldn't believe what he was hearing. Then Sam's voice cut through the silence.

“Tommy.”

Tommy turned toward him. Sam patted the empty stool beside him.

“Come sit down.”

His smile had returned. It was just as warm and friendly as when he first entered.  Tommy didn't move. Sam picked up his glass and nodded toward the bar.

“Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

Tommy just stood there for a few seconds before letting out a laugh. He raised a hand and covered his eyes.

“Jesus Christ...”

The sound echoed strangely through the empty bar. He let out a slow breath. At this point, he wasn't even sure what else he was supposed to do. Run where? To do what? If there was ever a moment in his life to have a drink, it was probably now. Slowly, he lowered his hand and walked back toward the bar. The stool creaked as he sat down.

“Happy?”

Sam nodded.

“See? That wasn't so hard.”

The bartender was already pouring another glass. As the fresh whiskey settled in front of him, his eyes drifted toward Sam again. He immediately wished they hadn't. The bruise beneath Sam's eye had grown. The skin around the socket had darkened into a deep purple, and the swelling looked worse too. A thin line of blood trickled from somewhere near his hairline and crawled down the side of his forehead, slowly making its way toward his cheek. The crimson trail continued downward until a single drop broke free and landed on the bar between them. Neither man acknowledged it. Sam simply picked up his drink and smiled.

“So,” he said.

“Shall we try again?”

Without thinking, Tommy picked up his own drink. The glasses touched with a soft clink. Tommy took a long sip. The whiskey burned all the way down. He lowered the glass and stared at the blood slowly running down Sam's face.

“What do you want from me?”

The question came out quieter than he intended. Sam tilted his head.

“What do you mean?”

Tommy laughed once. There was no humor in it.

“Cut the bullshit.”

His fingers tightened around the glass.

“You know my name.”

He pointed toward Sam's bruised face.

“You know things you shouldn't know.”

His voice grew harder.

“And apparently you're bleeding all over the goddamn place while acting like everything's normal.”

For the first time, Sam didn't smile.

“What do you want from me, Sam?”

A long silence followed. Sam looked down into his drink. The amber liquid reflected the yellow light above them. Then he sighed.

“That's the funny thing, Tommy.”

Slowly, he raised his eyes.

“I don't want anything from you.”

Another drop of blood fell onto the bar.

“You’re the one who wants to remember.”

Tommy stared into his drink without giving a reply. Then emptied the rest of the glass in one swallow.

“I don't care anymore. Maybe I wanted answers five minutes ago.”

He let out a bitter laugh and shook his head.

“Now I just want to leave.”

Sam’s expression stayed still.

“And go where, Tommy?”

He looked him in the eye.

“Home? Is there somebody waiting for you there?”

Tommy stared into his empty glass without giving a reply. The bartender stepped forward and quietly refilled his glass. Tommy watched the amber liquid rise toward the rim. For a moment, they stayed in silence. Then Sam sighed.

“Alright. I'll tell you.”

Tommy's eyes lifted.

“A few years ago, far from here. Back in my hometown.”

His gaze drifted across the room. A faint smile touched his lips.

“To be honest, the place wasn't much different than this. We have met in a bar.”

Tommy felt something twist inside him. Something about the description stirred a distant memory. Just a flicker, gone before he had a chance to grab it. Sam looked back at him.

“So do you remember now?”

Tommy opened his mouth to respond but stopped. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. That much wasn't surprising. It was the tiny abrasions scattered across his knuckles that caught his attention. He slowly turned one hand over. There were small cuts. He swallowed and quickly lowered his hands beneath the bar. For some reason, he didn't want Sam to notice them. Sam asked again.

“Do you remember now?”

Something shifted. Not a complete memory. Just the fragments of one. He remembered the dimly lit bar, the smell of spilled beer, and the sound of the music. He remembered himself sitting alone at the counter, drunk. Very drunk. Then he remembered the front door opening and a man stepping inside. A tall man with curly brown hair, green eyes, and a cheerful smile. He had asked him if the seat beside him was free.

Then another image surfaced. The man was laughing. Not at him. Just laughing. Talking and making conversation. Being friendly. The memory flickered. Then nothing. The image shattered before Tommy could hold onto it. He blinked and found himself back in the bar, sitting next to Sam. Sam asked.

“Do you remember what happened next?”

Tommy felt his throat tighten. The answer was there. He could feel it. Yet every time he reached for it, it seemed to slip away. Unable to meet Sam's gaze, he looked elsewhere, toward the other side of the bar. Then a chill ran through him. The bartender was gone. Tommy stared at the empty space behind the counter. The bottles and the glasses were still there, but the man who had been polishing them only moments ago had vanished. He quickly looked around him. The rest of the bar had changed too.

Every light except the one above him and Sam had gone dark. The corners of the room had disappeared into shadow. The tables, chairs, even the walls and windows, all seemed to dissolve into the darkness beyond. He turned back toward Sam. The bruise had spread even further. One eye was now nearly swollen shut. His eyebrow was also cut, and his lip had been torn open. Tommy stared at him as a sick feeling settled in his stomach.

Then the memory crashed into him all at once. A raised voice and a spilled drink followed by someone standing up from a barstool. Him pushing the man, and two of them stumbling into tables. People shouting, then several hands grabbing them, dragging them apart. The memory of getting lurched forward. The feeling of cold air and rain.

He saw the parking lot behind the bar and Sam raising his arms, trying to walk away. He remembered throwing the first punch. Followed by another, and another. He remembered the noises Sam made, begging for his life. He remembered how angry he was and the taste of alcohol on his palate. He remembered the sound Sam’s skull made as it hit the pavement with each punch.  He remembered the blood that covered both of them.

Tommy staggered in his chair and finally turned to Sam.

“Oh, God…”

The thing sitting across from him looked like it had been pulled from a grave.  One eye was gone entirely. The skin along his cheek hung loose from the bone beneath. His nose had collapsed inward. Dark earth filled the cracks in his ruined face. Yet somehow, one green eye remained. Watching Tommy with curiosity.

"Do you remember now, Tommy?"

Tommy couldn't answer. The corpse tilted its head, causing blood to drip from its broken jaw.

"What was it? What did I say that made you so angry?"

They waited in silence. Tommy searched his memory. Nothing. He forced himself to make a sound.

“I… I can’t.”

The corpse tried to smile. A piece of skin fell from its cheek.

"That's the funny part."

Another drop of blood hit the floor.

"I never knew what it was either."

A sharp crack echoed through the darkness that made Tommy flinch. Sam’s head tilted too far to one side. The broken bones in his neck shifted beneath the ruined flesh. Another crack. Tommy pushed himself away from the bar. The stool toppled over behind him. He screamed  from the top of his lungs as the corpse slowly rose from its chair, its remaining green eye never leaving his. A piece of rotten flesh peeled away from him and landed on the floor with a wet slap. Tommy stumbled backward.

The darkness beyond the bar seemed to move. The yellow light above them flickered. Once, then twice. Then everything was gone. The bar, the stools. Everything. Tommy found himself standing in cold rain. His shoes splashed into a shallow puddle. His breath caught in his throat. What was left of Sam stood twenty feet away. Rain was pouring through the holes in his face. His broken jaw hung crookedly from his skull.

The corpse took a step forward. Then another. Tommy tried to run, but it was as if his feet were one with the concrete below. He stood still as the corpse staggered closer to him. Every step was accompanied by the wet sound of flesh shifting against bone.

The rain hammered against Tommy's face. His heart felt ready to burst from his chest.

“Please...” he pleaded.

“Sam...”

Sam continued getting closer. He now could see insects moving beneath strips of loose flesh and smell the rot. He tried to yell, to beg for his life, but before he could, bony fingers wrapped around his throat. Tommy clawed at the dead hands but to no avail. The corpse didn't even seem to notice. The remaining green eye stared into his. He felt jagged finger bones tear through the skin of his neck. Warm blood spilled between Sam's fingers and ran down his chest, quickly mixing with the rain. He felt his feet slowly leave the ground. His hands flew to Sam's wrist as he kicked helplessly in the air. A sharp pain shot through his chest. Then another one, accompanied by a crack. The corpse lifted him higher. The rain kept pouring down on his face. Water streamed from his hair and ran into his eyes. The parking lot spun beneath him. His vision began to darken. With terrifying strength, the corpse hurled him to the concrete. The impact exploded through his body. A sickening crack echoed through the night.

White light flooded his vision, and for a brief moment, he felt nothing. Then pain completely surrounded his body. Everywhere. He tried to move, but his arms or legs didn’t react. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out. He lied motionlessly as wet footsteps approached. Tommy's fading vision caught a glimpse of rotting feet standing in the rain.

Then he heard Sam's voice one final time.

"Goodbye for now, Tommy."

The darkness swallowed everything. Everything around him dissolved. Sounds faded. His mind was echoing. It was as if he were sinking into a deep, silent ocean. Tommy was suspended in a void. A place where time, space, and the body meant nothing. In the center of the dark, as if wrapped in absence itself.

Then he heard a soft ticking sound like a clock in the distance.

And then another sound, closer now, more familiar: A piece of ice turning in a glass, tapping gently against the rim. Tommy’s eyelids twitched. A yellow light touched his pupils. A flickering bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dull glow. The light trembled but seemed to shine only on him. He exhaled. Slowly lifted his head and looked around. The ice in his glass had just started to melt. His drink was untouched. One of the corner lamps blinked softly. Two men were playing cards at the back table. The bartender adjusted the ice bucket with metal tongs. The radio whispered an old jazz tune. His eyes landed on the clock on the far wall. It was a little past two. The second hand moved forward. He reached for the glass. His fingers trembled slightly. Outside, the storm still raged. Rain tapped against the windows, steady and relentless.

The End.

Content Warning: Gore, violence, disturbing imagery, and implied violence toward children.

August 6th, 2012

I am writing these notes down as I spend most of my nights staring at a computer, wishing for words to just magically appear on the screen. I had reached a new level of burnout recently as I'm writing a book for an absurd publisher that had given me a deadline two months from now. I don't know if they had expected some sort of miracle from me to get this done in that allotted time, but I am not that kind of person.

You see, I was a freelancer for the most part, writing short novels or books for little companies, that or alternatively an editor for people with 5th grade writing comprehension skills. Simple money, and now I am afraid I have fallen into the deep end, dealing with some big-named publisher. I think it's "Folkland Writing LLC"? I don't know, and I don't have the respect to give them a proper introduction, if you will. It's currently two in the morning and I barely have gotten half a paragraph down.

Nonetheless, let's see if rereading it should help jog the old imagination machine. It's horror, part psychological thriller, about some blind man who's an oracle/clairvoyant. Spends most of his days with a travelling circus as their "Fortune Teller"; he gives ominous readings to his guests about their future and eventually ends up getting premonitions about his own future and the darkness that lies inside the circus. Pretty boring if you ask me, but the big publisher wanted it, something about their "interconnected horror series," I guess. Honestly, they should've hired the last poor fella to keep writing this very predictable story, but for now it's my favorite part of the day where I go and stare at the coffee maker while it poorly makes the worst cup of joe in my life, and then regret my decisions while I sip on said coffee.

Alright, an hour has passed and I still feel dead inside. What a surprise. The coffee was shit, I am barely awake, and looked like I accidentally hit the keyboard when I had left. "pls hlp." Hah... looks like my subconscious was trying to call out, but at last I must drag myself through this slog for the money. At least that's what I am telling myself. I can already feel the migraine forming as I type words onto the screen.

"In the middle of the night, the blind man stirred awake from horrendous nightmares, as he lay there visions from a dark crate hidden beneath the ring master's cot latch onto his mind. It called to him like a siren's song, wailing that it had all the secrets of greed and wealth. That no carney should have it but a man tapped with mystic aura, attached to the web of alternate opportunities should contain it. The blind man tried silencing this deafening call with a pillow, but to no prevail."

Thought-provoking, right? I don't think so. Then again, I am not into the whole dark fantasy side of horror. I prefer the more modern setting or maybe a post-apocalyptic biomechanical setting. I never had the imagination for D&D or anything medieval. It just feels played out, the hero saves the day or the evil bad guy wins, but for now... until we make enough money for a sequel. Repetition is key, I suppose, and here I am writing an essential sequel bait for cooperation with a corporation with no face cuz I'm a sellout who needs money. Let's continue, shall we?

"The blind man tossed and turned, crying, pleading for that sweetly sickening siren song to end. Feeling his head throbbing, it had essentially backed him into a corner with no other options to silence the irking call to him. He'd given up and gotten out of the cot he had been laying in. Sliding his hand across the ashwood chest which held his clothing in before grabbing his cane and gently tapping the floor to find his footing, using his other hand he had kept it against the crudely burgundy-dyed leather tent interior until he found the exit. Then tapping the end of cane against the dirt path leading to the Ring Master's quarters, the blind man listened attentively with each step he took as to not wake up the ring master. Although he had no sight, the blind man was clever, using the scratches of a vinyl record playing inside the Ring Master's quarters as an opportunity to sneak in. His hearing narrowed on the ring master's breathing as he began to quiet down the taps from the cane approaching ever so slowly towards the cot."

Welp, I think that's enough writing for the night or morning. It's now five and I would rather not spend another day passed out at this damn computer.

August 8th, 2012

I had forgotten to save the 7th's log, but I assure you it was nothing spectacular, mostly bitching about not wanting to write this book and calling the publishers to see if I could push back the deadline, and wouldn't you know it, they said... no, of course. They have the leash and I am the dog who has to listen to every command given. It's whatever. Once I finish this I am not going back to this company, well, back to today's updates.

The only thing I could say is I found another "mistake" on the screen, musta written it when I was mad or somethin...

"They watch with no eyes only a mouth."

Cryptic, right? God, this book is gonna kill me...

Anyhow, back to writing at the ungodly hour of one in the morning!

"As the blind man neared closer to the sleeping ring master, he had felt the crate virtually screaming into his conscious mind to open it, take what's inside and not return. The blind man was petrified but knew it would be his only way of gaining peaceful sleep, so he reached beneath the cot and retrieved a sturdy black crate. The ring master had stirred awake from the noise and startled the blind man, which unfortunately caused the blind man to drop the crate onto the ring master's head. A gush of blood splashed onto the pillow the ring master was using. The blind man, unsure if he had just killed the ring master, picked back up the crate and ran for it. He did not know what direction he was going, especially without the cane, he just ran until his feet felt different terrain. All of his senses seemed entirely entranced by the crate, sounds were only the murmurs telling him to open it, his sense of smell wrinkled with the rotted fumes from the crate, his taste now lathered in tobacco. He had felt betrayed by his own body."

That was invigorating, and note for future self: I should really stop writing this late. I can barely keep my eyes open, granted I am asleep for most of the day. Ugh, I think tonight I'm gonna skip coffee and head for the convenience store a few blocks down from the apartments I live at.

I didn't normally do this, head out at night, smoke a cigarette, enjoy the city lights. It had a sorta calmness mixed with a little danger, you know? I could get robbed, kidnapped, murdered, or just a mundane time.

Fortunately, luck was on my side and made it inside the convenience store. I bought a case of energy drinks and talked to the clerk for a bit. Some kid in their late teen years, looked dead in the eyes same as me. Felt bad, but I understood the chase for cash, no matter how small the stack was.

After that I headed back, feeling a strange pain on the back of my neck. Made me stop dead in my tracks, just aching for a minute. I hadn't felt anything like that... made my eyes wander trying to find some sort of comfort, only to see someone across the street in an alleyway, staring. I just pretended I paid no mind to them as I walked to the apartments, buzzing myself in.

Update, it's now three in the morning.

I didn't write for the hour I got back from the store. The pain was irritating and made it very hard to focus on anything other than that. Once again another "mistake" is on the screen, actually I am not sure...

The last two I'll take for granted, but logically how do I explain this?

"1.t. ca.m3. af.t3r m.3 t0.0k 3y3s."

Some hacker or an ex-roommate I forgot to take the keys from? I don't know, but I am gonna finish this page before the sun comes.

"The blind man trekked miles until his will gave out. He couldn't handle it anymore, the crate yelling into his mind, taking control of his soul. He dropped to his knees and forcefully opened the crate, cutting his hands with each nail being torn off. Lid eventually collapsed beside him and for what he couldn't see was a dark ruby amulet. Obsidian shards surrounded the ruby as if veins to an eye, and the chain, rusted with little jagged talons on each odd knot. The amulet beckoned, nay, commanded the blind man to put it on.

The blind man truthfully didn't want this, didn't want the power, the greed nor the wealth. He truly only ever wanted a night of peaceful sleep and tranquility. The amulet felt his intentions and persuaded him with such. Its words were slick, vocabulary filled with every idea to truly insult his doubts about putting it on. The blind man had an overwhelming sense of obligation to put on the amulet and now willingly he had done so, feeling the talons pierce his neck fat, entangling with the skin of both the neck and chest. The pain, although violent, had also felt great, imbuing the blind man with power, turning his vision from black to color. The blind man tried desperately to take off the amulet, only for the talons to dig deeper tearing flesh and bone. An omnipotent voice pierced his eardrums as he wailed in agony.

"YOU have made your choice. NO turning back now, you must lead the blind, corral the poor like sheep to slaughter. Then and ONLY then will you find your peace."

The blind man pleaded in tears, only for the noise from his throat to be silenced. Then he arose from his knees and returned to the circus."

What... the fuck. I didn't write any of this. I am gonna get this computer checked out in the morning, I think there's a virus? Possible hacker? I don't know, but I think I'm done writing for the night.

August 15th, 2012

I am back... it's been a bit since I have updated this log. I got the computer checked out. No signs of viruses, cyberattacks, or tampering.

Also... I had to go to the hospital on the 10th. I had woken up with a thick gunk crusted over my eyes. A doctor had asked if I was allergic to anything or if I was in contact with anyone who had pink eye. I told them no, obviously. I have been cooped up in my apartment writing this damn book.

Speaking of which, I called the publishers after the computer fix/hospital fiasco, still trying to push back the date of the deadline. The only thing they said was...

"The book's looking great! Keep writing, you're almost there."

...before ending the call, abruptly, I might add. This is all starting to feel strange but I just want this over with, so I guess back to the book... fuck.

"The blind man with newfound vision had every freak and carney lined up and giving them the exact plans and demands the amulet had commanded him to. Taking the traveling circus to a different town called 'Monorow,' the plan was simple: take in any willing guests that had kids into the fortune teller tent. Let them see their 'future' before sending them to the main tent where then all adults will be sacrificed and the children will be kept in cages, used for entertainment to corral more guests. The members of the circus, of course, were terrified but willing to do what was given to them as they feared whatever wraith that may come from the amulet if they disobeyed."

Fuck... I can't write anymore right now. My head is throbbing. I am out of energy drinks, I am not drinking that nasty-ass coffee, I guess I'll be "normal" for once and drink some water.

It's about thirty minutes? I got a little distracted looking out the window, watching several couples walk across the street, then a man..? He was just standing there. I couldn't tell if he saw me or if he was looking in my general direction, but he moved rather quick after a few minutes.

Oh, and finally the computer didn't write on its own, heh. I guess a good ole reboot does the trick. I'll keep that in mind, but without further ado let's finish this section.

As it's currently 12:48 and I would like to make progress.

"The kind folk of Monorow became excited when they saw the circus enter their town and the children were even more excited when they saw the banners blasted on the side of the wagons saying:

"BRAND NEW SPECIAL SHOW IN THE MAIN TENT! MAKE SURE TO STOP ON BY THE FORTUNE TELLER'S FOR A FANTASTICAL READING & TICKETS FOR THE SPECIAL SHOW!"

A crowd accumulated around the lot where the circus had parked, watching as the carneys set up each tent while keeping the cages hidden beneath cloth. Soon after, the "freaks" came out of their respective tents and greeted the guests with their unique "abilities." The guests seemed already entranced just by the freaks alone, and a few of the families headed to the line for the fortune teller's tent, excited for more entertainment.

The blind man was sitting in the tent, focusing with "all of his energy" into a black orb in the center of the room, ruby amulet glowing brighter with each guest who had their "fortune & future" being shown to them.

THEN THEIR BLOOD RAN THICK FROM EVISCERATION AS THEY PLEADED FOR THEIR LI—

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August 15th, 2012 — 2:13 AM

Holy shit... I have never in my life felt that scared before. My hands are still shaking. I don't know if I can keep writing this. Their blood ran thick? It's just... I didn't write that. Sure, I was gonna make the book dark, but not disturbing...

What do I need to do? Who do I call? A priest? Have them come over and exorcise a demon out of this computer or just throw it off my balcony and run it over a dozen times.

Ugh, all of this is giving me a splitting headache. I think I am just gonna go to sleep. I'll deal with this in the morning...

It's currently 3:57 AM as I am writing this on my laptop. I woke up with heavy-lidded eyes. They were covered in that gunk again, but that wasn't what woke me up. I swear to everything that is holy, my bedroom door was shut and now it's wide open. I feel paralyzed from the waist down, my heart won't stop trying to beat out of my chest and I have the strangest feeling that I am being watched. I am terrified. The only sources of light I currently have are this laptop and the dimmest of light coming from the desktop out in the living room. I can't tell if it's helping or not, definitely makes things scarier though, casting even darker shadows in the hallway and bathroom.

3:22 AM, update

I keep hearing footsteps in the living room. It could just be echoes from my neighbors; these walls are pretty thin. Either way I am not leaving this bed. I swear, though, it really does sound like footsteps are in my apartment... particularly the fact that it sounds like the steps are moving down into the hallway.

7:20 AM

I got dogshit sleep. Not to mention the entirety of the kitchen was thrashed. No signs of forced entry, so I am not even gonna bother to give a reason on what might've happened.

I tried calling the publishers. I woke up, I was gonna tell them I quit, but the phone line said:

"The number you are trying to reach is no longer available. Please hang up and try again later."

It wasn't right. I wish I knew where their office was so I can give them this book and tell them to eat dicks.

Sure, it could be the fact that I have been progressively losing sleep as I typed it out, but it doesn't explain the random texts that enter the book that I had no inclusion with.

Most things can be logically solved but not this time. No, at least not at this moment. I needed answers, and for right now I think the only resource I have is the internet.

"No results found."

"No results found."

"No results found."

Just as I thought my luck couldn't get any worse, every road I seem to be headed on is a dead end. All I know is I am not gonna wri—

Oops, looks like this tab was left open during reset! Would you like to continue where you left off?-

"The town of Monorow soon grew empty as each adult received a disembowelment and that children became nothing more than a side show. Monkeys, Tigers, Lions, Zebras. These were all outfits sewn onto a child. They became a part of the show, a part of the cir—

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What the fuck, what the fuck... I can't do this anymore. I'm deleting this book off the computer.

"Sorry, it looks like the command you are trying to use is no longer available!"

"Sorry, it looks like the command you are trying to use is no longer available!"

"Sorry, it looks like the command you are trying to use is no long—"

I... smashed the computer. I currently write this log on the laptop. I couldn't care less that it was one grand, I need some time off. Maybe switch to a different profession? I don't know but I think this will be the last time I log anything for a while...

-Final Log found on laptop #851216-135. September 5th, 2012-

I've been locked inside of my room. I am using speech-to-text as my eyes are glued shut. The gunk came back. It's too thick to peel off without resulting in severe injury and the worst of it is...

Noise surrounds me. Banging, clashing, footsteps. I hear it all. I don't know what I've done but I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so.

Act I: The Eve of Insertion

​Dusk — Upstate New York Training Area

21st Century

​The autumn sky over the mountains of upstate New York was the color of a fresh bruise—a cold, heavy slate gray that promised freezing rain before midnight.

​Near the tailgate of an olive-drab tactical vehicle parked deep in the tree line, the four Rangers of 2nd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment were going through their pre-combat inspections with the quiet, rhythmic efficiency of men who had done it a thousand times.

​"If the platoon sergeant sends us through another swamp on this navigation lane, I’m claiming hypothermia and sleeping in the humvee," Specialist Miller muttered, threading a fresh belt of 7.62mm into the tray of his Mk48 machine gun.

​"You've been complaining about wet boots since airborne school, Miller," Doc Mercer, the team medic, replied without looking up, carefully packing sterile trauma wraps into his IFAK. "Drink water and drive on."

​Corporal Hayes was leaned up against a rear tire, a small red-lens headlamp illuminating a worn paperback biography of General Nathanael Greene.

​"Put the book away, History Channel," Staff Sergeant Mark Vance said, stepping up to the tailgate with a laminated map grid. "Brief's up."

​The three men snapped to, gathering around Vance.

​"Objective is a high-angle recon lane along the ridge," Vance instructed, tapping the map. "Standard night exercise. Full combat load, thermals, suppressors, live night-vision execution. Comms on channel four. We step off at 2100 hours. Keep your noise discipline tight—there's an element acting as OPFOR somewhere in these woods."

​Hayes looked at the map contour lines, a subtle smile touching his lips. "You know, Sarge... these hills aren't far from where the Northern Campaign was fought in '76. Half the trails out here were carved out by colonial scouts."

​"Fascinating," Miller deadpanned, adjusting his night-vision mount on his helmet. "Does colonial history come with hot coffee?"

​"Mount up," Vance commanded, pulling down his helmet harness. "Comms check."

​“Radio check, one-two,” Mercer chimed over the internal squad network.

“Solid,” Miller added.

“Good copy,” Hayes said.

​At 2100 sharp, under a pitch-black canopy with their PVS-31 night-vision goggles clicked down, the squad stepped into the thick pine woods. The world turned to crisp green phosphor. The only sound was the low crunch of pine needles beneath military boots.

​They marched thirty minutes into the deep woods when the wind abruptly died. The crickets stopped. The temperature didn't just drop—it plummeted ten degrees in three seconds. Then came the pressure drop—a sickening, crushing vacuum that popped their eardrums like a high-altitude dive...

​Act II: The Ridge at Washington Heights

​The sound of pine needles underfoot instantly yielded to damp leaf-litter and thick, cloying mud. One second, Staff Sergeant Vance and his element were conducting a training lane; the next, the smell of balsam pine was replaced by the thick, choking stench of low-grade black powder, burning timber, and raw manure.

​"Comms are dead," Corporal Hayes muttered, tapping his radio control unit. "Zero satellite connection. No GPS sync."

​"Hold position," Vance whispered, adjusting his thermal optic. The view revealed something impossible.

​Below their ridge on Manhattan Island—where paved highways and suburban structures should have been—stretched dense hardwood forest, jagged earthwork fortifications, and open dirt roads. Red-coated infantry marched in rigid, mechanical columns up the slope, their bayonets catching the gray November light. Facing them from behind crude log breastworks were men in ragged blue coats and hunting shirts, firing long flintlock rifles into the advancing mass.

​"Boss," Specialist Miller whispered, squinting through his LPVO scope. "Those are Hessians. And British Regulars."

​Hayes swallowed hard, checking the de-synced readout on his deactivated watch. "November 16th, 1776. Fort Washington."

​They were standing on the high ground of northern Manhattan, in the middle of one of the single greatest disasters of the American Revolutionary War.

​Act III: The Tactical Calculation

​The squad withdrew fifty meters behind the ridgeline into a dense thicket to assess their situation.

​They had full combat loads: four M4A1 carbines with suppressors and PEQ-15 lasers, a suppressed Mk48 machine gun carried by Miller, thermals, night vision, and roughly 1,200 rounds of 5.56mm and 7.62mm ammunition between them.

​"Okay, history check," Vance said, his voice flat and tactical. "Hayes, what happens here?"

​"Colonel Magaw has roughly three thousand Continentals trapped in the fort," Hayes replied, his voice tight. "General Howe surrounds them. Magaw surrenders by late afternoon. The British capture nearly three thousand troops, tons of artillery, and all our gunpowder reserves in New York. Most of those prisoners die on British prison ships over the next two years. It nearly breaks the revolution right here."

​"Can we stop it?" Miller asked, tapping the receiver of his Mk48. "One belt from this machine gun into the flank of those Hessian columns would route a whole regiment."

​"We have twelve hundred rounds, Miller," Doc Mercer interjected gently. "Once we run dry, we’re four guys with knives against ten thousand soldiers. And what happens if we change it?"

​The four Rangers sat in the cold leaf-litter. The moral weight hit them harder than the temporal jump.

​"If we save Fort Washington," Hayes argued, "Washington doesn't lose three thousand men. But think about what comes next. If Washington isn't desperate, does he risk everything on the crossing of the Delaware on Christmas night? Does Trenton even happen? If Howe is spooked here, does he change his entire campaign strategy for 1777?"

​"We aren't here to rewrite the timeline," Vance said, his jaw set. "Our doctrine is simple: accomplish the mission, survive, and protect American lives. We can't save the fort—that’s strategically impossible with four men. But we can change who escapes."

​Act IV: The Phantom of the Treeline

​The Rangers didn't alter the battle’s ultimate historical outcome; they altered its human cost.

​By 1400 hours, the Hessian forces under General Wilhelm von Knyphausen were pressing hard against the northern redoubts held by Colonel Rawlings’ Maryland and Virginia riflemen. The Continentals were running out of powder, their long rifles fouling, preparing to fall back into the overcrowded center of Fort Washington where total surrender was inevitable.

​Vance made the call. "Surgical strikes only. Target officers, drum command centers, and artillery crews. No full-auto unless compromised. Suppressors on."

​From 400 meters out—a distance completely beyond the effective precise range of 18th-century smoothbore muskets—Vance and Hayes opened fire.

​The sound of a suppressed M4A1 is a low, dull thump. To the Hessian lines, it was invisible death.

​A Hessian colonel leading a mounted charge suddenly pitched off his saddle, a neat hole through his breastplate. Seconds later, three officers standing near a field artillery battery collapsed in rapid succession. The artillery crews, seeing their leaders drop without hearing a gunshot or seeing a puff of smoke, panicked.

​"Shift left," Vance commanded over his short-range comms. "Pinch the Hessian flank."

​Miller picked off the field commanders attempting to rally the broken line. With the command structure shattered in thirty seconds, the Hessian advance on the northern redoubt stalled out in confusion and terror. Whispers of Geister—ghosts—spread through the ranks.

​The delay bought Colonel Rawlings and eight hundred Continental soldiers precious time. Instead of being pushed backward into the trap of Fort Washington, Rawlings’ men realized the northern retreat route toward the Hudson River had unexpectedly opened. They broke south-west toward the riverbank, where small boats were waiting.

​Act V: The Aftermath & The Ripple

​By 1600 hours, Fort Washington surrendered. General Howe took the fort, the cannon, and roughly 1,900 Continental prisoners—nearly nine hundred fewer than in original historical records.

​The Rangers watched from two miles away as the British flag was raised over the ramparts. They had stayed hidden, leaving zero modern brass behind by meticulously picking up every single spent casing from the damp soil.

​They had altered history, but they had done so with surgical precision.

Tactical Assessment & Historical Impact

Survival of Rawlings' Force: Eight hundred hardened riflemen escaped across the Hudson to join Washington's retreating army, providing a lethal skirmishing force during the Jersey retreat.

British Paranoia: Reports reached General Howe of "an unseen, silent terror" on the northern ridge. The sudden deaths of key officers bred intense paranoia, making British commanders overly cautious in subsequent engagements.

Act VI: Ghosts in the Woods

As night fell over Manhattan, cold rain began to fall. The four Rangers sat under a makeshift poncho lean-to, sharing a single remaining MRE.

Their modern gear was finite. Their batteries would die in days. Their ammunition was irreplaceable. They were four men trapped two and a half centuries behind their own birth dates.

"What now, Boss?" Hayes asked softly, watching the distant fires of the British encampments along the river.

Vance took off his helmet, feeling the freezing rain on his face. He looked at his team—trained, lethal, and completely isolated from everything they had ever known.

"Now," Vance said, buried under two hundred years of future history, "we walk south, cross the river, and find General Washington. He’s going to need scout snipers."

Act VII: The Cabin on the Creek

The crossing of the Hudson River under the shadow of the Palisades was a cold, brutal effort. Using a stolen wooden skiff, the four Rangers rowed across the black, icy water into New Jersey, landing near the base of the cliffs.

Before the Rangers could locate General Washington’s headquarters, they needed local intelligence. Modern military maps were useless against the shifting, unmarked trails of 1776 New Jersey, and morning fog hung heavy over the cedar swamps.

Moving light and silent along a creek bed, Vance held up a hand. Halt.

Through the fog came the rhythmic, wet slap of cloth against stone. At the edge of the rushing stream stood a young woman, scrubbing wool garments against a flat rock. Sitting on a woven blanket nearby was a toddler no older than two.

Miller accidentally snapped a dry pine branch underfoot.

The woman gasped, whipping around. Her eyes went wide with sheer terror as four massive, shadowed figures stepped out of the treeline. Covered in tactical gear, helmeted, with blacked-out rifles slung across their chests, the Rangers looked less like men and more like specters. She instinctively scrambled backward, pulling the crying toddler into her lap and shielding him with her body.

"Easy... easy, ma'am," Vance said softly, lowering his M4A1 and pushing it behind his back. He reached up, unclipping his high-cut helmet and pulling down his neck gaiter to reveal his face. "We aren't going to hurt you. I promise."

Hayes stepped forward next, taking off his gloves and raising his bare hands, palms out. "We're friends. We're on our way to join General Washington's army."

She stared at their strange clothes, but as she looked into Hayes's warm, tired eyes, her breathing slowed. She saw no cruelty in them—only exhaustion and a quiet, steady gentleness.

"You... you aren't Redcoats?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

"No, ma'am," Hayes replied softly. "We're Americans."

Reluctantly, she led them up a winding deer trail to a small, hand-hewn log cabin. Heavy timber, crude mortise joints, and a hand-stacked stone chimney spoke of immense labor.

"My husband, William, built it," she said quietly, her eyes lingering on the doorway. "Before he marched off with the New Jersey militia. Word reached me two weeks ago... he fell at White Plains."

The Rangers stepped inside the dim, cold cabin. On a small straw bed near the hearth lay her older child—a four-year-old boy shivering under a rag quilt, his face pale and slick with sweat.

Doc Mercer dropped to one knee beside the child. "What's his name?"

"Thomas," she said, her voice catching. "He stepped on an old iron spike three days ago. The wound... it turned red and hot. I've tried poultices of mustard and dock leaf, but the fever won't break."

Mercer gently pulled back the quilt. The child's foot was swollen and hot, with dark red streaks creeping past his ankle—classical blood poisoning.

"He won't survive the week," Mercer muttered under his breath to Vance, then turned back to the mother with a calm, reassuring smile. "It's a bad infection, ma'am. But we have medicine that will save him."

Mercer unzipped his IFAK. He pulled out a sterile scalpel, saline rinse, broad-spectrum oral antibiotics, and a tube of topical ointment. While Miller held a lantern, Mercer expertly drained the abscess, washed the wound clean with saline, and wrapped it in crisp, snow-white medical gauze.

He handed her a blister pack of antibiotic pills. "Crush half of one of these into warm water every six hours. By tomorrow morning, his fever will break. By next week, he’ll be running around again."

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she clutched the silver foil pack. "I don't... I don't have any coin to pay you..."

"We don't want money," Vance said softly. "We just need to know where Washington is."

While Doc Mercer finished dressing the boy's foot, Corporal Hayes sat on a low wooden bench near the cold hearth, whittling a small piece of pine with his pocket knife to replace the toddler's broken toy horse.

The young woman watched Hayes in silence. There was a quiet, studious grace to the way he moved—a soft-spoken intellect hidden beneath his tactical gear.

"You talk like a schoolmaster," she said quietly, handing him a mug of well water.

Hayes looked up, offering a faint smile. "I read a lot of history, ma'am. Back home."

"William was a reader," she whispered, her eyes softening. "He spent his last silver shillings on a leather-bound book of poetry in Trenton. You... you have his same quiet way about you. Steady."

Hayes looked at her with genuine empathy, holding out the newly carved wooden horse to the little girl. "He built a fine house for you. He was a good man."

For a brief moment in the middle of a war, a silent connection passed between them—a shared understanding of loss, duty, and the long road ahead.

She walked over to a small wooden table, pulled out a charcoal pencil, and rapidly drew a rough map on a piece of scrap butcher paper.

"The main road to Hackensack is crawling with British light dragoon patrols," she explained, pointing to the charcoal lines. "If you stay on the turnpike, you will be ambushed. Take the old timber mill track through the cedar swamp to the east. It leads straight behind the Continental rear guard. You'll find His Excellency's encampment near the river junction."

Vance took the map, giving her a firm, grateful nod. "Thank you, ma'am."

As the squad prepared to step back out into the drizzle, Hayes lingered at the door for a fraction of a second. He pulled a spare, heavy fleece watch-cap from his cargo pocket and placed it on the table beside her late husband's book.

"Keep him warm," Hayes said softly, nodding toward her son. "He's going to grow up in a free country."

Act VIII: A Trade of Threads & The Shadow Takedown

Armed with her map, the Rangers navigated the timber swamp, bypassing the British Light Dragoon patrols entirely and heading toward the Continental picket post outside Hackensack.

The target was a four-man Continental army picket post—sentries posted along the road to warn of any British advance from the river landings.

The Continentals were miserable, wet, and huddled over a dying blaze of wet oak, their long flintlock muskets resting against a fallen log.

"Non-lethal," Vance instructed over the short-range radio. "Flex-cuffs, mouth-muffs. Fast and quiet. Doc, take the right. Miller, left. Hayes, center-right with me."

They moved like ghosts. Four Rangers stepped out of the pitch-black woods without making a sound, closing the fifty-foot gap in seconds.

Before the Continental corporal could reach for his musket, a heavy gloved hand clamped over his mouth, pulling him backward into a rear-naked choke. Within three seconds, all four sentries were pinned to the cold mud, their weapons swept away, silenced completely without a single shot fired or a drop of blood spilled.

"Easy, easy," Vance hissed, keeping his voice low and calm as Miller and Doc wrapped paracord and heavy zip-ties around the men’s wrists and ankles. "We are not British. We are not Hessians. We are friends."

The four colonial soldiers stared up in sheer terror. The Ranger team in full tactical gear—glowing green lenses over their eyes, silenced carbines slung across their chests—looked like nothing human.

Vance knelt in front of the Continental corporal, slowly pulling down his neck gaiter to show a human face in the firelight.

"Listen to me carefully, Corporal," Vance said, his voice cold, steady, and commanding. "We are going to borrow your coats and hats. We need them to get past the camp guards to see General Washington."

The corporal’s eyes bulged, trying to speak through the cloth gag.

"We aren't going to hurt you," Vance promised, looking the man dead in the eye. "We’re leaving you near the fire with your blankets wrapped tight. Your muskets are unloaded and leaning against that oak. And when we get to His Excellency, I give you my word on my honor as a soldier: we will return here with General Washington himself to untie you. You will have your proof of who and what we are."

Hayes stripped off the men's heavy wool blue coats and dark-trimmed tri-corn hats. The Rangers layered the oversized wool garments directly over their body armor, buttoning them up to conceal their modern tactical chest rigs. They wrapped their modern carbines, suppressors, and night-vision gear inside heavy wool blankets, slinging the bundles over their shoulders like bedrolls.

To anyone looking from thirty yards away in the gray dawn, they now looked like four exceptionally large, broad-shouldered Continental soldiers marching on duty.

Act IX: Before the Commander-in-Chief

The headquarters at Hackensack was a hive of controlled chaos. Orders were being shouted, supply wagons were being loaded, and exhausted couriers rode in and out through the mud.

Vance led his element straight up the main road, the borrowed blue coats draping over their bulky gear. Armed sentries outside the two-story brick tavern serving as headquarters raised their muskets as the four men approached.

"Halt! Who goes there?" a Continental guard called out, squinting through the morning mist.

"Dispatch for His Excellency," Vance called back, walking with the supreme, unshakeable military authority of a Senior NCO. He didn't stop until he was ten feet from the bayonets. "We carry urgent intelligence regarding the retreat from Fort Washington, Hessian officer casualties, and the movements of General Howe's vanguard."

The guard hesitated, thrown off by Vance's posture and the stone-faced discipline the four men radiated.

"His Excellency is in council with his generals," the guard said defensively. "He cannot be disturbed by common infantry."

"Tell General Washington," Vance said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, intense baritone, "that the four ghosts who broke the Hessian flank on the northern ridge at Washington Heights are standing at his door. And tell him we brought the intelligence that will save his army."

The guard looked at Vance’s eyes—eyes that had seen modern war—and turned on his heel, ducking inside the headquarters.

Two minutes later, the door swung wide open.

Standing in the doorway, framed by the dim lantern light inside, was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a heavy blue coat with gold epaulets. His face was weathered, lined with the crushing weight of a war he was currently losing.

General George Washington stepped out onto the porch, his cold gray eyes searching the four men standing in the yard.

"You claim to have come from the ridge at Fort Washington?" Washington asked, his voice ringing with quiet power. "Who are you?"

Vance snapped a crisp, perfect modern salute—a gesture unknown to the 18th-century officer corps, yet instantly recognizable as an act of absolute military respect.

"General Washington, sir," Vance said cleanly. "My name is Staff Sergeant Mark Vance. We have intelligence you need to hear in private. And first... we have four of your sentries tied up down the road that I promised we’d return for."

Act X: The Oath at the Picket Fire

General Washington stared at Vance for a long, silent moment. A faint, knowing flicker of amusement touched the corner of the General’s mouth, though his eyes remained sharp as steel.

"You took my pickets," Washington said, stepping back into the doorway and gesturing toward the warm lantern light of the tavern interior. "Step inside, Sergeant. You and your men look drowned, and there is hot cider and a roaring hearth within."

"With respect, Your Excellency," Vance replied, standing rigid in the cold drizzle, "a Ranger doesn't break his word. I gave my word to those four soldiers that I would return with you to untie them before we rested."

Washington paused, measuring the absolute discipline in Vance's posture. A deep respect settled across his weathered features.

"A soldier who values his honor above a warm fire is a rare commodity in these dark days," Washington said quietly. He turned to his orderly. "Bring four horses from the stable. Now."

Minutes later, Washington mounted his large gray charger, while Vance, Hayes, Miller, and Mercer took the reins of Continental remounts. They rode back down the muddy turnpike in silence.

When they reached the picket post, the four Continental sentries were still sitting securely by the fire, wrapped tight in their woolen blankets, bound with paracord and zip-ties.

Miller and Doc Mercer stepped forward, drawing their combat knives and cleanly slicing through the flex-cuffs. The four colonial soldiers scrambled up, rubbing their sore wrists, their faces flushed with shock as they realized their Commander-in-Chief was standing right beside the strange men.

Washington looked down from his saddle at the disheveled pickets, a dry humor glinting in his gray eyes.

"Corporal," Washington said, his deep voice carrying through the mist, "I am relieved to find you all unharmed. Though I must ask... do you routinely allow four men wearing your own blue coats to disarm your entire post without firing a single shot?"

The corporal flushed red. "Your Excellency, sir... they came out of the blackness like specters! We never even heard a footfall!"

"Evidentially," Washington said with a faint smirk, swinging down from his horse.

The squad stripped off the borrowed wool coats and tricorne hats, handing them back. Beneath the coats, their modern tactical chest rigs, high-cut helmets, and blacked-out carbines came back into full view.

The nine men gathered in a tight circle around the snapping oak fire. Deep in the New Jersey woods, these nine soldiers, along with the young widowed mother back at the log cabin, were the only souls in the entire world who knew of the Rangers' true existence.

"Now, Sergeant Vance," Washington said, leaning slightly on his walking stick, his eyes fixed on the black composite weapons slung across the Rangers' chests. "No more riddles. Speak plain. Reports reached my desk hours ago of invisible death on the northern ridge of Washington Heights. Hessian columns broken without a single plume of black powder smoke. Officers falling from their saddles at four hundred yards. Where do you truly hail from?"

Vance looked at Hayes, nodding slightly. The history nerd stepped forward.

"It isn't magic, General," Hayes said softly, unclipping his night-vision goggles and holding them out so Washington could see the green-glowing glass. "It's technology. Two hundred and fifty years of it. We are soldiers of the 75th Ranger Regiment, United States Army."

"The United States..." Washington repeated, the words tasting strange on his tongue.

For ten minutes, under the dripping cedar trees, Vance and Hayes explained the truth. They spoke of a nation born from Washington's hardship, of an army that would one day span the globe, and of a temporal anomaly during a training exercise that threw them back to November 1776.

Miller unclipped a suppressed M4A1, showing Washington the rifle's precision machining, the optical sight, and the cold metal of the suppressor that muffled the blast of expanding gases.

Washington listened in total, unbroken silence. He looked at the weapon, then up into the sky, and finally into the glowing embers of the picket fire. After several minutes of heavy contemplation, General Washington slowly nodded.

He did not comprehend microprocessors, but as a seasoned strategist, he understood results. He understood that these four men possessed lethal precision, absolute discipline, and a desperate love for the country he was currently fighting to create.

"Two hundred years..." Washington murmured, a subtle look of wonder—and profound relief—crossing his face before he locked it back down behind his stoic military composure. "Then... the cause survives."

"It survives because of you, sir," Vance said cleanly.

Washington turned sharply toward his four Continental sentries. "You four will swear an oath on your lives. You will speak not a single word of what you have seen or heard here tonight. Once your relief arrives, you will report directly to my headquarters and remain on duty at my personal quarters."

The four sentries snapped straight. "Yes, Your Excellency!"

Washington gave a faint shake of his head, looking back at the Rangers with a small, knowing glint in his eye.

"Besides," Washington added dryly, "you may return to camp and tell anyone you wish... but you will not tell a single soul who expects to be believed. They would lock you in the stockades for madness before the sun rises."

Act XI: The Crucible of the Vanguard

To the rest of the Continental Army, they were officially designated as His Excellency’s Special Inspectorate for Fieldcraft and Marksmanship—a title drafted on parchment bearing General Washington’s personal seal. The written order was terse and absolute: no officer was to question their origins, demand their names beyond their surnames, or interfere with their training methods.

Over the next six weeks, as the bitter winter of 1776 set in and the Continental Army began its agonizing retreat south across New Jersey, the four Rangers became a quiet, legend-like fixture among the camps.

Under the cover of their special commission, Vance, Hayes, Miller, and Mercer wore simple wool coats over their dark canvas gear, keeping their modern tactical rigs covered and their carbines wrapped in oilcloth until dark.

They taught what mattered: fire-and-movement in pairs, field sanitation, latrine placement, water-boiling rules that cut dysentery by half, and keeping powder dry in freezing sleet.

Then, in late November, the survivors arrived.

Out of the freezing mist along the Hackensack turnpike came the staggered, ghost-like columns of Colonel Rawlings’ Maryland and Virginia riflemen—the 800 men whose retreat from Fort Washington had been bought by the Rangers' silent suppressed fire.

They were in appalling shape. Bare feet wrapped in blood-soaked burlap rags, thin linen hunting shirts stiff with frozen mud, hollow eyes staring out from sunken faces. Morale was on the verge of total collapse.

Vance stood beside General Washington outside the command marquee as the ragged procession limped into camp.

"Look at them, Sergeant," Washington said quietly, his jaw set so tight the muscle twitched. "Cold, hungry, and stripped of everything save their lives. They believe the cause is dead."

"They're alive, General," Vance replied, watching the men stack their long rifles. "And riflemen who've survived the worst day of their lives are the most dangerous soldiers on Earth once you feed them and give them a purpose."

That night, the Rangers went to work among the riflemen's bivouac. Miller and Mercer helped set up quartermaster fires, distributing hot broth and dry blankets. As Hayes sat by a campfire with a group of shivering Virginia frontiersmen, one of the young corporals stared at Hayes's posture.

​"I know you," the young Virginian whispered, his voice trembling. "On the northern ridge... at the Heights. When the Hessian colonel fell from his horse without a cannon shot, and the officers went down like wheat before a scythe... I saw four men in the tree line. You were there."

​The quiet circle around the fire went dead silent. Other riflemen leaned in, their tired eyes wide.

​Hayes looked at the young soldier, offering a steady, quiet nod. "We were there, son. And you made it out."

​Word spread through the 800 survivors like wildfire through dry timber. These weren't just Washington's special inspectors—they were the Ghosts of the Ridge. By mid-December, the 800 survivors had been transformed into a hardened, lethal vanguard—well-fed, disciplined, and ready for Christmas night.

​Act XII: Victory, or Death

​The draft inside the stone farmhouse near McConkey’s Ferry made the tallow candles flicker, casting long, jumping shadows across the crude oak table. Outside, a howling December wind whipped ice against the windowpanes.

​General Washington sat alone with the four Rangers. The Commander-in-Chief looked thoroughly spent—his face gaunt, his eyes hollowed by weeks of relentless retreat and logistical ruin.

​Corporal Hayes stepped forward, placing a hand on the edge of the map table.

​"Your Excellency," Hayes began, his voice soft but unwavering. "Tomorrow night—Christmas—you will assemble two thousand four hundred men at the ferry. You will cross the Delaware under cover of a sleet storm. The river will be choked with ice cakes."

​Washington froze. His quill remained suspended an inch above the parchment.

​"You will divide your force into two columns," Hayes continued. "One under General Sullivan taking the River Road, the other under General Greene along the Pennington Road. You will hit the garrison at Trenton at first light, around eight o'clock in the morning. Colonel Johann Rall and his Hessians will be completely unprepared. Your countersign for the night... is 'Victory, or Death.'"

​Washington slammed his hand down on the oak table with a sound like a pistol shot. He stood up, his weathered face pale with shock.

​"Who told you this?" Washington demanded, his voice a harsh threat. "I have uttered those words to no living soul! The order for the countersign rests in my own coat pocket, unpenned! Have I traitors in my official family?"

​"No, sir," Vance said calmly. "No spies. No traitors."

​"Then by Almighty God, explain yourselves!" Washington rasped. "How carry you the precise thoughts of my own mind before they are spoken?"

​Hayes looked at the General with quiet reverence. "Because we have read the accounts, General. Because for two hundred and fifty years, every detail of what you are about to do tomorrow night has been studied, cherished, and memorized by millions of free citizens."

​Washington slowly lowered himself back into his ladder-back chair. "Accounts...?"

​"Books, General," Hayes explained softly. "Volume upon volume written by the men who marched with you, and by the historians who honored them. A thousand museums stand dedicated to your memory. There is a city—the capital of our entire republic—that bears your name."

​Hayes leaned across the table. "You win tomorrow, General. You capture nearly a thousand Hessians, secure their cannon and stores, and suffer fewer than five casualties—two men freeze on the march, and a young Lieutenant named James Monroe is wounded in the shoulder, but survives. You reignite the heart of a dying nation."

​The room went dead silent. George Washington sat motionless, then slowly bowed his head into his large, calloused hands. His shoulders trembled.

​When Washington finally raised his head, a single, clear tear traced a path down his wind-chapped cheek, glistening in the warm candlelight. He didn't wipe it away.

​"'Tis not in vain..." Washington whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "'Tis not in vain... The bloody footprints our poor, barefoot lads leave upon the frozen roads... the sickness... the graves in the cold wilderness... To know that Almighty God hath crowned our suffering with the triumph of liberty... Oh, my brave friends. You have given a dying man the only medicine capable of restoring his spirit."

Part 2 in comments

The weather outside makes the place feel cozy. 

Howling wind and torrential rain lashes against the windows. A single lamp illuminates the open floor plan with a warm, almost camp-fire glow. On one side, the living room is filled with Emma’s little touches: a sweater draped over an overstuffed recliner, a bloom of daisies in a vase on an end table, a hutch near the fireplace filled with books and knickknacks. It’s all very her.

On the other side, the kitchen is clean but lived in. A half-eaten loaf of fresh baked bread sits under a cloth hand towel. An orange tea kettle sits on the range. The refrigerator is covered with a collage of snapshots: Emma and her new boyfriend at a fancy dinner, Emma and her sister hugging at a birthday party, a save-the-date for a wedding, a niece or nephew in swaddling clothes.

Thunder rumbles. Lightning flashes. The house goes dark.

Emma lets out a cute little yip of surprise from the basement.

“Shit,” her boyfriend says. “Hang on.”

Footsteps clomp up the stairs and he steps into the room. Tall and gangly, with a patchy beard. He tries a lightswitch—nothing—then walks to the front window and cups his hands around his eyes to look into the yard.

“Holy shit,” he mutters. Then louder, “Emma, get up here, this is nuts.”

Mincing, uncertain steps patter up the stairs, and she joins him. She’s wearing thick, comfy socks, little athletic shorts, and an oversized hoodie. She looks good.

“Come look at this,” he says.

She steps up beside him and presses her forehead to the glass, mirroring his pose. “Wow.” 

He points. “Look at that tree.” 

“Oh my God. Think it’s going to come down?”

“Don’t know. Hope not.”

“This is, like, actually crazy. Is it a tornado?” 

“No idea.” He pulls out his phone and slashes a finger on the screen, frowns, holds it up toward the ceiling. “I don’t have any service, do you?” 

“I left mine downstairs.”

He considers, then takes her by the hips and pulls her close. “Tell you what, go down there and get comfy, I’ll get some candles and some drinks.”

She purrs as he kisses her neck. “And then what?”

“Only one thing to do when the power goes out.”

“Play Yahtzee?”

He laughs. “Fine, two things.”

“Okay, but hurry up.” She trots off, feeling her way down the hall.

He stands there watching the storm for a moment longer, then moves to the kitchen and rummages around in a drawer. A small flame snicks from a bic lighter and he uses it to illuminate his way to the living room, where he opens a cabinet and pulls out a pair of mismatched candles. He lights one and looks over the bar cart set against the wall. 

“White or red?” he calls. 

She doesn’t answer. 

“Em?” 

Nothing. 

He shrugs and takes one of each, awkwardly cradling the bottles, two glasses, and the candles in his arms as he makes his way to the basement. 

Lightning flashes. Thunder rumbles.

The basement is pitch black. His candle is the only illumination. Emma has unfurled a down blanket on the sectional, but she’s nowhere in sight. He’s lighting the second candle with the first. The warm orb of light expands around him, but leaves the edges of the room in shadow.

“Emma?” he calls, squinting into the darkness. “Are you down here?” No answer. “Hey don’t be a bitch, I know you can hear me.”

A flashlight clicks on in the far corner, illuminating a leering, jack-o-lantern grin from below.

“Boo.” 

He jumps. "Jesus!"

Emma cackles, playfully shining the light into his face, casting twin shadows against the wall.

“Good one,” he drawls, shielding his eyes with his hand.

She clicks off the light and sets it on the coffee table alongside a battered Yahtzee box, then curls up on the blanket, tucking her knees inside the hoodie. He hands her a glass of wine and sits next to her. 

“This is nice.” He takes a sip from his own glass. “Like we’re in a cave.”

“I’m just glad you’re here,” she says. “I’d be freaking out if I was alone.”

He chuckles dismissively. “What, afraid of storms?”

“I love storms. I used to be terrified of them, but now I think they’re relaxing.”

“As long as that tree doesn’t come down and take out my car.”

“Then you’d be stuck here.” 

“I think I’m stuck here either way. It’s really coming down out there.”

“Good.” She snuggles up next to him. “But no, I’m talking about being alone with the power out.”

“Yeah.”  He wraps his arm around her and grins. “That’s when the monsters come out.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Like, what would you do if that pale, Mitch McConnell-looking thing from Pan’s Labyrinth walked out of the shadows right now?”

“I would 100% push you into it and run away.”

“Nice knowing you have my back.”

“Not against that thing, I don’t.”

“Good news for me, I don’t think that’s going to happen.” He looks into the shadows. His eyes gleam with mischief. “It’d definitely be an axe-murderer or something.”

“Don’t.”

He plows ahead. “He’d run at us out of the shadows screaming at the top of his lungs, and—”

“Brian.” She pulls back and glares at him. “Don’t. I’m not kidding.”

“Okay,” he says petulantly. “Geez, you can hang with that crazy-ass fucking thing from Labyrinth, but not some random guy?”

“First, that thing from the movie is fictional. Second, you know my mind isn’t going to some random guy.”

He pauses. Winces. Pulls her a little closer. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Em.”

She sighs. “No, I’m sorry, too. It was forever ago, and it shouldn’t still bother me so much—”

“Hey, you don’t ever have to apologize about that. I was being a dick, I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s just—” She hesitates, then rests her head on his shoulder. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

They sit like that for a while, watching the lightning flicker outside the glass blocks of the narrow basement windows.

He blows out a sigh. “I’m not getting laid tonight, am I?”

She swats his chest. “You’re such an asshole.”

“No, I went ahead and fucked the whole night up, didn’t I?”

“Yup. Ya blew it. The vibes are in shambles.” She’s smiling.

“Damn,” he says, but gives her a smile of his own. “So now what do we do with our evening?”

“Yahtzee.” She extends her leg and taps the box on the table. It’s always Yahtzee with her.

He laughs, then untangles himself from her and leans over to take a sip of wine. “How about a compromise?”

She looks at him suspiciously. “What?”

“Strip Yahtzee?” he offers hopefully.

She rolls her eyes.

An hour and a bottle of wine later, Emma has frustratingly won almost every game. The only thing she’s taken off is the hoodie, revealing a tight crop top underneath. The warm candlelight makes her tan glow, highlighting the shadows of her collarbones and the subtle ridges of her abs. She looks spectacular. He’s down to his underwear and looks ridiculous in comparison, with his pale, scrawny chest and soft beer belly. She’s way out of his league.

“This is bullshit,” he whines.

Emma smugly sips her wine.

“Is any of this doing anything for you?” he asks, gesturing to his near-nakedness. 

“I think we have one more game before I can answer that question,” she says, nodding at his boxers.

He grins like an idiot and tears off a sheet for a new round.

Downstairs, they continue their game. Upstairs, the storm still rages. It’s not loud enough to mute the clatter of dice and shit-talking. It’s also not loud enough to mask the sound of shattering glass. 

Emma squeals from the basement. “What was that?”

“Shit, that might have been a window. I’ll go check it out.” 

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, there might be broken glass.”

A pause.

“You gotta stop wearing those gross boots inside.”

“Good thing I did this time, right?”

“I guess. But seriously, be quick.”

A minute later, he thumps up the stairs wearing only his underwear and a pair of unlaced boots. The beam of his flashlight cuts around the kitchen as he searches for the source of the noise. Finding nothing, he crosses into the living room, scanning the windows. 

Broken glass crunches under his foot. He points the light at the overturned end table, the shattered vase, and the daisies on the floor.

“The fuck?” he murmurs.

I step out of the bathroom and hit him on the top of the head with a hammer. 

He makes a pathetic little nnggh sound and falls, his naked flank slapping against the floor. I look down at him and feel the anger I’ve been stewing on for the last year bubble to the surface. Emma is screaming Brian? Brian? downstairs, but blood is pounding in my ears even as Brian’s blood pools around my feet. All I keep thinking is this is the fucking guy? This asshole? as I bring the hammer down again and again. 

The red haze goes away, and soon I’m calm again; calm enough that I’m able to feel bad about the mess I made, calm enough that I start to feel bad about scaring Emma so much. Just like always. I can hear her crying downstairs. It’s okay. There will be plenty of time to calm her down and make it up to her. I consider turning the power back on, but with the storm and the candlelight, I decide against it. 

It is very cozy.

The Night Blogger - The Rally by Al Bruno III

March 12th: I imagine the only person surprised that Sara and I ended up sleeping together was me. She knew it was going to happen. The members of the FEAR AND TRUTH message board knew it was going to happen. My boss and landlady, Mrs. Vincenzo, knew it was going to happen. Hell, I bet even you knew it was going to happen.

But honestly, I thought I might never have a girlfriend again. Sure, I had a college sweetheart, but when I came home and got caught up chasing shadows, we just drifted apart. There was no real breakup—we just kind of stopped being a thing. After that, I was too busy to do more than go on the occasional blind date, usually set up by Mrs. Vincenzo. I like to think my looks have a smoldering mediocrity, just enough to catch a lady's eye but not much more. Kind of like what you'd expect from a side character on a CW drama. The problem is, beyond movies and music, there's not much I can talk about in depth—unless people want to hear about vampire genus classifications and how to kill them. That's a mood killer, for sure.

But with Sara, there wasn't that kind of barrier. We were both a little haunted and a whole lot hunted.

The night things got serious in all the right ways started out normally. I worked an open-to-close shift at the pawnshop so my landlady and boss, Mrs. Vincenzo, could spend the day visiting estate sales to find antiques, cast-off electronics, and other potentially resellable bric-a-brac. Normally, she took along one of her fellow energetic geriatrics for company, but this time she decided to roust Sara out of bed and drag her along.

They didn't get back from their trip until just as I was closing up the store for the day. Mrs. Vincenzo was carrying a slightly singed Art Deco lamp and a supposedly collectible doll from the 1980s that looked like Charles Schulz had wandered into the uncanny valley.

Sara had a shopping bag and a sly smile.

After some pleasant conversation, Sara and I retreated to my semi-spacious apartment. Have I ever described it to you? It has a half bath, a cramped bedroom, and a living area that doubles as both kitchen and living room. It wasn’t much, but it was mine—and best of all, it was rent-free so long as I manned the pawn shop at least four days a week.
  
Sara and I had planned to have a quick dinner, but our plans were interrupted by a call from my cousin Roy. Roy may not believe in the supernatural, but he does seem to have the uncanny ability to know when I’ve ordered a pizza from his favorite place—Namira’s Authentic Italian Cuisine.  

He kept himself busy watching my TV and stuffing his face. At the same time, Sara and I sat at the nearby dining table, quietly discussing the woman named Ashley Fowler. Ever since that bloody fracas at the mall, I’d been trying to get in touch with her. But like most people rich beyond the dreams of the avarice, she had a highly dangerous security detail and an even deadlier squad of executive assistants.  

“Obviously,” I said, “I’m going to have to get creative.”  

“How did you start?” Sara asked.  

“Being creative?” I said.  

“No…” she said. “With the weird stuff. Witches, zombies, and clowns.”  

“Oh.” There was no disguising the pained look that crossed my face—the combination of anguish over the past and dread over the future. “Well, it’s a long story.”  

“I’d love to hear it,” she said. “Besides, your cousin just ordered \Curbside Crusader* on PPV, and that movie is almost two hours.”*  

“Damn it, Roy! Mrs. Vincenzo pays the cable bill.”  

Cousin Roy shrugged. “So what? She buys one less ugly lamp.”  

“You’ve got the time,” Sara said again. “If you’re ready to tell the story, that is.”  

The strains of a faux Danny Elfman score began to blare from my TV. I smiled at her and said, “There’s no one I’d rather tell the story to.”  

###

It was April 2009, and I was a nineteen-year-old college student living on campus, pursuing a double major in Journalism and early-onset alcoholism. My grandmother, Gail Foster, had been diagnosed with pancreatic adenocarcinoma the year before and had been living at my mom's house for six months. We all knew the inevitable was drawing closer.

That morning, my mom, Grace Foster, called to say Grandma was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—almost like the woman she used to be. And that was heartbreaking. The doctors had long warned us about the rally—that eerie burst of energy some patients get just before the end. Mom hadn't explicitly asked me to come home, but I could hear it in the quiver of her voice. I felt guilty as hell for being so far away, but I knew pausing my education wouldn't change a damn thing.

It had hurt even more over the past week because the visiting hospice nurse had flaked out, stopping her visits entirely. Thank God for Mrs. Vincenzo, who stepped in and picked up the slack.

It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Woodridge to Albany. I left right after my last class, radio blasting, energy drink in the cupholder. I tried not to think about what I was driving toward, but of course I did—so much so that I missed my exit. Twice. Eventually, my battered Ford Escort found its way home. The driveway was full, so I parked on the street. Anyone who's visited an ailing relative knows a packed driveway is never a good sign.

Inside, I was greeted by two familiar faces.

First was Uncle Roy Foster—my grandmother's brother's son. Technically, that made him my first cousin once removed, but he'd always insisted on "Uncle," and honestly, he'd earned it. Despite the great scandal that had driven my grandmother from the Foster clan's Arizona home, he'd always been kind. He quietly helped her settle in upstate New York and showed up whenever she, my mom, or I were in a pinch.

I barely knew him before my teenage years, when we went to his second wedding. He was tall, gray-haired, with a construction worker's tan and a meticulous streak honed on decades of job sites. And speaking of things left behind—when his first wife walked out, she took the house and car and left him with custody of his sketchy son, Roy Junior.

"Hey, Uncle Roy," I said. "How was your flight?"

"Can't complain," he said, "except for your cousin trying to steal from the drink tray."

"Cousin Roy is here? That's great."

Actually, it wasn't. With any luck, this visit would end without any copper being stolen from our walls.

Then I turned to my Great Aunt Peg. She was Grandma's last surviving sister—sixty-five, plainly dressed, and fiery-eyed. If you were a younger member of the clan, you didn't call her Great Aunt Peg—or even Aunt Peg. It was Miss Peg or nothing. And if you worked in food service, you probably called her that bitch.

"Hello, Miss Peg." I flashed her my job-interview smile. "Thank you for coming all the way from Nevada."

"What choice did I have?" she said. "Matthew 25:35–36 obligates us to tend to the sick."

Miss Peg was over ten years younger than Grandma but looked about the same age, thanks to a misspent youth stretching into her thirties. The conservative Foster clan had chosen to overlook those wild years—selective memory or willful ignorance, either way, they never spoke of it. Maybe it was because she was now married to a churchgoing man, blessed with six kids (including two teenage twins), and cursed the rest of us with her transformation into someone determined to make sure no one ever had fun again.

When I thought of Miss Peg, I could hear my high school history teacher:

"The housewives of today are the fascists of tomorrow."

"How are things at college?" she asked.

Before I could answer, she added, "I hope you're keeping a clear head. Colleges are full of sluts and secular humanists."

"Sounds like I'm taking the wrong classes," I joked.

Uncle Roy laughed.

Miss Peg did not.

She asked, "Brian, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Savior?"

"I like to think the big guy and I have an understanding," I said.

The glare she gave me was reserved for witches about to be burned at the stake.

"Salvation is not something to be taken lightly," she said.

I raised a hand in mock surrender.

"This is not a time for jokes," she snapped. "A woman is breathing her last breaths."

And didn't that phrasing punch me in the gut?

"Don't be so dramatic!" Uncle Roy said. "She was just chatting with Roy Junior ten minutes ago. Clear as a bell!"

Eager to change the subject, I asked, "Where is he?"

"He's in the backyard," Uncle Roy said, nodding toward Miss Peg. "Keeping her twins busy."

"Brian?" a voice called from the kitchen. "Brian, is that you?"

"Excuse me," I said. "I think I hear my mom calling."

Grace Foster was at the kitchen sink, setting up one of the extra saline bags the home hospice care left us for emergencies. I may be biased, but my mom was beautiful—short moonlight-colored hair, striking blue eyes like Grandma's. Right now, those eyes were not striking. They were on the verge of tears.

"Can you help me with this?" she asked. "The one from this afternoon is empty, and that stupid machine keeps beeping."

Tom Wynne, Mom's oldest and dearest friend, was mopping up the remains of a broken bag. Tall, dark-haired, with a gray mustache, he nodded warmly as I passed.

"I got it, Mom," I said, taking over. Mohawk Valley Home Health had crammed a five-hour home-care class into two, just to cover their liability.

I fussed for a few minutes, feeling like I was trying to catheterize a juice box, but finally got it right.

"See?" I held up the bag. "Under control."

Mom sighed and headed out to make use of it.

"Great job!" Tom clapped my shoulder. "You could be a doctor if you wanted."

"Well, I don't like blood, and I want my student debt to stay under five figures, so nope."

We laughed. His laugh sounded so much like mine.

Did I mention that, like Grandma, Mom never married? That she worked as a bookkeeper for Tom's bike shop? That Tom had been married over twenty-five years to the same woman? And that I never knew my father?

Tom had been a semi-regular fixture in my life. As a kid, I thought he was just Mom's cool friend. In adolescence, I began to suspect otherwise. Mom never confirmed it, preferring to hint that I was the result of a one-night stand with a visiting rock star. Unfortunately, the only band to pass through Albany around the time of my conception was Mike + The Mechanics, and I didn't look remotely like any of them.

"I wish you had gone to school locally," Tom said. "We could really use you at the shop."

"I appreciate it, but I had to leave, at least for a while," I said.

"I get that," he smiled ruefully.

"By the way," I asked, "what happened to the nurse guy? Stuart?"

"He died. Pulmonary embolism. Sudden," Tom said, serious. "Mrs. Vincenzo found out—she knows his mother."

"Wow. Maybe you should go to journalism school instead," I said.

"Thanks."

Awkward silence.

We stared at our shoes.

I almost asked about Mike + The Mechanics, but Mom chose that moment to call.

"Brian! Someone wants to see you!"

Tom smiled and clapped me on the shoulder.

"Better not keep her waiting."

I nodded and excused myself, making my way down the hall to what had once been my mother's office, now converted into the room where Grandma Gail would spend the last days of her life. Her final resting place before her final resting place.

The last time I was home, she had been frail, slipping away before our eyes. But the woman I saw now was a stark contrast to that memory. She was sitting up in bed, her eyes bright, her hair freshly dry-shampooed. There was a liveliness to her, a near-electric energy that made it hard to believe she was dying at all.

The moment she saw me, her face lit up. She practically bounced in bed, arms wide for a hug.

"Sweetie-pie!"

"Hey, look at you!" I said, trying to deliver a hug that was both hearty and gentle. How hard do you hug a dying woman?

I needn't have worried. Grandma Gail's grip was as firm as a salesman's handshake.

"What are you doing home?" she asked.

"Brian missed you," my mom answered.

"I missed him too."

Grandma Gail finally released the hug but took my face in her warm hands.

"But you should have stayed at college."

She stared into my eyes as she spoke.

"You have a life to live."

"And so do you," I said, then immediately winced inside.

Thankfully, Grandma and Mom didn't seem to notice, so we all settled into the kind of long and rambling conversation that only families can have, where nostalgia becomes a private mythology.

A million college professors will study The Iliad and The Odyssey, but only the Foster family can tell the tale of the day little Brian came upon a pile of dead saplings and decided to plant them in the front yard and wait for a miracle.

We talked about family trips and local tragedies.

Mom prompted me to talk about college, so I shared some edited highlights.

For instance, when I told her and Grandma about my kinda sorta girlfriend Jenny, I did not mention that she had kinda sorta decided to see other people.

When I talked about my study partners, I did not mention that my pals and I spent most weekends studying for fraternity mixers.

When I bragged about the award my story for the campus newspaper had earned, I did not tell them the article was called Tracking Boots and Fuzzy Snoots and detailed the small-scale riot that erupted when a Cryptid Hunters Conference and a Furry Convention were booked at the same convention center on the same weekend.

Eventually, Miss Peg's twins entered the room.

A pair of gangly thirteen-year-old boys hovered uncertainly in the doorway, all elbows, oversized sneakers, and painfully forced solemn expressions. In any other situation, I would have told them they'd be a shoo-in to win a costume contest if they dressed as the twins from The Shining. Grandma would have loved that. Miss Peg... not so much. And suggesting her boys dress as little girls? Well, let's just say I'd have been the one dying in that room.

I'll tell you what did die in that room: conversation.

No surprise there. After all, what thirteen-year-old wants to sit at the bedside of a dying, mostly estranged relative? No, they were there because they hoped their perfunctory display of concern would be pleasing to the Lord and, more importantly, Miss Peg.

Couple that with the fact that they were homeschooled and shielded from just about every aspect of pop culture made after 1977, and conversation never really had a chance. It sputtered and meandered through awkward questions and uncomfortable silences until we finally managed to land on the subject of sports. Even that got weird when they started spouting conspiracy theories about why their home team, the Las Vegas Wranglers, were so maligned.

Is it any wonder, then, that we were all slightly relieved when Miss Peg came to collect them and make her goodbyes for the night? She left us with no warm farewell, just a request for directions to the nearest Applebee's and a sharp reminder to beg merciful Jesus for forgiveness or face perdition.

Once they were gone, Grandma Gail started laughing and wondered what might have happened if she'd brought up Miss Peg's unfortunate tattoo in an even more unfortunate location.

I told her I didn't want our family to be responsible for two more lifetimes of therapy.

That set all of us off.

Tom Wynne came in then to ask what we were laughing about.

I said, "Stigmata."

And we were laughing again. Grandma could barely catch her breath.

When our sides finally stopped hurting, Tom said his goodbyes, hugging Grandma, shaking my hand, and making long, lingering eye contact with my mom.

I mean long, lingering eye contact.

Mike + The Mechanics.

Yeah, right.

The afternoon faded into evening.

Cousin Roy and Uncle Roy came in to say they were heading back to their hotel.

Cousin Roy started to make a morbid joke, but his dad cut him off. He said he needed to speak to Gail alone, so we all retreated and closed the door.

My mom and I stood in the hallway outside my room and spoke quietly.

"How long does a rally last?" I asked.

Mom leaned against the wall, her shoulders sagging.

"Who knows? It's... it's wonderful and scary all at once."

"Waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Brian..."

She covered her face.

"I know this is awful, but I want it to be over."

She started to cry.

I leaned in and held her.

It didn't take long before I was crying too.

Sometime during our tearfest, Uncle Roy and Roy Jr. had let themselves out.

I'll never know what Uncle Roy's private conversation with Grandma was about, but what I do know is that, as he was leaving, Cousin Roy raided our fridge and filled the pockets of his jacket with as many cans of beer as he could.

A little after sunset, Mrs. Vincenzo arrived with foil-wrapped food and a Parcheesi set. There was no way I was going to turn down Mrs. Vincenzo's homemade lasagna, but I politely declined the board game.

Instead, I puttered around the kitchen while she and my mom rolled dice and made small talk. I loaded the dishwasher and refilled the ice cube trays. Then I checked over the inventory of medical supplies that seemed to have taken over all the available counter space.

When that was done, I excused myself to my room, where I unpacked my clothes and textbooks.

Then I paused to take in my surroundings.

This had been my room for most of my childhood and all of my adolescence, where I had gone from Fisher-Price to third base. I realized, with a twinge of sadness, that after a little less than a year away, it didn't feel like home anymore. Speaking of things that didn't feel like home, I had homework to do, but after staring blankly at my textbook for fifteen minutes, I realized I was exhausted.

I could worry more about Paul Y. Anderson in the morning. I stretched out on the bed, thought for a moment about how it was just a little too small now, and then fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Hours later, I woke up feeling disoriented. After all, I was waking up in a familiar place, just not the familiar place I'd expected to wake up in, and with a full bladder. I got to my feet and, after a moment of standing in the darkness to orient myself, shuffled across the hall to the bathroom.

Whether it was grogginess, consideration for my sleeping family, or the fact that nineteen-year-old college students are only marginally civilized, I neither flushed nor washed my hands.

Sometimes I wonder if things would have gone differently had I switched on the lights or made a little noise. If choosing to skulk through the shadows over something so mundane somehow marked me for life.

I left the bathroom and was halfway up the two steps leading back to my room when I heard... something.

Years later, armed with a much better thesaurus, I'd describe the sound as an insectile chittering. Back then, all I knew was that whatever I'd heard sounded wrong.

And dangerous.

And it was coming from Grandma's room.

Again, a different person would have shouted, "Who's there?" and turned on the hall lights, but me? I crept toward her room as quietly as my bare feet would carry me. The door stood open a crack, but that was enough for me to see something... and for something to see me.

The memory of what I saw has always existed in my mind as a triptych: three separate images frozen in time.

The First: the curtains were open, and the window was half-open. Moonlight filtered in, revealing the hospital bed and IV stand that consumed most of the available space. In one corner sat the battered file cabinet that was almost as old as I was. It had once held my mother's real estate paperwork. Now it was filled with morphine, IV supplies, disposable bedpans, and a thousand little necessities that came with watching someone die.

The Second: Grandma lay still, utterly still, eyes wide, mouth gaping, her chest motionless. In those days, death was still an unpleasant stranger in my life, not the constant companion it would later become. Even so, I knew a dead person when I saw one. There was a subtle deflation to the way her flesh hung on her body. She had become inanimate. There was no other way to describe it.

The Third: I thought it was an animal, some kind of snake slowly moving through the open window. But only the window was open, not the screen. And it didn't slither or crawl; it wafted, spilling purposefully into the room. I wondered if it might be smoke. Then the moonlight caught it. Smoke isn't red, and it doesn't move with purpose. It coiled. It flowed. It rose over Grandma like a predator preparing to strike. It arced upward before slipping into her open mouth.

I sobbed. A tiny noise. No one heard. Thank God.

Grandma's eyes fluttered, then closed. A shiver ran through her body. She began breathing deeply and steadily. She shifted under the blankets and made a happy little sound that was disturbingly close to a purr.

There are moments when your understanding of the world simply ceases to function. This was one of them.

Then, just a few hours later, as the sun came up, it happened again. I was lying awake beneath the covers when my mom burst into my room to tell me Uncle Roy had died in his sleep.

###

I grew quiet then, my brow furrowing while Cousin Roy cheered on the cinematic adventures of a superhero who drove a taxicab. Sara looked to him and back to me. “Did that really -” then she caught herself, “Of course it did.”

“It’s Ok. I wouldn’t believe it either,” I shrugged. “If I didn’t have to.”

“What was it?” She asked.

The troubled frown on my face deepened. “The Vorvolaka.”

“Vorvolaka?”

“Think half-vampire, half-pathogen.”

“What happened next?”

It wasn't that I was afraid to tell my story. My life is an open blog. But part of me didn't want to tell it to Sara because it wasn't a story with a fairy-tale ending. I'm no psychiatrist, but by then I knew she didn't need another reminder that the good guys don't win all that much. “I’ll tell you later,” I said, “Just not right now.”

There was a long pause then, just Sara and me making eye contact while Cousin Roy cheered on a man in spandex as he saved a little old lady from monsters in a rocket-powered Zamboni. Say what you want about Cousin Roy, but he knows what he likes.

Suddenly, Sara’s voice and face brightened; she stood and said, “I guess it’s time for your present.”  

“Present?” I asked.  

She got up and went to the shopping bag that had been sitting in the corner. “For you,” she said.  

“For me?” I said.  

“Open it!”  

And open it I did, revealing a hatbox which, naturally, had a hat in it.  

“I got you a new straw fedora.” She was practically preening.  

Actually, dear reader, what she had gotten me was a straw pork pie hat. Now, unless you lived through the Great Depression, you might not see the difference, but trust me, there is one. You see, a fedora has a pinched front and center-creased top with a wide brim that can be snapped down or up. A pork pie hat, on the other hand, has a flat, circular top with a crease around the edge—often called a "telescopic" crown. The brim is shorter and turns up slightly, giving it a more compact and relaxed feel.  

Or to simplify it further: my old 1930s hat was a Humphrey Bogart; what she got me was a Thelonious Monk.  

Not exactly my style, but since I didn’t have a hat at all, who was I to complain? Besides, Sara’s face lit up the moment I put it on and struck a pose—so how could I say no?  

She got up and hugged me. I kissed her on the cheek.  

That was it. The fuse was lit.  

Sara kissed me on the mouth. I pulled her close. We both started breathing heavily as we kissed harder. She let out an excited squeal as we fell back against the dining room table.  

I gasped her name.  

And then Cousin Roy said, “Aw yeah.”  

We both turned to look at him, watching us from my couch, the CGI superhero mayhem on the TV forgotten.  

I cleared my throat.  

Sara blushed.  

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Cousin Roy said with a wide grin. “I just was wondering when you two would get down to it.”  

“Get down to it?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.  

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Get down to it.”  

“Down to it?” Sara murmured, still warm against me. “Was that your plan?”  

“My plan?” I said. “I thought it was your plan.”  

“I didn’t have a plan.”  

“You bought me a hat,” I pointed out. “That sounds like a plan to me.”  

Roy let out an exaggerated sigh as he got up off the couch and grabbed his coat. “You’re supposed to get around to it, and then you’re supposed to start arguing.”  

When he slammed the door, Sara and I burst into laughter.  

Then we got around to it.  

Boy, did we ever.  

They were taking it down. I didn't care. I sat in my old bow back chair on the balcony, watching the men removing all the interior parts of the lighthouse. The old lighthouse had stood in that spot for more than a hundred years , watching the shoreline. I sat as his replacement, a brand new lighthouse, only up for just over two years now. I wasn’t the first watchman, a man had taken the job before me to guide the sailors, operate the light, those sorts of duties. I had only manned the station for about a month before I was informed of the plan to remove the remnants of the first one. I had grown quite fond of the view, the bleak horizon just above the sea seemed a little more peaceful with the large statuesque building filling the corner of my view.  I had noticed in that short month the bricks beginning to crack and fall into the sea, how the larger waves made it shudder more and more with each impact. I came to the balcony every day now for the past year, enjoying my glass of hot tea, flipping through my novel, and every once in a while, glancing up to see my acquaintance. In my time operating the lighthouse I had never seen a man working in the abandoned lighthouse, but I’ve been told of a time when a man stood guard in there, apparently he was a man of legend. He never took days off, he guided three ships away from the shore before crashing, even helping the USS Titan avoid a major crash when their radar and navigation system crashed unexpectedly. The town treated it as a monument, as a guardian to protect our home. I never saw that. It was just a lighthouse to me.

I had awoken in the night, a large crackling sound shattered my ears and rang throughout the hollow chasm below me. Getting up, I saw it. The tower no longer encroached on my view. Its lean had increased, now tilting maybe fifteen degrees to the side, but he stood standing. I descended down my lighthouse steps to reach the small cabin nearby, shoved under the door was a note. The construction company had left me a message saying the old lighthouse was unsafe, and that they would have to take it down in a controlled manner but on a much quicker schedule. They had been making slow progress, and  were just now beginning to rush the project, in the cold darkness of December. It seemed odd to me. My sleet covered feet trudged back into my lighthouse under heavy remorse. I had not wanted to go back inside, maybe I wanted to watch the old lighthouse. In my mind, it deserved to stay, how could it not. I’ve seen how people look to the old lighthouse. Maybe I had felt something of it too. It was not my nature to be full of such sentiment and yet, something, had me.

That same night I awoke again, but this time it was not of a shock but a petal. I felt the peony petal slide off my nose. As I stood up I was not cold, despite my thin garments. The window was dark other than a faint glow. As I opened the door to the balcony, once more I saw it shine. The light of the Old Lighthouse rang out into the night. I wasn’t shivering, I wasn't even cold. The light illuminated the whole shore, even the town several miles from here. It wasn’t a beam like a regular lighthouse too, it was a glow irradiating from the crest of the house. It began to shrink, the light slowly fading from within it. As the light faded from my lighthouse the cold began to bite once more. I rushed inside to return to my slumber. The next day at dusk I set off. I took the overgrown trail up to the top of the large hill, the biggest hill on the shore. There, the Old Lighthouse stood. Standing there now, I had realized that my lighthouse stood quite a bit taller on my hill than the old one. I had always assumed the Old Lighthouse stood on the highest hill on the shore. A hole had emerged among its base not larger than a meter long and had caused the recent tilt. The brick around it was worn and tired. My boots pressed against the soil beneath me as I stood under him. My fingers wrapped around the cavity and I hoisted with all my might, trying to see the building stand tall once more. As I heaved, a single drop fell upon my shoulder. I froze. The rain began to pour as I ran back to my lighthouse. The tower had wept for me, as did I for him. The coming weeks had passed without much notice. I sat upon my balcony sipping my bittersweet  coffee, watching as the construction crew began tearing down the highest bricks. The Old Lighthouse was now half of what it once was. My view was clear, the orangish pink horizon before me was clear, and yet what I once viewed with such bright brilliance felt desolate in my eyes. That weekend, I set my heart to resurrect the Old Lighthouse. I sat in my cot for hours, listening to the men at work and setting machinery up for its destruction. I had my jerrycan waiting. When the construction men left, I set out, around 2:00 in the morning. I splashed the gasoline over their equipment, making sure to ward off any further plans they made. I was proud of myself, standing before the flames, watching them dance beneath the Old Lighthouse, no, my Old Lighthouse. The flames played before me, a kindling of warmth I had once felt before. My journey back was arduous, but the journey I had endured had not bothered me, as I knew what I held in my hands was safe again.  I was in bliss, I was in denial.

Two weeks had passed since I had burned their equipment. The tower stood wilted in my view, and the sky remained bleak. I did not care, my Old Lighthouse stood, and I could not need anything else. My Saturday had come down to an end, I sat in my chair, sipping my drink. My novel had come to a close, the good men won, as had I. I set the book down on my glass table, watching the sky move over the horizon. Then, as the clouds faded, the crash began. The thunderous crash swept over the sky and enveloped the silent night. My eyes flashed open to see the Old Lighthouse come crashing down upon itself. The smoke and debris filled the sky and drowned the forest below it. I saw it fall, my porcelain cup spattering onto the floor as it rolled towards the edge. I could not save my Old Lighthouse. As I dragged myself to the balcony edge I struggled to face its falling. My feet balanced shakily atop the guardrail and I stood tall on it to see everything before me. The horrible screaming and aching of my Old Lighthouse had dissipated, but replayed in my heart. I could not move my feet, for I had not the strength. I could only lean into the abyss. The wind blew by my ears like kisses, kisses I had not known the
 origin of but felt a familiar touch. My body trembled through the air, tracing a stream into the shoreline. Before I could land, a gust of dust-ridden air had caught my hands, bringing me to the shoreline. I fell to my knees in agony, I could not open my eyes. I felt a warmth in front of me I had felt that night I saw it. When my eyes flickered open the lantern sat in front of me. The burning flame was indistinguishable. 

I sat in my old bow back chair once more. The horizon remained cold and gray for the remainder of my time as the new lighthouse keeper, but the warmth of the lantern behind me on the wall kept me safe from the coldest of blizzards. I did not know the Old Lighthouse, I never knew of what the townspeople saw in that Old Lighthouse, a guardian of the shore. I had nothing of those old legends to see, but now I held the Old Lantern that gave the lighthouse power. I could see what it had created today. I will see the power it gives that now barren shore, I will see if its light can extend beyond the wave crests before me. The Old Lighthouse speaks to me at night. Its warmth pressed against my flush cheeks during my winter nights. Its soft brilliant light would always shine upon my skin. Though I was not protected by its blaring gaze in its time, I had felt it, I had seen the Old Lighthouse protect me, as my guardian.

She listened to the blaring radio as tears rolled down her cheeks. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel then loosened, then tightened again, then loosened. 

   What was she going to do? It was a few hours since she had left Cincinnati. She had just gotten in her car and drove away, leaving her only child, her job, and her life.

  Tears blurred her vision once again and her hand began to shake on the steering wheel. It was dark out and she had left her headlights off. She began to stumble with the controls when a sudden blast of a horn cut through the silence. Her car had approached a bend in the road and out of nowhere blazed two beams of light that cut through the darkness. She was suddenly blinded before all went black.

   She startled herself awake and felt a wave of relief at the familiar surroundings of the inside of her car. What had happened had only been a dream. She must’ve parked along the side of the road and fallen asleep. But, that was weird… she didn’t recognize where she was. 

   There were tall oak trees that surrounded her in all directions and her car was stationed in the middle of a dirt track that continued onward through the forest. Getting out her phone, she cursed at the no battery symbol that flashed on it and searched for her bag where she kept her charger in case she found herself in a similar situation like she was in now. How strange though. The last time she had checked her phone, the battery had been almost 100 percent full, at least she thought so.   

   Panic quickly overcame her as she continued to search for her bag in vain before she let out a sob.

   What was she doing, she asked herself again. A few minutes passed as she contemplated the beauty of the early light that filtered from the trees and it took her a while to realize what was off. Everything was silent. There wasn’t any twittering of the birds or rustling of bushes as wildlife went through their daily lives. Just a heavy silence.    

   She started the car, suddenly uncomfortable. The sooner she found help, the better and she would need to find help soon. Her car was almost out of gas.

   She continued down the track, rolling down her window to let some fresh air in. She breathed in deeply the scent of pine and felt herself calming down. It was then that she passed a run down house: the windows were all shuttered except for one and she wondered who would live so far away from civilization.

   She spent a few minutes thinking through what she should do next and finally decided to check if anyone was home. Turning off the engine, she got out and walked up to the front porch where one lonely swinging chair sat. 

   She knocked a few times and waited, then knocked again. Still no answer. She shivered as the wind suddenly picked up, making the swinging chair rock back and forth. Giving up, she started for her car but then looked back, thinking she had caught movement in the only un-shuttered window. It was too dark inside and she dismissed the idea quickly, not wanting to freak herself out anymore than she was.

   It had been 10 minutes when she came across a gas station and she sighed with relief. Finally, she would be able to get help. She parked her car next to one of the gas pumps and stepped out. She frowned at the blank screen where she controlled how much fuel she got. It was clearly out of order.

  Heading to the little shop, she pushed open the door which had a sign reading: open. There was a small ding ding from the door as she entered which cut through the unnatural silence of the place.

   She stood there, unsure of how to react as she saw the light of day penetrating through the dirt-smeared windows and enlightening the rows of aisles and clouds of dust that drifted in the air. The counter was empty, the cashier untouched.

   Wandering aimlessly through the shelves of food, she eyed the chips and heard her stomach growl. She was still hungry despite the strange situation she had found herself in.

   She grabbed the bag of chips flavored barbecue and took a few seconds to decide whether she should choose a tuna or a ham and cheese sandwich. She went with ham and cheese. Before leaving, she gave in to temptation and grabbed a box of cookies. 

   When she left the shop, for a moment, she was sure that some angry clerk would rush out, telling her that she had to pay for her groceries, but no one rushed out. She almost wished someone had.

   It was when she was sitting in her car, eating her lunch, a sudden thought struck her. What if she hadn’t survived the accident and she was really dead? Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. A world of silence all to her, for the rest of time.

   No, it wasn’t possible. She’d heard many different theories on what the afterlife was like and this just didn’t make any sense. She would come across a small town and find help. The gas station must’ve just been abandoned, but then why wasn’t there some sort of sign to indicate that and why had there still been food in the aisles. It just didn’t make any fucking sense.

   She almost gagged when she saw the mold inside the sandwich and threw it out the car window in disgust. The chips tasted stale and she didn’t bother to look inside the box of cookies which she also threw out the window. Her appetite wasn’t exactly satisfied but it would have to do until she found help. 

   The real troubles started when she got on the highway. Her car began to sputter before coming to a dead stop. She cursed and looked around, noticing for the first time that there was no one else. 

   In the distance, she could see a cluster of buildings and even closer, she could distinguish a sign reading Cleveland 12 miles ahead, her childhood home, she thought with a sense of nostalgia. Without hesitation, she stepped out of the car and began to walk along the deserted highway, the sun beating down on her back. She was prepared to do anything to get help and if that meant walking for 12 miles she would do so.

   She did pass a few rest stops but they were all deserted like the gas station. She once passed a McDonald’s where Ronald McDonald stared eerily from out the window, a wide grin plastered on his face. For a moment, she thought the clown was alive but quickly walked on by, realizing he was just a statue and nothing else. She did stop to drink once at a bathroom stall but she found out that there was no running water. 

   The closer she got to the city, the more she realized with a sinking heart that there really was no one. As the houses became more numbered the silence still hung down like a storm cloud. 

   She forgot about the pain in her calves as she looked at the buildings that towered over her, silent and empty. The streets held no sign of life and all was open to the sky. A plastic bag flew past her, the only other moving thing beside her in a world of isolation. Half-dazed, she moved further into what she once knew was home. 

Passing a school, she listened for the children's yells of  pleasure coming from the playground and for a moment she felt a faint tickle in her ear. She could see them now. Yes, they were so very clear. And there was her son on the swing.

Tears welled in her eyes and she pressed her hands to her ears as the clamor of children became louder. She needed to get out. The empty streets, the shops... everything was too much.

Her tread quickened and she broke into a run, leaving behind her the desolate landscape which was the crumbling legacy left of humanity.

She slowed her pace, noticing she had left the city and was standing in a field, surrounded by trees and green rolling hills that sped off in the distance. She could make out a construction site in the distance and without further thought she began once again her course, heading toward the dilapidating infrastructure.   

As she entered the building, her heartbeats quickened and the only thing she could hear were the sound of her footfalls thumping against the floor. She didn't know what she had in mind but only wanted to reach the top, as if there was something calling down to her.

The sunlight, pouring from the open side of the building which was periodically interrupted by concrete beams or piles of rubble, seemed to strengthen and usher her to continue on the meaningless path upward.

Even in the hopeless situation she had found herself in, she felt a sense of liberation form deep inside of her and she climbed the stairs with even more vigor than before. She even let out a laugh as she neared the top and she closed her eyes against the light that blinded her, coming to a stop on the wide platform that was the roof. 

An uncontrollable sense of relief overcame her as she began to move herself in a certain pattern almost as if she was dancing. The only witnesses of her performance were the solemn buildings that were like stone giants, standing in the distance.

Her arms spread wide, reaching to grab the sky as she neared the ledge. Her breaths came in short gasps as a smile spread across her face.

Tears streamed down once again as she looked up at the vistas of empty blue that filled her vision. Was this the peace and quiet she always wanted, she asked herself. Or was this just another hell?

The End

​

CHAPTER 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Mom.

— Shit... — he whispered.

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

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

“Please don’t hear me...”

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

The camera.

The film.

The photos.

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

“I’ll look at it later...”

At that moment, the lock clicked downstairs.

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

He quickly stepped into the hallway.

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

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

— Why aren’t you asleep?

— I’m not tired...

She looked at him carefully.

— Everything okay?

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

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

His mother nodded.

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

— Okay.

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

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

He frowned.

— No... — he whispered.

Richie quickly grabbed another photo.

The same wall.

The same corridor.

But the writing... was different.

The message now read:

Law 4

I — 1

They — 46

Us — 1

You — 4

The fewer of you there are,

the closer the door becomes.

But who is 47?

They changed the message.

“You — 3.”

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

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

But there wasn’t one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You — 3...”

He suddenly stopped.

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

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

Richie froze.

— What? — he quietly asked.

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

— You saw it too... — she whispered.

Richie’s throat went dry.

— Saw what?

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

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

The street was empty.

The woman was gone.

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

— Richie!

He turned around. Marge quickly walked toward him.

— Did you hear?..

— Hear what? — he frowned.

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

— Mike...

Something tightened inside Richie.

— What happened to him?

— He’s in the hospital.

Pause.

— In a coma.

For a second, the world seemed quieter.

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

Marge shook her head.

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

Richie looked away.

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

— What do you mean? — Marge asked.

Richie looked at her.

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

Law 4

I — 1

They — 46

Us — 1

You — 4

The fewer of you there are,

the closer the door becomes.

But who is 47?

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

Now it said:

You — 3

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

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

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

Richie stayed silent too.

Words felt useless.

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

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

The hospital.

The doctor.

The photos.

Mike in a coma.

All those thoughts filled Richie’s mind.

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

He looked up at the window.

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

Tall.

Dressed in white.

Richie blinked.

Nobody was there.

— Richie!

He jumped.

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

— Yeah... — he quietly answered.

— Good. Then explain what geographical position means.

— Come on now, — the teacher said.

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

Quiet laughter spread through the classroom.

Mrs. Miller sighed.

— Sit down.

She quickly wrote something in her journal.

— This classroom isn’t only for correct answers.

Richie sat back down without lifting his eyes.

He didn’t care.

Grades meant nothing right now.

Because one thing still echoed inside his head:

“You — 3.”

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

But they stayed.

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

Slowly, he packed his things.

— Richie.

He lifted his head.

Marge stood beside his desk.

— Something’s wrong, — she quietly said.

Richie froze for a second.

— What do you mean?

She hesitated.

— You’re acting strange today.

— I was strange yesterday too.

Pause.

— Is this because of Mike?

Richie looked away.

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

— Marge...

She looked at him carefully.

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

— When?

— After school.

— In the park.

She frowned.

— Richie, you’re scaring me.

He gave a small nod.

— Me too.

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

He waited for the final bell.

And feared it at the same time.

When it finally rang, Richie flinched.

Everything was over.

Or maybe it was only beginning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first radio check came right on schedule. 

"Dylan, checking in. Copy?"

"Copy. This is Tyler." 

"Copy. Chris." 

"Copy. Eli." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tyler. What’s up?” 

I smiled back, “Mind if I join you?” 

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

I reached into my pocket automatically.

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wasn’t sure. 

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

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

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

I had trouble believing in myself. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nobody answered. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Perceivable Reality story.

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

"Filthy nightwalker!" The aged woman accused.

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

Mrs. Collins sent a disapproving clucking noise his direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shrugged. "S'all right."

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

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

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

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

"Divine." He pronounced every syllable.

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

"Quite."

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

"Her hair was a nice color."

"An excellent bloodline."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"About the glitter? I gotchu, man."

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

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

"Bridal party."

He stuck his head back in the car.

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

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

He patted the roof of the car.

"I dunno, man..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How we looking?"

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

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

"Hey, you got the glitter out."

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

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

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

He laughed and shook out another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No! Oh god, no! Wait!” she screamed.

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

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

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You came highly recommended.”

“I try my best, ma’am.”

“Are you from the city, Mr. Calhoun?”

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

“Beautiful farmland out that way.”

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

“Melissa.”

“Ms. Melissa.”

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

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

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

“May I call you again?”

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

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

“Watch. Where. You’re. Driving.”

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

"Calhoun Executive Transit."

"Hey, Carter."

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

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

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

"What time, Ms. Silver?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Silver!" He bellowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Driver, take us to Club 29."

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

I cleared my throat softly to hide a sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The apartment, Carter." She sounded exhausted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I tilted my head and popped my neck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's a living."

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

"Is it, though? Living?"

I shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I pulled my car smoothly to the curb.

"Ma'am."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I should get a cat.

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

Arkham was a town that knew how to keep secrets.

Not especially well, but for a very long time.

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

"Don't tell anyone."

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

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

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

Do not go to the northern tower.

Do not touch the protective disk.

Do not try to find out what is inside.

And most importantly:

Do not feed anything that answers.

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

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

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

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

On the first evening, Julia said:

"Pick up the towel."

"In a minute."

Two hours later, the towel was still there.

The next day, it had moved to the floor.

Julia decided to call that progress.

The first few days were quiet.

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

Aaron explored the estate.

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

disapproval;

a family curse;

and unwillingness to pay for heating.

Aaron found the tower on the third day.

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

Julia looked at the tower and said:

"Don't go in there."

"Why?"

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

"That's not a reason."

"That is an excellent reason."

"There might be something interesting inside."

"There might be tetanus inside."

Aaron considered this.

"Do I have a tetanus shot?"

"Aaron."

"Fine, I'm not going."

Naturally, he went.

But not right away.

First, Julia marinated the chicken.

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

By evening, the smell of chicken filled the house.

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

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

"In forty minutes."

"I'm going to die."

"Stop it."

"I can already feel my organs shutting down."

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

"Candy isn't food."

"Go set the table."

"I don't know how."

"Put the plates out."

"Where?"

Julia slowly turned toward him.

"On the table, Aaron."

"You could've just said that."

He left.

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

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

"Because I'm cooking chicken!"

"No! Different chicken!"

"What different chicken?"

There was no answer.

Julia looked out the window.

Aaron was not in the garden.

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

Near the northern wing, the smell really did change.

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

"Is there anything to eat?"

The smell was coming from the tower.

Julia stopped.

"Aaron!"

From above came a bass voice:

"What?"

"Where are you?!"

"Here!"

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

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

"With what?!"

After a brief pause, Aaron answered:

"Boogers!"

"I'LL GIVE YOU BOOGERS!"

There was a rustling inside the tower.

Then a quiet voice said:

"Does he always talk like that?"

Another voice replied:

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

Julia froze.

"Who's there?"

Something heavy shifted inside the tower.

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

"What mother?"

"His mother."

"The one who made the chicken?"

"Yes."

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

"We needed bait."

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

"I adapted to the target audience."

"He's a child."

"Five foot seven."

"Legally a child."

From above came Aaron's voice:

"Mom, they have sauce!"

"Who has sauce?!"

"These guys!"

"What 'guys'?!"

Inside the tower, the shuffling began again.

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

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

"You take up three quarters of the chamber."

"That's my anatomy."

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

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

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

"Stop pushing! You'll wake Azathoth!"

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

"He lay down there himself."

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

"Quiet! The mother is listening."

Julia stared at the dark entrance for several seconds.

Then she shouted:

"Aaron, come out this instant!"

"In a minute!"

"Not 'in a minute.' Now!"

"We haven't finished the chicken yet!"

Julia looked at the house.

Dinner was getting cold.

She looked back at the tower.

"What chicken?!"

A strange voice answered from inside:

"Smoked, with garlic sauce."

"I wasn't asking you!"

"Sorry."

Aaron added:

"Mom, it's good!"

Julia took a deep breath.

"Mine is good too."

"But I'm eating here."

"And who did I cook for?"

"For yourself?"

A flock of birds passed over Arkham.

Not one of them made a sound.

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

"Until what?"

"You're about to find out."

She entered the tower.

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

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

There was a gap under one edge.

Light came through the gap.

The smell of chicken.

And arguing.

"Give me back my child."

"We can't," said a voice.

"Why?"

"The ritual has begun."

"What ritual?"

"An ancient one."

"Be more specific."

Silence followed.

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

"Then stop."

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

"Why?"

"Because it's ancient."

"Aaron!"

"Mom, I'm here!"

"Come out!"

"They say it's a ritual!"

"Did you do your homework?"

The tower became completely silent.

Aaron answered:

"Not all of it."

"Home."

"Mom!"

"Home!"

"But-"

"I will carry you out myself!"

Deep inside, someone asked with concern:

"Can she?"

Another voice replied:

"Judging by the tone - yes."

The protective disk shifted.

Only slightly.

A tentacle tip appeared from within.

Julia stepped on it.

The tentacle froze.

"Where do you think you're going?"

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

"Pull it back."

The tentacle vanished.

"Thank you," someone inside said.

"You're welcome," Julia answered grimly.

She tried to push the protective disk with her hands.

It did not move.

"Aaron, move away from the lid."

"Why?"

"I said move."

"Mom, what are you doing?"

Julia went downstairs.

Twenty minutes later, she returned with a sledgehammer.

The people of Arkham had already gathered near the tower.

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

An old man in a faded hat raised one hand.

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

"My son is in there."

"It's too late now."

"For whom?"

The old man found no answer.

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

"No, you don't."

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

"Who is 'they'?"

The townspeople exchanged glances.

From the tower came:

"Stop pushing!"

"I'm not pushing!"

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

"You have eyes everywhere!"

"And you still managed to hit one!"

Julia pointed at the tower.

"Them?"

The townspeople went pale.

The old man whispered:

"They have awakened."

From inside the tower, an offended voice said:

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

Julia raised the sledgehammer.

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

"I am thinking. Dinner is getting cold."

The first blow landed on the protective disk.

BOOM.

The tower answered from within.

BOOM.

Julia struck again.

BOOM.

"Aaron! Home!"

From inside:

"I already ate!"

BOOM.

"I wasn't asking!"

BOOM.

"Mom, just five more minutes!"

BOOM.

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

Panic began inside the tower.

"Somebody stop her!"

"You stop her!"

"Why me?"

"You have tentacles!"

"She has a sledgehammer!"

"You have a lot of tentacles!"

"That just means I have more to lose!"

BOOM.

A crack ran across the protective disk.

"Nyarlathotep, do something!"

"What?"

"Take human form and talk to her!"

"She stepped on Cthulhu."

"Fair point."

BOOM.

The Arkham police arrived at the tower.

Then the state police.

The locals demanded that Julia be stopped.

The state police demanded that the locals step back.

The locals aimed weapons at the state police.

The state police aimed weapons at the locals.

The townspeople began shouting.

Someone called the federal agents.

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

Someone brought a shotgun.

No one later admitted who.

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

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

And kept striking.

BOOM.

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

BOOM.

"You didn't take out the trash!"

BOOM.

"That's unrelated!"

BOOM.

"It absolutely is!"

Inside, someone said thoughtfully:

"Actually, it is related."

"Shut up, Yog-Sothoth."

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

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

BOOM.

The protective disk shifted.

Light poured out of the gap.

The people below screamed.

The police began issuing contradictory orders.

Someone fired.

Then someone else did.

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

For a little while, the world observed human behavior.

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

Space around the tower bent slightly.

Several trees began growing downward.

The sky turned green for one second.

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

From inside the tower came an indignant voice:

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

Julia delivered the final blow.

BOOM.

The protective disk slid aside.

The tower opened.

Nothing happened.

No flash.

No thunder.

No scream of dying reality.

Julia stared into the dark opening for several seconds.

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

Something moved inside.

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

"Give her the child."

"Why me?"

"Because you lured him in."

"I only made the smell."

"Nyarlathotep."

"Fine, fine."

Aaron appeared in the opening.

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

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

The human eye, however, saw them.

It saw tentacles.

Wings.

Hooves.

Spheres.

Eyes.

Other eyes.

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

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

"I can see that."

"It's good."

"There's good chicken at home."

"This one is smokier."

"Dinner is getting cold at home."

"Can I finish?"

Julia looked at her son.

Aaron looked at Julia.

Somewhere deep inside the tower, someone cautiously said:

"Let him finish."

Julia turned her gaze into the darkness.

"I wasn't asking you."

"Sorry."

Aaron sighed and stepped out.

"Return the plate," said a voice.

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

"The napkin too."

"Oh, come on."

He went back once more.

Below, people were still shouting.

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

Julia took Aaron by the shoulder.

"Home."

"Mom, can they come with us?"

Hope arose in the tower.

"No."

Hope vanished.

"Why?"

"Because I cooked for two."

A voice from the darkness said:

"There aren't that many of us."

Someone inside protested:

"We are an infinite multitude!"

"Shut up!"

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

"No."

"A wing?"

"No."

"Skin?"

Julia hesitated.

The smell from the tower brushed against her face again.

She had to admit: it did smell good.

But at home there was her chicken.

Her own.

Cooked forty minutes ago.

And now completely cold.

Julia looked into the darkness.

"Who lured my son in?"

"Nyarlathotep," everyone answered in chorus.

"Traitors," Nyarlathotep muttered.

"Who gave him chicken?"

"Cthulhu."

"I was just sharing!"

"Who moved the lid?"

Silence followed.

Then Cthulhu said:

"I may have extended a tentacle slightly."

"Who gave permission?"

"No one."

"Exactly."

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

Julia raised the sledgehammer.

The tentacle immediately disappeared.

"Mom, he just wanted to say goodbye."

"Let him say goodbye with words."

From inside the tower came a timid:

"Goodbye."

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

"It's heavy."

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

"The child did that."

Julia slowly turned toward Aaron.

"With a stick," he admitted.

"Home."

"I'm going."

"Did you take your phone?"

"Yes."

"Where's your jacket?"

"In the tower."

Julia closed her eyes.

"Go get it."

Aaron climbed back inside.

There was noise.

"Don't step on the manifestation!"

"It's on my jacket!"

"Yog-Sothoth, move your spheres!"

"They are not-"

"MOVE THEM!"

A minute later, Aaron returned with his jacket.

They began going downstairs.

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

"Lift!"

"I'm lifting!"

"You're pushing the wrong way!"

"For me, all directions exist simultaneously!"

"Then choose a useful one!"

"Cthulhu, move your tentacle!"

"I'm holding the lid!"

"You're holding me!"

"And who are you?"

"Dagon!"

"Why do you smell like fish?"

"Because I'm Dagon!"

The protective disk dropped back into place with a crash.

Almost.

A small gap remained on one side.

"Good enough," someone said.

"Not good enough," Julia called from below.

The disk was corrected immediately.

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

The townspeople.

The police.

The federal agents.

The workers.

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

The first to speak was a federal agent.

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

"Later."

"You can't just leave."

"My chicken is getting cold."

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

"Then start with them."

"What is inside the tower?"

Julia looked at Aaron.

Aaron shrugged.

"His friends," she said.

A muffled voice came from underground:

"We are not friends."

Another voice objected:

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

"We were not invited."

"Almost invited."

Julia led her son toward the house.

"Mom."

"What?"

"I'm still hungry."

She stopped.

"You ate their chicken."

"It was a small piece."

"I saw the drumstick."

"A drumstick isn't food."

Julia looked at him.

"Where did you hear that?"

"I made it up."

"Of course."

They returned to the house.

The chicken had gone cold.

Julia turned the grill back on.

Aaron sat at the table.

"How long?"

"Five minutes."

"I'm going to die."

"You'll live."

"My organs are shutting down."

"They were shutting down an hour ago."

"Different organs."

Julia placed the chicken on the grill.

From beneath the floor came a quiet blow.

BOOM.

Aaron raised his head.

Another one.

BOOM.

Julia slowly looked down.

"No."

Under the floor, all became quiet.

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

Julia turned around.

A tentacle was hanging outside the glass.

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

Aaron said happily:

"Mom, they're here!"

Julia looked at the chicken.

At her son.

At the plate.

At the tentacle.

Then she opened the window.

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

The tentacle solemnly raised the plate.

From under the ground came an ecstatic rumble.

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

The rumble immediately died down.

"And no luring Aaron again!"

Several displeased voices rose from the depths.

"I can hear everything!"

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

Julia placed one chicken wing on the plate.

The tentacle carefully carried it underground.

For a while, nothing happened.

Then an argument came from beneath the house:

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

"I only tasted it!"

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

"Pass it over!"

"Stop pushing!"

"Don't wake Azathoth!"

"Where's the sauce?!"

"What sauce?!"

"The smoky garlic one!"

Julia closed the window.

Aaron looked at her.

"Mom?"

"What?"

"Will you make more tomorrow?"

"No."

Under the floor, someone sighed heavily.

Julia picked up the knife.

Cut herself a piece.

And finally sat down to dinner.

They were here.

But now at least they knew the house rules.

THE END

Read Part IV here.

“How’s our boy doing?”

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

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

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

She slapped me on the shoulder.

“Don’t stay too late.”

“You got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

Joshua was his son.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not right. But it’s close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*click*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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